Pink Ballet

The alarm screams at the top of its lungs, its fat red body jiggling along the table until it topples over. It announces the first day of spring and apart from the birds chirping and wind chimes clinking, a grumble sounds inside the bedroom. From beneath the butterfly quilt cover, black hair sprawls into a matted ball. A pale hand extends out to grab the alarm clock, thumping it against the mattress.

“Clementine, stop that, it’s driving me mad!” Hank whines.

She draws the covers over her head, with a moan.

Hank opens his mouth and yells again, his voice rings out as a pitched alarm. His round body vibrates, as the clock hands strike 7. Clementine presses the switch again and hauls herself out of bed.

“I’m up, okay?”

“If you woke up the first time, I wouldn’t have to do that,” Hank snaps, tapping on his glass belly to clear his voice.  

Clementine stands before the bathroom mirror and watches as she brushes her teeth. A meek freckled nose peers out from beneath hazel eyes and a nest of hair sits atop her head. The weight causes an ache inside her neck and puffy bags encase her eyes. Fatigue ages her well beyond teenage years. She recites the mathematical equations from class - five five’s are twenty-five, sixty by sixty is three-thousand-six-hundred…. 

A clunk makes her peer out from the doorframe.

“Hank?”

He struggles like a beetle on its back, magnetised to the floor. Clementine lodges the toothbrush inside her mouth and picks him up. Frothy toothpaste drools from her mouth and falls onto his glass face. With a disgruntled glare, she wipes it away and lays Hank back on the table. He sits amongst a display of awards and framed ballet shoes. Pink is the primary colour but it’s too girly for her liking. The bows and floral wallpaper is comically feminine.

Clementine draws the wardrobe open to reveal a display of pastel dresses and skirts. She turns to the hanging leotards, each one a variation of pink. There are at least six blush pink options and she rummages through, finding the perfect option. A thought creeps in - how many pieces would a warehouse make a day? If they manufacture ten dresses on weekdays but only five on weekends… 

Hank goes cross-eyed and his mouth drops open. “Look at that, the time is 7.10! Hurry up,” he urges.

Clementine rips the leotard from the hanger. She pulls the straps over her shoulders and grumbles at the pink-centred bow. The satin fabric is silk-soft and she twists it. She reaches for the drawer of her dresser. It is jammed and she uses her foot to yank it open. She arches her back and twists the handle. It flies off and a flurry of hair ties, ribbons and elastics fly out. Inside is a pair of scissors and she cuts off the bow. Less pink.

“Time for your skirt.”

Clementine stares at the tutu in the shade of a ballet slipper and bedazzled with silver stars. It flares outwards, to showcase every muscle in her leg and twirl on the spot as she does. Deciding to save it for last, she takes a seat before the dresser. 

“You’r running behind schedule, your hair should have been done by now,” Hank grumbles.

“Listen, I don’t care enough about this competition.” She speaks to Hank’s reflection in the dresser mirror and tilts her head to see past the maze of frizz.

“Of course you do.”

Clementine brushes her hair, dragging it through the fairyknots. “I don’t even want to go.”

“But you’ve trained so hard for this. All of the late night practices. Your pirouet is perfect, you are going to win.”

“Then what?” Clementine asks. 

The hairbrush becomes entangled in a knot and it drags her head down with it. Her hair is like sticky slime that entraps the bristles. Clementine rolls her eyes and turns towards the steel scissors on the table. She lays the brush down and angles the scissors towards the mid-lengths. With a pause, she realises it should be shorter. The scissors now sit along her shoulder. 

Hank’s mouth drops open. “What are you doing?”

Clementine slips her tongue out in concentration of her mouth. Tussles of hair drop to the ground, like sandbags. She runs her hands through the butchered ends and feels the air, where hair once was. 

“I should go shorter.”

“Clementine!” Hank exclaims.

She tucks it behind her ears in a bob-style. Posing in the mirror, the concept makes her heart flutter. But the framed image of ballet slippers catches her eye and the competition awaits. She turns to Hank, where the time reads 7.30am.

From the next drawer, she extracts a tub of gel. It oozes between her fingers and she slaps it onto her head. It brushes through like butter, leaving behind a greasy film. She pulls her hair into a slicked bun, the tightness makes her temples throb. Now, secured with a satin scrunchie, where pink ruffles peek out from the sides of her head. 

“I wish it was blue,” Clementine sighs.

“It’s a fairytale theme, you are right on point.” Hank says. The clock hands upon his face furrow into a brow. “Why the long face?”

“Because I don’t want to do the competition.”

“Nerves and jitters are all normal. Once you’re onstage and look out into the crowd, you’ll see your parents cheering you on and everything will be great!”

“That’s exactly the issue,” Clementine sighs. “I don’t want to perform. Ballet is my mum’s idea, it’s not my passion.”

“But you’ve been a ballerina since you were three.”

“I’m seventeen now.” Clementine reaches for the brightening powder and dabs it beneath her eyes. Her makeup routine is the same at every performance, glittery eyes, eyeliner and a nude lip. Once the mask is in place, she hardly recognises the girl staring back from the mirror. The pink face is anything but who she is.

Flaring out of the wardrobe is the expansive pleated tutu. Radiating with elegance, the stars shine like the milky way. Clementine takes it from the hook and examines the skirt in her hands, heavy with layers of fabric. She slips it over her feet and it sucks her stomach inwards.

“Just your slippers left to go,” Hank says.

The ballet slippers lay crossed over, with pink ribbons unfolded on either side. Clementine slips them over her feet and tightens the strings. She flexes her foot, bending the shoes into position. Standing before the mirror, Clementine holds her hands above her head and lays her leg forward into a bow. 

Hank claps his hands emphatically. “Beautiful. Now, Clementine Clare, it’s time to go. It’s 7.45am.”

“What if I didn’t?”

“D - D - Didn’t what?” he stammers.

“If I didn’t go to the competition, I would lose.” The thought brings a smile to Clementine’s face. She chews on her fingernails and contemplates the rebellion. She thinks to herself, I need to be stationed at the competition in forty-five minutes and the car travels at sixty-kilometers per hour. According to my maths…  She says, “I’m not going.”

“Clementine. Are you ready?” her mother calls out.

“Yes, mum!”

“Your mother will be furious. You’re dressed, it's time to leave,” Hank demands.

“I can choose to win or to not win. I’m not going,” Clementine responds. 

She takes hold of the framed ballet decor and faces it downwards against the dresser. She slips beneath the sheets and her makeup smudges against the pillow with shimmering pinks. Her legs pulsate as the ribbons from her slippers curl along her calves. The tutu creates a lump beneath the blanket and the leotard hugs all crevices of her body. She draws the blanket to her chin and turns to Hank. 

He winks as the time strikes 8 O’clock. “Good on you, girl.”

“I’m not a ballerina. Not anymore,” Clementine says.

She slips into welcoming sleep and remains still well past the hour.