Bodies

What do you need, she’ll ask. Repeatedly. What does Charlie need? Shrug. A short embarrassed laugh. It sounds more like a snort. He doesn’t know. Nails digging into palms. Leaving angry red marks, half-moon shapes glaring back at him. Same as before. Nothing’s changed. The room is too familiar, like a feeling stuck in his throat.

 

The anger is still there. It’s still there. Visible in every step and movement. Always present in his dancing. Mr. Suarez recognizes something in him. There’s comfort in his unspoken understanding. Never loses his patience, never raises his voice. He was an angry young man, too. The world is full of them. Dance it out, sweat out the pain like an exorcism. I see you. Your presence makes everything okay. It's never been said, but we both know.

 

You look so much like your father.

Doesn’t he? It’s just like seeing Simon at that age.

Bitch. You’re dead. He nods instead. Thanks, I guess.

 

Trying to accept. Learning to appreciate the beauty of his own body and everything that it’s capable of. Its surprising strength. It catches him off guard at times. An instrument of self-expression. Tracing the lines with his fingertips. Adult shapes, foreign and threatening. Hardness worn like armor. Something to protect him from their stares. I’m in control now. Never the object. Never again. Wanting it, craving attention at the same time. Who wouldn’t. He’s still so young. Everything is about stealing glances and private fantasies. About being seen, about having it all. Those straight boys and their bragging. They made it clear from day one. We’re not like you. So much easier to become one of the girls. Less risk of getting hurt. On bad days all he sees is the language of violence, crudely written on his skin, forever marked and singled out. Staring at his naked image in the mirror. Does his father know? This way, he’ll never leave.

 

I dance because I ran out of words.

Mirror Twin

I’ve taken to running before breakfast. Dance class isn’t enough. You look healthy, she says. You look so much stronger. And normally I’d feel happy, reassured, maybe even proud, but today is different. I feel anything but strong. I’m tired, easily triggered. Absentminded, like I’m barely present in the room. In my head healthy equals fat. Perfectly fine means overweight. Fit or in shape, is a polite way of saying you could stand to lose a few. Everything feels too tight. The scales lie. I tug at the elastic band. My dance belt and shorts leave pink lines on my skin. I’m growing into my body, becoming more muscular. This is a good thing, something positive. It’s exactly how it should be. But it’s not okay, it disgusts me. I see fat where there is muscle. She talks about healthy eating habits and I stare at my mirror twin. Exercise moderately, not excessively. Practice, then rest. Let your body recover. Everything in moderation. Yes. We nod, but everyone knows it’s bullshit, fat isn’t tolerated here. We’re all perfectionists, chasing the ideal dancer’s build. I’ve never understood the difference between self image and body image, it all blurs together. Maybe I don’t want to understand. She’s so much tougher on the girls. It’s painful to watch, the way she stands behind the “heavy” girl and stares at the two of them in the mirror, comparing bodies. Grown woman versus teenage girl. Thin versus what ought to be normal. The girl looks composed, she even manages to smile. But on her way to the changing rooms she starts crying and the other girls rally around her. She cries like a boy, quiet angry tears. You’re not fat, don’t listen to her. She’s a bitch. I want to tell her about it. Casually, like it’s no big deal. I’m not the only one, I know that. Not in this place where you can’t hide from the mirrors and glances. Spoken casually, it’s less dangerous. Less real. Even to me.