Natasha pressed her bare toes into the hard wood floor of the dance studio, every ridge in the floorboards digging into her skin. A hot bead of sweat dropped from her brow onto her big toe. She clenched her fists, and the tendons in her forearms tightened.

I need to calm down.
In front of Natasha sat her elderly teacher, Ms. Woods, tall and straight in her high-backed chair. Ms. Woods’ grey hair was pulled back tightly into a bun, and her hands lay clasped over an upright, mahogany walking stick. She gazed solemnly, but not coldly, at Natasha, with all the dignity and command of the retired ballerina that she was.
“No, Natasha,” said Ms. Woods sternly. “It simply won’t do. I won’t have one of my girls perform a pointe variation, and from Swan Lake, too, that she’s barely had time to practice.”
Ms. Woods turned away. Natasha’s vision waned and throbbed as tears of frustration and hopelessness stabbed her eyes. She slowly sucked in all the air that she could muster, trying as hard as she could to remain composed.
I cannot calm down.
Natasha thought back to the performance that her ballet school had put on last year. Ms. Woods had begun to notice Natasha taking more and more of her classes. Before official rehearsals started, Ms. Woods called Natasha to her and gave her the choice to perform a variation from Swan Lake, but only if she could master it. Natasha practiced in the studio every day after class, analyzing her every step in the mirror. From outside the studio, Ms. Woods watched Natasha through the window. After several weeks of Natasha’s solitary rehearsal sessions, Ms. Woods began to stay in the studio with her student, barking out corrections such as “Round your arm!” or “Turn out your foot!” Sure enough, by the time that official rehearsals started, Natasha could perform the variation beautifully. Ms. Woods had believed in her then, so why not now?
A gleam of hope sparked in Natasha. “Ms. Woods,” she began, her voice shaky. “I know I only asked you two weeks ago if I could perform this. But I know all the steps and the technique, and I’ve been practicing every day-“
“Natasha.” Ms. Woods lowered her chin, her piercingly-blue eyes boring into Natasha’s. “Do you know how many months it took Sonia Arova to perfectly land that triple pirouette?”
Natasha did know. She bit down on her lip, trying as hard as she could to suppress the waves of indignation that seemingly threatened to drown her – and it was hard. There was nothing that she hated more than being doubted. Especially when it was over something that she had worked for, something that she wanted more than anything, something that she truly believed to be within her reach. Something that she had thrust her mind, body, heart and soul into – and more.

An uncontrollable torrent of words rushed out of Natasha, jumbled and desperate. “Yes Ms. Woods, but I’ll keep watching the DVD every night at home to see just how Sonia Arova did it, and I promise I’ll tighten my outer thigh muscles so I can make it around the third time-“

“Natasha, this conversation is-“

“Please, Ms. Woods -“

“Natasha-“

“Just this once-“

Ms. Woods slammed her cane into the floor, splitting the air with a crack. “Natasha. That’s enough.”

Tears brimmed Natasha’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She looked down.

Through the eyes of the other:
Ms. Woods looked hard at Natasha, who was practically shaking with anger as she stood in front of her elderly ballet teacher. Ms. Woods heard the shortness and raggedness of Natasha’s breath, which was so calm and even whenever the girl danced. She felt the tension in Natasha’s balled-up hands, which were so delicate and elegant whenever she sewed her pointe shoes. She tasted the sweat that beaded Natasha’s face, which was so lifted and graceful whenever the girl smiled. Ms. Woods felt a touch of sadness that her student had been reduced to such a state of anxiety and distress.
Here goes nothing.
Ms. Woods forced out the words. “No, Natasha. It simply won’t do. I won’t have one of my girls perform a pointe variation, and from Swan Lake, too, that she’s barely had time to practice.”
Ms. Woods glimpsed the first slew of anguish that swept Natasha’s face, and she quickly looked out the window. Natasha was ambitious, but that wasn’t the same as being ready. It was true that Natasha had mastered the solo that Ms. Woods had assigned to her last year, but Natasha didn’t realize just how much more difficult, and dangerous, this pointe variation was. Ms. Woods painfully remembered the fateful price that she had paid for her own overconfidence, all those years ago. She was twenty-five, a principal dancer for the Royal Ballet at the peak of her career. She was beautiful and strong, and she knew it. Then, one day during her rehearsal for a pointe variation from Sleeping Beauty, she attempted one too many pirouettes. Her left leg slipped out from under her and she came crashing down on her ankle, tearing her Achilles tendon. The injury ruined her entire career.
Ms. Woods had never told her students just why her career ended. So, Natasha could never understand that Ms. Woods was trying to protect her. Natasha wanted to dance this variation more than anything; Ms. Woods knew that much. But Ms. Woods also knew that in this art form, sometimes even will power of steel just wasn’t strong enough. Ms. Woods had to teach this to her girls, and sometimes she hated herself for it.
Natasha begged, “Ms. Woods, I know I only asked you two weeks ago if I could perform this. But I know all the steps and the technique, and I’ve been practicing every day-”
Ms. Woods felt the shake in Natasha’s voice threatening to overcome her. Ms. Woods hardened her face, although she was still unable to harden her heart. She knew that she couldn’t discourage Natasha, but this damned role that she was forced to play, as the girl’s ballet teacher, required her to try. She gazed into Natasha’s eyes, pleading with her own for her student to understand.
“Natasha,” said Ms. Woods, trying to keep her voice level. “Do you know how many years it took Sonia Arova to perfectly land that triple pirouette?”
Ms. Woods could barely understand what Natasha said next. “Yes Ms. Woods, but I’ll keep watching the DVD every night at home to see just how Sonia Arova did it, and I promise I’ll tighten my outer thigh muscles so I can make it around the third time-“
Ms. Woods tried to keep the sternness in her face and the burning empathy out of her voice. “Natasha, this conversation is-“
“Please, Ms. Woods -“

“Natasha-“

“Just this once-“

It was better that Natasha’s heart was broken now rather than later. Or at least, that was what Ms. Woods tried to tell herself. She slammed her cane into the floor, thrusting her guilt out of her and into the inanimate ground.

“Natasha. That’s enough.”