The Punk and the Ballerina

Ari’s point of view.

My parents said I was the perfect child growing up. I wish they never said that. Perfection is a toxic illusion. Now I have a fear of failure. Since I was born, I was put on a high pedestal I never asked to be on, everything I did had to be perfect. Since I was three, I wanted to be a dancer. My childhood dream became my whole life, a job, my identity. It got in the way of the first boy I loved.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My name is Ariana Amaryllis Townsend. I’m a Virgo. I’m half Latina. My mother’s parents immigrated to California when my mother was a toddler. My mother was gorgeous in her younger days, a model that had everything it took to be rich and famous. Then she met my father. They fell in love. Twelve months later, I was born. Her traditional family didn’t like the fact she married a white guy.

The modeling world is a shallow, temporary one. After my mother got pregnant, offers dried up. Fortunately, my father was working hard to become a physics professor at Berkeley, so Mom could sit pretty like she was always meant to. We’ve been blessed with money, my sisters and I getting the best everything: expensive clothes, lavish birthday parties, memorable vacations.

I had done some modeling as a child. Sure, I liked taking pictures, but I only did it because it would make my mother happy. My passion and love was dancing. I got into the best dance school in the area, the teacher having years of Broadway experience. I wanted to be a ballerina, and then as I got older, I wanted to be a backup dancer for a big singer.

My mother wanted me to go to private school, but my father won the argument and I went to public school (he wanted me to have some normalcy, I had enough privilege at home). I was popular, I made straight As. I was good at everything, I had it all. Everything came to a screeching halt in tenth grade.

Sebastian Gray.

I knew Sebastian since kindergarten. We called each other names, never played together. As we got older, we avoided each other. I had my friends, he had his. I was rich, he was poor. I was in my own world, he was in his own world. He was an average student that dressed in cheap clothes. As a teenager, he cussed proudly and hung out with the bad kids. My parents told me to stay away from him.

My friends didn’t like him. Mali and Olivia, my girls since first grade. They also had wealthy families, but their parents also wanted them to have a normal school experience. They called Sebastian a punk and a scrub, sometimes to his face and more so behind his back. My parents taught me to not be a bully, but gosh Sebastian, stop spray painting your shoes, we can still smell that nauseating odor.

I wouldn’t say I hated Sebastian, I tolerated him. We were never meant to be friends, we were too different.

Life certainly is imperfect. It doesn’t always go how you plan.