I don’t want to be here. I can feel the coldness of the bench underneath me and I pull my shoes out of my bag. I would rather be blindfolded in the back of a van that’s on fire, with my clothes doused in gasoline, then be here right now putting these shoes on. I waddle into the studio like a penguin. These shoes feel like foreign objects that encapsulate my feet. I can’t escape them. They are like little torture devices.

Sitting on the floor, I countdown the seconds until I can go home. Why did I sign up for this. I never liked ballet anyway. In the beginning of the year I would try to power through, but now I just give up when it gets too difficult or I get too tired. I waddle over to the barre and let out a heavy sigh. Bashing my feet into the floor trying to overstretch them, I stomp the tops of my little torture devices into the ground cramming my feet into the bottom of them. My feet are already numb.

We all line up on the wall in our pink tights and black leotards--the standard dress code--preparing ourselves for what was yet to come. Pirouettes. I would literally rather be dead right now. In my mind I just walk out of the room. Sadly I stay in place, my feet concrete bricks.

“You got this!”

Shut up. I hate how positive she is right now. I prepare, then I take off, this is second nature to me. Floating across the floor, I lose my balance a couple of times but still, I’m first to reach the other side. The other girls struggle in the middle of the floor. I want to leave. What if I pretend that I’m sick. No, I don’t have the guts to do that. I wait impatiently for the other girls to finish their turns.

“Okay ladies, great job today. You may take off your shoes.”

We all plop down on the floor and viciously rip them off. Once they were off, I dashed out of the room. Finally I can go home. I stuff the wretched little torture devices into my bag and run out the front doors.