Author's Note: Although there are actual places used in this story, all characters and situations are fictional.
Chapter Two:
The
second I came down on my ankle wrong, I knew it was bad. Instead of the simple
burst of pain, the blooming warmth of bruised tissue that signified a sprain, I
felt the tear. In my mind I could hear it. I sat very still on the shiny
polished wood of the dance floor, in the middle of my very first dance class of
college. The instructor had only asked me to show a jump, but I had to prove
myself, so I did more.
The
instructor, a lithe woman in her fifties who insisted we refer to her as
Helene, rushed over to me. She dragged one of the guys in the class with her,
and without asking me if I was okay with being manhandled, she had him scoop me
up into his arms. Despite the gentle way he cradled me, I felt a pulsating rush
of anger. All I wanted to do was shove him away.
When he
placed me in the hard plastic chair on the edge of the room, he backed away
slowly like he knew what I had been thinking. Helene knelt down beside me, and
began rotating my ankle. I yelped in pain, and pulled away too quickly. Hot
waves of agony radiated up my leg. The whole room was closing in on me, the
edges of my vision getting black. I fought back against it, though. There was
no way I was going to allow all these people see me weak.
“I
think you need to go to Health Services,” Helene said. “I will have Brett
escort you.”
My jaw
came unhinged as I gaped at her in disbelief. “I’m fine,” I said. “I—I’ll just
sit out for a few minutes.”
Helene
frowned at me in a way that made me feel like a child. The disapproval in her
gaze was so strong that I could feel it as it washed over me. She pressed her
lips together, and turned back to the class. When she started barking orders
again, I exhaled a sharp breath of relief.
“That
took balls.”
I
looked up more annoyed than startled. The guy who had picked me up, Brett,
Helene had called him, was standing next to me. With a rough sigh, I said,
“What did?”
“Standing
up to Helene.”
When I
realized that Brett wasn’t going anywhere, I sighed again. “I didn’t do
anything so special.” My grandmother always told me that being humble was a
virtue. I’d never really been sure what that meant since my parents weren’t
really church-y type people, but I had gotten into a habit of mimicking my
grandma. When I was older, I had decided that I liked the idea of being
virtuous, at least when the mood struck me.
“Don’t
do that,” Brett said.
“Do
what?” I asked, my mouth puckering into a frown.
“Deflect
a compliment. I hate it when girls do that.”
My
frown deepened. I felt like this guy that I had just met could see right
through me. I had just wanted to get him to stop talking, while still seeming
like the decent person I was. But all I’d seemed to do was draw him into a
deeper conversation.
“Why do
you think I care what you do or do not like?” I asked, my voice tight. I
crossed my arms over my chest, and looked at him in challenge.
Brett
shrugged. “I don’t care if you care or not. I just think if someone gives you a
compliment, you should accept it.”
We
lapsed into silence again, and I looked at him from the corner of my eye. “You
don’t look much like a dancer.”
Brett
choked out a quick laugh, and said, “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”
“Well,
are you?” I asked.
“I’m in
a dance class, so doesn’t that make me a dancer?”
“Weak
logic,” I said, though if I was feeling more charitable I would have conceded
that most dancers I knew didn’t look like stereotypical dancers.
He
laughed again, and I squirmed at the thought that I actually really liked his
laugh. “Actually I’m on the football team. You might have heard about us. We’re
pretty good. Actually we’re projected to have a perfect season this year.”
“What
do they use you for? A practice dummy?”
“Ouch.”
Brett’s grin widened. “I’m a running back. I don’t start or anything. I’m only
a sophomore. I’ll probably start next year. Or at least that’s my plan. You
should come watch a practice some time, since it looks like you’re going to be
sitting out for a while.”
I
ground my teeth together. Clearly he wasn’t a dancer because he didn’t
understand the magnitude of my injury. If this was as bad as I thought it was,
then this would end my dance career. I couldn’t even let my mind go there, and
entertain the possibility. Suddenly panic slammed in to me, my chest
constricting so tightly that I could barely breathe. If I had any chance of
getting better and continuing on the path that I had always dreamed of, I
needed to get to a doctor immediately. I hated that Helene had been right, but
I could swallow my pride enough that I could admit that I was wrong.
Brett
was still babbling about practice and the football team, but I interrupted him.
“Can you help me to Health Services?”
“Uh,
sure,” he said.
With a
grim set to my jaw I allowed him to help me up. As we hobbled out of the dance
studio, I wondered when the next time I would be back—if ever.
