I wanted to be friends to erase my guilt for hitting him with my car. That’s why I went over to his place and watched over him all night long. Just making sure I paid back my debt. So that I don’t owe him.
As the door opens and my name is called, as I get up and smooth back my hair before making my way into the office, I tell myself that’s the truth and the end of this story. Seth will be fine. And so will I. Time to put this behind me—the accident, Seth, the way he was able to hurt me as much with his snappish tone as with his pain.
Time to get my ducks in a row and make some decisions about my future.
***
Continuing my training would be dangerous for me, the school director explains to me, holding up a medical report about my ankle. She gives it to me and waits until I read it through.
“This isn’t only about the school’s reputation,” she tells me. “This is about your health, and your future. Another break and you’ll be out anyway, but with more problems. Dancing on pointe isn’t advisable anymore for you, Ms. Torres. You can check with your own doctor if you like, but it seems pretty clear another career path is the way to go.”
I wander the school, my thoughts a jumble. This is it, then. Nothing to do, nothing to discuss.
Wow.
I manage to reach the advisor’s office on time for my appointment. He’s a gentle man, obviously trained for this thankless job—or maybe it’s only thankless in my case. Maybe on most days he guides young dancers through the steps of applications for theaters and dance competitions, not the “many options” they have outside of dancing.
I can become a dance teacher for children, the advisor tells me. I could design ballet clothes and shoes, or become a dance photographer. Perhaps I could become an actress.
No, I can’t. I don’t want to be an actress, or a photographer, or a teacher. If I can’t dance, can’t be the star in Swan Lake and the Sylphides , then I’d rather do something completely different.
Nobody promised I’d become a prima ballerina anyway. Not everyone can cut it, and let’s face it, with the physical issues I have, I’d be the least likely person to make it.
As I turn this over in my mind, a thought hits me: I want to help people. Take care of them. Heal their injuries. Support them. Like I did with Seth.
And there I go again, thinking about Seth when I made up my mind to stop.
The advisor tells me I could also teach yoga, but I stop him, forcing my mind to focus on the conversation.
“I want to be a physical therapist,” I tell him, startled to hear the words coming out of my mouth.
“Well, Ms. Torres, this is wonderful.” He beams at me, and I try not to cringe—because this isn’t a magical transformation where I finally find out this has been my calling all along.
No, this is a retreat. A compromise.
A failure.
I listen as he explains how that works, that I need a bachelor’s first, because PT is a post-graduate degree. I’m looking at a couple of years of study at least, but it’s a good thing I’m starting young. I have all my life ahead of me.
He makes it sound like I’m lucky I was kicked out of the school of my dreams. As if this is a fantastic turn of events I should be thankful for.
I might be sick. Yes, the idea of treating people, helping them appeals to me. But it’s really sinking in, the fact I’m leaving this school, this dream behind, and it’s like a kick to the stomach.
Hurriedly I take my leave and all but run out of the office, clutching the brochures he gave me to my chest and my purse to my side. I should put them in my bag before I throw them away in rage.
This is unfair. This is unjust. I worked hard to be here, and now… I thought I’d accepted the fact I’ll change directions, but deep inside I’m still fighting it. Hoping there was a mistake. That there is a loophole. That I can convince them to take me back.
I want to talk to someone, tell them about my hopes, my doubts, my
As the door opens and my name is called, as I get up and smooth back my hair before making my way into the office, I tell myself that’s the truth and the end of this story. Seth will be fine. And so will I. Time to put this behind me—the accident, Seth, the way he was able to hurt me as much with his snappish tone as with his pain.
Time to get my ducks in a row and make some decisions about my future.
***
Continuing my training would be dangerous for me, the school director explains to me, holding up a medical report about my ankle. She gives it to me and waits until I read it through.
“This isn’t only about the school’s reputation,” she tells me. “This is about your health, and your future. Another break and you’ll be out anyway, but with more problems. Dancing on pointe isn’t advisable anymore for you, Ms. Torres. You can check with your own doctor if you like, but it seems pretty clear another career path is the way to go.”
I wander the school, my thoughts a jumble. This is it, then. Nothing to do, nothing to discuss.
Wow.
I manage to reach the advisor’s office on time for my appointment. He’s a gentle man, obviously trained for this thankless job—or maybe it’s only thankless in my case. Maybe on most days he guides young dancers through the steps of applications for theaters and dance competitions, not the “many options” they have outside of dancing.
I can become a dance teacher for children, the advisor tells me. I could design ballet clothes and shoes, or become a dance photographer. Perhaps I could become an actress.
No, I can’t. I don’t want to be an actress, or a photographer, or a teacher. If I can’t dance, can’t be the star in Swan Lake and the Sylphides , then I’d rather do something completely different.
Nobody promised I’d become a prima ballerina anyway. Not everyone can cut it, and let’s face it, with the physical issues I have, I’d be the least likely person to make it.
As I turn this over in my mind, a thought hits me: I want to help people. Take care of them. Heal their injuries. Support them. Like I did with Seth.
And there I go again, thinking about Seth when I made up my mind to stop.
The advisor tells me I could also teach yoga, but I stop him, forcing my mind to focus on the conversation.
“I want to be a physical therapist,” I tell him, startled to hear the words coming out of my mouth.
“Well, Ms. Torres, this is wonderful.” He beams at me, and I try not to cringe—because this isn’t a magical transformation where I finally find out this has been my calling all along.
No, this is a retreat. A compromise.
A failure.
I listen as he explains how that works, that I need a bachelor’s first, because PT is a post-graduate degree. I’m looking at a couple of years of study at least, but it’s a good thing I’m starting young. I have all my life ahead of me.
He makes it sound like I’m lucky I was kicked out of the school of my dreams. As if this is a fantastic turn of events I should be thankful for.
I might be sick. Yes, the idea of treating people, helping them appeals to me. But it’s really sinking in, the fact I’m leaving this school, this dream behind, and it’s like a kick to the stomach.
Hurriedly I take my leave and all but run out of the office, clutching the brochures he gave me to my chest and my purse to my side. I should put them in my bag before I throw them away in rage.
This is unfair. This is unjust. I worked hard to be here, and now… I thought I’d accepted the fact I’ll change directions, but deep inside I’m still fighting it. Hoping there was a mistake. That there is a loophole. That I can convince them to take me back.
I want to talk to someone, tell them about my hopes, my doubts, my
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