Breathe.
The others just look the part.
Long legs.
Skinny thighs.
Long necks.
Breathe.
You haven't entered the Tarkett floor room yet, don't let them psych you out.
It's in your head.
Number 54.
Deep breath.
Sixty girls in one Tarkett floor room.
Stand out.
Be confident.
Head up.
Sixty girls in black shaded leotards, pink tights, pink flat ballet shoes, slick back ballet buns.
Mirroring each other.
Enter.
Shadows of one another.
They all look the same, they all want the same thing.
Breathe.
Left hand on the barre and begin the first exercise. Smile.
Remember posture, feet, technique, arms, wrists, neck, ears.
Smile.
Dance.
Twelve pairs of eyes watching your body, the way you move, the way you hold yourself.
Smile.
Seated at the front of the Tarkett floor room behind a long table, they glare at you from their position of power.
Look you up and down from their reading glasses.
Pen in hand, as if to put a red cross through the picture of your face in front of them when you do something wrong.
I say when you do something wrong, not if, but when.
When you begin the exercise with the wrong foot, when you use the wrong arm, the wrong head.
Smile.
The intimidating feeling in my gut continues to roar, and no amount of air or deep breathing can reduce this feeling.
Weighing heavily on my mind the thought of disappointment and regret causes discomfort.
Breathe. My muscles become prone, pretending not to hear my brain commanding them to move.
Smile.
A legion of voices inside are speaking their unanimous permission for me to blend in.
To fade.
To turn into the next girl's shadow.
I find myself losing focus on the dance at hand and begin to listen to that voice saying, ''I'm not good enough, the other dancers are better, you're fading.''
Deep breath.
Smile.
As my brain struggles to think left hand on barre, right hand on barre, move left foot, right foot, left arm, right arm.
Smile.
I am now trying to out-dance and out-think the rival I cannot see but can feel.
Feel her breathing down my neck.
Breathe.
That rival is me.
The devil on my shoulder and this feeling in my gut doesn't ease for a second as us shadows move off the barre and into the centre.
Breathe.
Six lines, 10 dancers in each in each row. Like checker pieces on a board, we begin to execute the first move in the centre.
Smile.
Line by line the music is played and we move.
Smile.
Remember posture, feet, arms neck, legs, wrists, face, head.
Dance.
They watch each move, scanning through line by line as they sit behind their table, leaning over to whisper to one another, moving papers, checking numbers.
Is my picture in the discarded pile?
No hint of a smile or spoken words to us; they are likes mimes, numb. We don't know what they are thinking.
Smile.
I feel embarrassed, I know I'm better than this.
As we move from one square on the checker board to another, time is moving slowly and a part of me wants to just leave.
I feel beaten.
The mimes continue to glare, but not at me anymore.
Do they know their decisions already?
And if it didn't come soon enough we are politely told that they have seen enough.
Smile.
Exit.
I know I could have done better as I leave the Tarkett floor room, my body language would suggest that in the game of checkers I hadn't been crowned.
Eyes down.
The feeling in my gut has decreased and my muscles seem to be listening to my brain again.
The devil on my shoulder is no longer.
Sixty girls enter the Tarkett floor room hearts thumping, heads spinning, determination on high.
Numbers 56, 11, 27, 52, 39 and 8 are called back.
• By Rebecca Murray, Year 13 Taieri College
