I want to choreograph my own dances. No, not just dances-shows. I want to direct my own company. Stage big daring productions. A modern version of The Firebird. A ballet choreographed to Lady GaGa.
The trouble is, the undergrad program isn't really geared toward that. I could stay and hope to get into the MFA program, but I am honestly tired of working hard to please everyone else.
My whole life has been spent making my parents proud. Being the picture perfect princess they both wanted me to be. It was my mom who put me in dance. I have no idea why. Honestly, I think it was because some wealthy friend had her daughter at the studio, so it seemed like the thing to do.
Keeping up with the Joneses and all that.
"You're keeping your weight down?"
I set my fork down. "Yes, mom." I infuse my voice with total teen impatience. Because she reduces me to a surly teenager in the blink of an eye. I'm an independent, almost college grad, but five minutes in their house and I'm chafing against my childhood constraints again.
"Well, I know how you worry about those things."
"No, I'm not worried. I never should've told you about the fat letter. I'm sure it's a myth, anyway."
The rumor is, the faculty will send you a fat letter if they think you're getting too porky. Personally, I dare them to do. It seems like a civil liberties case to me. But what do I know? I'm not a lawyer. I'm definitely not as rail-thin as some of the bun-heads in the program, but I'm not doughy either. And I definitely don't want to obsess over my weight like almost every dancer does. I've worked hard since my high school days of eating disorder tendencies to love my body and appreciate all the hard work it does for me.
I'm their only child, and my mom was a stay-at-home mom, so I became the object of a mountain of attention. Angelina ballerina, with straight A's, straight teeth, and sweet manners. A good girl.
God, I'm sick of it.
"I don't know why you keep that job at the nightclub anyway," my dad says, back on his soap box. "You're not making fine art and the pay isn't that great."
"The pay is perfect." My jaw gets tight. I'm even more defensive about my time at Eclipse than I am about my weight.
It may be sad, but I feel the biggest thing I've accomplished since I started school was setting up the go-go dancing gig for me and my friends at Eclipse.
I guess it's because it was like one tiny baby step toward directing my own company.
But my parents don't support that angle, at all.
My dad made me double major in business because he thinks I should run a dance studio when I get out.
Which is fine. I like to teach. It's just… it would be nice to follow my own dreams for a change.
Instead of the neatly laid out plan my parents have set for me.
"I still don't understand why this Jared character took your car to be fixed. There's something fishy about it. How well do you know this guy?"
Oh God, please don't let me blush.
Sometimes I hate being a redhead.
"I know him pretty well, Dad. He's a bouncer at the club. Really nice guy. I told you, he said it was his fault he pulled out in front of me, and he has a friend with a repair shop, so he was going to take care of it."
"How do we know the repair shop is reputable? What if he does a shoddy job on it? How do you know he didn't just steal your car? You should have called the cops. Were you drinking?"
I roll my eyes. "No, Dad. I wasn't drinking. I'm sure the job will be professional, and you should be grateful I didn't call the cops and get the insurance involved, because my rates would've gone through the roof."
"Well, that's true."
You can always reason with my dad through his wallet.
"How's business, Dad?" I ask pointedly.
My father takes a sip of wine. "Good. I'm still working on the acquisition proposal for SeCure."
"Did you get a meeting with their CEO yet?"
Frustration flits across my father's face and for a minute, I pity him. For all his drive and dominant tendencies, he can't bend the entire world to his bidding. He has a vision for his retirement-going out with a bang, of course-but he hasn't been able to execute it yet.
"We're hosting a fundraiser for his favorite charity-Save the Catalina Mountains-and our event planner asked him to make an appearance to entice participation from other big donors. His secretary made it sound like he was considering."
"That's great!" I'm honestly happy for him. Except I know what's coming next.
"We'd like you to be here, dear," my mom chirps. "It's a really important event for your dad."
"Of course," I say automatically. After a lifetime of being trotted out to society as the perfect daughter to complete the perfect family, I'm well-trained. I check my parents' plates, and seeing the neatly stacked silverware, stand up. "Well, I'd better get going. I have a lot of homework to do." I pick up all three of our plates and carry them to the kitchen, where I quickly rinse them and stack them in the dishwasher.
"What about coffee?" My mom trails me into the kitchen. "Your father and I are going to have dessert."
Of course, she's not going to offer me cake. And if I asked for it, I'll get a lecture about my weight. Sigh. Just another typical dinner with my parents.
"No thanks, Mom. Love you." I kiss her cheek and breeze out of the kitchen. "Bye. See you, love you!" I call out as I beeline for the door.
The Uber pulls in right when I walk out, so I get in and check my phone for texts.
Yeah, I'm hoping to hear from Jared again. Even though that doesn't make sense.
Even though I shouldn't want that.