It became my one mission in life: keep my spot in the program. I quit my job at the coffee shop and spent that time at the library instead. This whole time, I had been avoiding the discomfort of not instantly being good at every subject instead of buckling down and figuring it out. It was stupid, it was an absolutely nonsensical approach and I was paying the consequences for it now.

I sat in the cubby desk that I had selected, far in the back of the library where it was just cold enough to help you stay focused, awake, conscious, and far enough from any group projects that I wouldn’t be disturbed by laughter. I had learned over the past few days of this forcibly increased productivity that I needed to bring snacks with me to optimize my time here. Instead of packing all of my stuff up and leaving to get lunch, I could just bring it with me and live in this cubby if that’s what it would take to get my grades up.

I had Saramago to read, a research paper on medieval texts and the concept of chivalry and that was on top of figuring out how to get myself out of this mess of a math class that I’d pretty much chalked up as a total loss. That one was the biggest scare among all of my courses. I was almost certain to fail it based on all the grades that had already come in and I didn’t feel much confidence about the final exam. That exam would be the make it or break it for my GPA. Even if I did well in everything else, it seemed that that would be what my entire dance career would hinge on.

Should have dropped it when you had the chance.

Can’t keep beating yourself up over it now. Gotta fix it. Forget about what you should’ve done and focus on the end goal.

I chewed another handful of trail mix and kept powering through the exercises that I’d pulled up from our course guide. They were supposed to be study aides to really hammer home the concepts from class. Instead, they were hammering home how screwed I was.

My phone buzzed.

Colt.

I ignored it. I didn’t have time to hang out and talk about nothing all day. I was on a mission.

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The next morning, I had my favorite class of the week: Contemporary Dance. The namesake of my major, the program that was set to propel me straight into a bright and prosperous future in the world of dance. I had let up on my extra practice hours after class so that I could focus more attention on my ‘academic’ courses, so I savored every step I could take across the dance floor, every smile towards my crystalline audience: the full-length mirror. Every moment of stretching, of choreography, of corrections, of repetition, I sucked it up like lifeblood to a vampire.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

My body was running on pure adrenaline and love for the craft. I missed dinner last night trying to get through all of my chapters before the library closed and had to settle for microwave shells and cheese and a beef jerky stick before climbing into bed at midnight. It’s hard to tell if it was my looming existential dread over possibly having to move back home a failure or if it was the salty processed meat and cheese abomination that caused the nightmares, but either way I didn’t get much sleep at all. I was afraid everyone could tell that I had bags under my eyes, that I was having a bit of trouble focusing whenever I wasn’t moving, starting to doze off if I stood still too long. As long as we were moving, I would be fine. I could suck all the energy I needed out of dance.

Panama was in this class. She seemed to haunt me throughout campus. Every time I failed, she succeeded; every time I succeeded, she was the star. In the case of dance, she harnessed all of her grace, elegance, and poise and combined that with practiced lean muscle and a perfectionist’s eye for copying shape and extension. If we weren’t competing against one another in the same field, I would admire her. In any other case, we would probably have been friends, bonding over a shared love. But this was a cutthroat business and if you’re not the best dancer, you’re waiting for the best dancer to fuck up so you can take her place.

We finished our warmups and ran through last week’s choreography additions so that Mr. D’Angelo could be absolutely certain we all had the basics locked in before moving on.

“If you’ve been following the syllabus, you’ll know that today we start partner work.” he began, pacing in a slow prance before us as we tried to stay nimble during this hiatus. We wriggled feet and plied, stretching to stay ready. He paid it no mind, unphased. “I’ve selected partners based on areas you each need to work on, as well as considerations like height and ability. Things you’ll be paired on in any professional capacity so get used to it.”

He smiled.

A few of us laughed nervously. It was true that a dancer was always being judged, measured, compared to one another. We should get used to it, but it was still unsettling to wonder what other people saw when they measured our worth. To want to know and simultaneously fear the answer.

There were mostly women in the class, so it was inevitable that most of us would be paired with each other.

If I was paired with Panama, would that mean we were the two best? Would it mean I had a lot to learn from her? Would it mean we just had similar bodies that looked nice together? You never really knew.

I held my breath. I felt a little dizzy with the anticipation. I both desired and dreaded being matched against her, no, partnered with her. To be able to show my ability right beside her. For the opportunity to maybe stand out with her. I could do this, I could finally prove that I was meant to be here, that I belong in this program just like all the rest of these dancers. That—

Everything went black.