
“Did all of you bring your baby dolls?” asked my tense ballet instructor to her class of 8-year-olds. “Tara didn’t bring a babydoll. Tara brought an OWL!” a swarm of baby girl giggles filled the room. I was a joke to them, those little bitches. Instead of comforting me like they do in the movies, the instructor went on with the class. We had to dance as gracefully as we could along with our babydoll, or in my case, my stuffed owl. I can’t remember his name, or if he even had one.
I just love how there is a mirrored-wall that stares back at you in dance studios, that way when you screw up, people can see from all angles. Oh, and did I screw up alright, I looked like a mess, the owl and I were falling all over the place. I just couldn’t get the dance steps down. The other girls seemed great at it, all beautiful with their pink tu-tu’s and their skinny legs. When class finally ended I tried to socialize with the graceful ballerinas. They huddled in a circle and clasped arms, as I walked closer, they shuffled away. Their laughter echoed throughout the stuffy dance studio. I tapped on one of the girl’s shoulder in an attempt to ask her why I was so repulsive to them. She whipped her perfect ponytail around glared at me, and said, “Don’t EVER touch me”. I remember thinking to myself, I hope she gets raped, because that’s what it felt like to get all dressed up in a tu-tu, step out in a studio with my owl, try to perform just to humiliate myself, and get treated like I am some kind of circus clown by a group of future pregnant Henny Penny cashiers.

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