Stripped (Stripped #1)(3)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

“Show me the original move, please.”

I do the pirouette again, the pushing against the wall, the deliberate stumble forward, and let myself fall forward. I stand up and wipe the sweat off my upper lip. “See? It just…it doesn’t work.”

Mrs. LeRoux shakes her head, scratching the back of her neck. “No, your instincts are correct. It’s not quite right.” She peers at me as if seeing me moving, though I’m still. I can tell she’s working through the choreography in her head.

“Ah, I have it. Instead of falling forward, stumble, sway, and spin in place, but off balance. Like this, yes?” She demonstrates what she wants me to do. “Through the rest of the piece, you’re battling the forces containing you, struggling to find your equilibrium and your freedom. So here, at the end, you must be victorious. It is the purpose of this piece, yes? It’s an expression of your sense of entrapment. I see this. So now, you must break through. The wall gives way. So, when you end the pirouette, which is beautifully done by the way, instead of just pushing against it, act as if you’re beating it down. Smash and flail against it. Let your anger bleed through. You’re holding back at the end, Grey. You’re ending weak. This must finish strongly. You must feel the power in yourself, yes? This could be a breakthrough. Not just in your dance, but in your head. In your soul. In yourself. Batter against the wall.

“I think I understand some of your struggles in your life. I fought them, too. My father was very demanding. He put me into ballet when I was only four years old. I danced every single day for my entire life. I had few friends and fewer social activities. There was only ballet. Only ballet. Then I met Luc. He swept me away. He was a dancer, too. He was so fluid, so strong. Every thing he did was beautiful. We met in a vineyard in le Midi. I don’t remember exactly where. Near Toulouse, perhaps.” She gazes into the middle distance, remembering. She shakes herself. “No matter. I understand. You must break free, in yourself. In this dance.”

She waves her hand in the gesture that means again, again.

I run through the piece from the top, and this time I think of each rule I have to follow, each party my school friends go to that I can’t, each time I’m told that a pair of jeans is too tight, a top too low-cut, that I’m wearing too much makeup. I think of the expectations of me to be a perfect little southern belle, the perfect little pastor’s daughter, the expectation that I’ll marry a godly man headed for the seminary, some boring young man with no aspirations beyond the pulpit and the flock.

I put all that into the dance. When I leap, I fling myself into it. When I spin in place, I let all my muscles pull me into the spin with all my energy. When I crawl across the floor, I claw at the polished wood planks as if pleading for my life. When I begin to batter at the walls surrounding me, I see my father’s face, hear his voice and his harsh criticism, and his strict, dictatorial ways demanding perfection, I pound and pound and pound at it. Finally, I feel the walls give way and stumble forward, spinning in place, flailing, intentionally off-balance, wobbling, spinning around the floor as if finding joy in the unscripted dance of free steps. I end standing with my head hanging, hands loose at my sides, chest heaving, breathless.

I look up to gauge Mrs. LeRoux’s reaction. She’s leaning against the wall, hand covering her mouth, eyes wet.

“Perfect, Grey. Just…perfect. I felt it all. Perfect.”

Her gaze flicks over my shoulder, and I turn in place to see my mother watching from the doorway to the foyer area. Her eyes reflect her emotions, and I know she’s seen it all. I know she saw what I felt in that dance.

The corners of her eyes are tight, her forehead wrinkled. I turn away from her, back to Mrs. LeRoux.

“You think it was good?” I ask.

She nods. “I think it was an example of your potential. You can be a magnificent dancer, Grey. You must keep putting all of your emotions into your dance. Don’t allow yourself to hold back.”

I bend to grab my bag, rummaging through it for a towel. I join my mother at the door, wiping at my face with the rough white cotton. We leave and neither of us speaks as Mom drives us through Macon and out to our house in the suburbs,. I turn to glance at her, confused by her uncharacteristic silence. Usually she’s chatty as a blue jay after dance class. She was a dancer, too, until she met Daddy and had me. She likes to talk about what I’m learning, the various techniques and such. Talking shop, reliving her days as a dancer. Now, however, she’s slumped toward the window and she’s driving with one hand. Her other hand is pressed to her forehead. Her eyes are narrowed, her features screwed up tight.

“Are you okay, Mom?” I ask.

She shoots me a faint attempt at a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, honey. I just have a headache.”

I shrug and let the silence hang.

“Your dance was beautiful, Grey.” Her voice is quiet, as if to speak too loud would cause further pain.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“What did it mean?”

I don’t answer right away; I’m not sure how to. I shrug. “Just…sometimes I feel…trapped.”

Mom is the one to hesitate this time. “I know, honey. He just wants the best for you.”

“His best. Not necessarily my best.”

“He’s your father.”

“That doesn’t mean what he thinks is right for me is always the only option.”

Mom rubs at her forehead again with her knuckle, then holds out her hand, shaking it as if it’s asleep. “I don’t want to get into this right now, Grey. He’s your father. He loves you, and he’s just doing what he thinks is right. You need to be respectful.”

“He’s not respectful to me.”

She shoots me a sharp, warning glare. “Don’t, Grey.” She winces, and then turns her eyes back to the road, blinking hard. “Goodness, this is the worst one yet,” she mutters, more to herself than out loud.

“Worst one?” I stare at her in worry. “You’ve been having a lot of these headaches?”

“Here and there. Nothing too bad. They hit me in the morning, and they usually go away on their own.” She clenches her hand into a fist and releases it, shakes it again.

I’m not sure what to say. Mom is tough. She’s never sick, and the few times she is, she rarely complains and never takes the time to rest. She just powers through it until she’s better. For her to visibly be in pain isn’t a good sign. She must really be hurting.