Never the Same

The stadium looks like a mirage, a concrete monument to physical exertion when everything else in the oppressive Floridian humidity, including myself, would rather recline by a pool. If I looked hard enough, I could probably see a vapor cloud of air conditioning rolling out of the stadium tunnel like fog. A wisp of cold air tugs at the tendrils of hair escaping my bun and teases my gauze dancing skirt.

I shoot a worried look at Macy. She looks downright green, even under all that performance makeup. The best contour in the world couldn’t conceal her wan cheeks.

“You remembered to take your pill, right?” I ask.

Macy nods and I breathe a quick sigh of relief. It was amazing what they could fix with a pill these days. Since her mom took her to a psychiatrist to find a pharmaceutical solution for her vomit-inducing performance anxiety, she’s had a few solid shows. But, just because she isn’t puking doesn’t mean she’s completely over the nerves.

Who could blame her? Here we were, minutes away from performing in the dance team national championships on the other side of the country. Even I’m feeling a bit rattled, and I’ve been dancing at least two years longer than she has. I started taking lessons at the tender age of two. Macy didn’t join our class until nearly kindergarten, which was practically ancient at that age.

“Circle up,” Sylvia calls. It’s almost showtime. She checks the watch she wears on a delicate silver chain with an effortless flick of her lean wrist. Despite the heat, she’s wearing her glossy back hair down her back with a cool linen jumpsuit.

Macy and I, plus the ten other girls on our team rush to our coach’s side, taking tiny, mincing steps across the pavement as not to scuff our soft-soled jazz shoes. We’re pressed so close together that I hold my breath on instinct, expecting to be assaulted with body odor. To my right, Macy is gulping deep belly breaths. She once confessed that she finds the scent of hairspray and deodorant oddly comforting.

I grin at my teammates around the circle, a group of badass women looking especially fierce with our heavyweight performance eyelashes and precise lines of dark eyeliner.

Sylvia leans in, a head taller than the tallest of us, and speaks in a low voice. “This is it, ladies. Let me be the first to offer my congratulations: we’ve made it to national championships. We’ve come a long way since auditions last year, and it’s been an honor to watch you grow and to help hone your talents. This performance is unlike any other because we all know it will be our last. I know several of you are looking forward to this day, if only to avoid being the subject of one of my post-performance notes.”

That’s a classic Sylvia joke. She says it like she’s trying to be self-deprecating, with a cute smile around the circle, but we know her game. She’s really saying ‘don’t make me come down there and tell you what you did wrong’ after the show. Macy rests her head on mine. I shift my neck so she doesn’t get impaled by any rogue bobby pins. Nobody needs a scar to go along with her national championship medal.

“But there will be no notes after this performance,” the Sylvia continues. “Most of you will go on to perform again, either with this group or somewhere else, so it might not feel like a big deal yet. But we will never again take the floor with this routine, this music, or this camaraderie. A few weeks from now, we’ll lose our three-super talented, beautiful, and beloved seniors to graduation.” A ripple of hand squeezes and shimmying side hugs passes through our circle.

“Ladies, after the next five minutes of competition, this team will never be the same.” Coach pauses, letting us feel the full weight of that statement. A megawatt smile lit up her face. “Let’s go out there and give it our all for our seniors.”

Miraculously, we all draw one big breath together before letting it out with whoops and cheers. Our circle disintegrates and there’s momentary chaos as we arrange ourselves in a single file line, seniors first and underclassmen in a jumble behind. Our watercolor skirts swished as we girls trailed their Sylvia into the stadium tunnel to await the timing and floor judges.

In the weeks before my first championship performance, the seniors would talk about the tunnel as this sacred place. We’re supposed to be all reverent, to sit quietly and reflect on the enormity of our achievements or build off the energy of the crowd just on the other side of the curtain. That’s a flat out lie, because this is the third time I’ve been here now and every time feels more like cramming for a test. Dancers on either side of me are whispering frantically to one another while Sylvia’s strutting the length of the tunnel offering equal parts encouragement and intimidation.

The sound of the crowd watching the previous competitor’s performance is growing in volume, but I can still hear Macy behind me. Her teeth are chattering like she’s just taken a polar plunge.

“Jackie, watch the height on your jumps. Protect that knee; you’ll need it next season,” Sylvia says to our team captain. She’s going to follow in our coach’s footsteps and be a rookie Laker girl.

“Are you ready to get it, Rach? Do you think we’ll see a quad turn out of you today?” The diminutive senior in front of me smiles and bounces irritatingly on her toes, eager to show her strength.

The line judge waves his hands like a pinwheel, signaling us to approach the starting line. Deep in the stadium, we can hear the announcer say, “Please welcome, all the way from Los Angeles, Pyramid Valley High School, directed by Sylvia Li!”

The seniors step off confidently and us underclassmen follow suit. I reach back for Macy’s hand and she links her pinky through mine before we step onto the floor.

Their line disintegrated under the fluorescent lights. Pyramid Valley was a well-known finals contender and one of the teams to travel the furthest for this competition. With less than a minute until the music would start, dance shoes fluttered against the lacquered hardwood as each girl found her opening set point and undertook a quick ritual of her own. Rachel again flexed her ankles, while Jackie dipped into a low squat, bordering on inappropriate in the teams’ opaque costume dance skirt and leotard, but must have felt good on her weak knees. Erika and Macy tapped the toes of their shoes against one another, first right, then left.

“Third time’s the charm, right?” Erika murmured as she lifted her arms, gracefully creating a high arc to carve out the back row of the ensemble. Macy lunged laterally, just one row beneath her in their tableau. It was a challenging position to hold for any length of time, and she often thought their choreographer was secretly punishing her when he chose it for her.

Before she had time to respond, the voice of the sport, Darren Steel, rumbled over the loudspeakers. “Pyramid Valley High School, you may now take the floor in championship competition.”

The team froze, no one daring to let out their breath until they heard the minor chord at the start of their music. An instrumental piano number, with stylized arpeggios and dramatic silences. Somewhere near the center of the tableau, a low voice hissed out an eight count until the music’s baseline was audible and the women could find the rhythm for themselves.

Macy felt something lift in her chest, and for once it wasn’t nausea. Her heartrate accelerated, but the blood racing through her body didn’t make her feel dizzy, it made her feel powerful. After this performance I won’t ever be the same, she thought, holding her pose until it was her turn to move in time with the music.