Cotton Candy Pink
Stassi
I used to scream at my mom that someday I was gonna run away with the circus. I didn’t mean it. I was just tired of going to ballet class. I was seven. Off to the circus I needed to go.
Tonight, glass bulbs illuminate the colorful and chaotic midway as I sneak around, eyeing the stand with cotton candy. Much like running away with the circus, eating sugar is a major no-no in my world. Gaining weight? My skin breaking out? I was the kid not allowed to trick-or-treat. I barely tasted cake on my birthdays.
One bite is all I crave. The big bag of baby pink fluff. That’s the one I want.
Stepping up to the counter I start to dig for cash out of my black backpack-purse.
“Pink please.” I hand the gruff and slightly sweaty man at the window a five dollar bill and he hands over the goods. It feels like buying drugs . . . not that I know. I’m as straight as an arrow. I wouldn’t be breathing if I’d ever even thought about doing something like that. My mom would have killed me for sure. But, I suppose it kind of is.
If I get caught with this kind of contraband by Miranda, my mom, and I’m as good as dead. Sad, yeah yeah I know. I’m twenty years old and let my mother rule over my life like I’m some damn little kid who needs help tying her shoes, but listen, I grew up under her rule, doing all the shit she made me do in order to be a good daughter who performed well. I’m basically a show pony at this point in my life.
So, I ran to the damn circus to prove I can do things without her approval. I’m buying spun sugar. Isn’t that a rebel enough move? I’m trying people. I’m really freaking trying.
Sure, I’m about thirteen years too late, complete with scarred up toes and a long list of awards, but I did it. I’m here. And I’m eating a big ass piece of pink fluff, loving every single bite.
I keep my head down and try to hide behind the over-sized hood of my favorite sweater. It’s as pink as my cotton candy and super obnoxious with long rabbit ears on the hood. My mother hates it and I wear it every chance I get. But, tonight it’s helping to keep me undercover. I don’t need the press reporting I’m here or a random fan to recognize me.
For the most part ballerinas are pretty undiscovered by the masses, but last year my star lit up like fireworks when I shot a promo video with the world famous Poppy Lamb. A huge marketing gig for her epic cosmetics company. I performed the Nutcracker Suite to launch her holiday collection. People recognize me more now. So the bunny ears it is.
My bag of pink contraband in hand, I walk the rest of the midway, only stopping at a group of people my age gathered around a game called High Stryker. You have to basically hit the rusty metal base of the contraption so hard that the level inside hits the bell at the top. Seems simple enough, but in less than a minute two guys strike out, not high. They all seem so happy together, laughing and teasing each other in a really friendly way. You can tell they like each other, like they grew up together in a tight bond. I have never experienced that feeling. I can count on one finger my friends--or is that friend? I spent my childhood traveling around the world, gaining a resume but losing out in all the ways that matter to a kid. I’m not sad about my life, but I just don’t know how to connect to people well. I’m in limbo, stuck somewhere between worlds where I am both young and longing for realness but trapped inside of the name my mother built around my talent as a ballerina.
“Let a professional through . . . ” Laughter sounds from behind me and I turn to see whose deep voice spoke.
It’s a boy that is much, much taller than the rest. The kind of boy you get nervous just looking at, hoping like hell he won’t catch you. Hoping he won’t make eye contact. Not because he’s scary or mean but because he’s so damn man-pretty. The kind with a wicked grin that isn’t up to anything good. A boy who knows he’s the shit. But eyes soft enough to melt your heart and claim it, right before he hands it back shattered in a million pieces.
I’ve never dated. Another sweet thing forbidden by Miranda.
But I definitely know this is not the kind of guy you date.
This is the kind of guy you run away from if you’re smart.
He comes wrapped in caution tape and red flags.
So why the hell can’t I stop staring at him?
