Dancer

As I walk to the backstage all my nerve is gone. The dimly lit white room is filled with all of these beautiful women. The pastel colored costumes they are wearing give the room an eerie feel. To my left I’ve got a blonde with a bun stretching on the floor. To my right there are six women huddled around their coach; nodding and flexing. Tall girls, short girls, thin girls, thick girls. They are everywhere. And it is in that moment I realize this is not the place for me.
I tip across the room, staring at my feet to avoid eye contact, and set up in the corner. Now on the floor I begin to stretch my legs out. Then this little redheaded girl point at me and loudly asks her mother if I am going to be performing with the rest of the “real women”. The mother grips her daughter’s arm and jerks her close to whisper in her ear. The little girl is then released from her mom and hides behind her leg, gripping her thigh. I continue to stretched, a little miffed about the attention, until I spot the redhead peek around her mother’s leg and smile at me. He two front teeth are missing and her tongue is poking out between the gap.
I smile back and slip on my ballet flats. The concert has started.
As singles or in the masses I watch as women exit the room, enter the room, run in crying and skip in with a wearing a halo of smugness.
This beautiful young lady just came running in crying. Her hair is red and her long eyelashes are so clumped by makeup that you can barely tell if they are open, except for small circles of blue in their center. It's a sad fact in the dancing world to think that her only chance of being on broadway is if she is lucky enough to bust out in a jig near 38th street.

She is hugging her sister, face buried in her small neck. After a couple of shaky breaths the older ginger moves to rest her chin on her sister’s shoulder and stares at me, messy blue eyes squinting and her thin pale lips are pursed.
She was number twenty-six. I’m next.
Leave the room and walk down a long checkered hallway to get to the main stage. The floor is black and has white smudges as if someone were playing with chalk in here.
“Two minutes until our next contestant, two minutes.”
There is no turning back now. I know I don’t fit in here but, I know I am meant to be here. Masculinity and femininity be damed; I want to be here.
“Now presenting our next contestant, number twenty-seven, Thomas McCoy. He will be performing a self-choreographed ballet piece.”
And in that moment I walk onto the brightly lit stage.