Sarah Orwells had always wondered what it felt like to be a mirror. She was probably the only one ever to wonder so, but to her it was a good question. Life seemed rather miserable as a mirror. Perhaps it shows how self-absorbed people are, only focusing on one’s glorious self, reflecting on the mirror’s flawless surface. Who would choose to stop and admire the beauty of a mirror for being a mirror? Its glowing exterior, always scrubbed to perfection, its varnished mahogany frame wrapping tenderly around the corners… Sometimes Sarah felt like a mirror.
*******

“Sarah dear, please demonstrate to Louisa the steps again.”
It was ironic, Sarah had always thought, how this phrase could be so treasured by any other ballet student but her. She felt her leg muscle tense as she straightened self-consciously and padded over to the center of the dance studio, the hard soles of her pointe shoes slapping the varnished floorboards. Strange, this nervousness she always felt. It was not like they were actually observing her, Sarah Orwells.

The pianist settled his hands and a string of notes erupted from the rickety piano as his hands frisked over the black and white keys. Sarah let her arms and feet settle fluidly in the fifth position dégagé, and as the melodious strains of the piano wove elaborately across the air, she felt her mind absorb completely in the music and the dance. There was something so, indescribable in this feeling, as if she held the silent room in the tips of her fingers. It was funny; she had always liked to dance, it was just what came after…
As she nimbly leapt into a high pas de chat, her eyes caught sight of her ballet teacher Mrs. Maria and the only other student in the class. As if someone had fastened lead onto her ballet shoes, her steps faltered and loosed their original spirit. Here it goes again, the image that tore her back to reality- back to being a mirror.

Sarah managed to stumble through the last few bars of the dance. And then staggered back, with disheveled hair and a burning face, she retreated to her place on the studio floor.

“Thank you Sarah. That was good. Your steps were well done.” Mrs. Maria’s voice was encouraging.
“However it did manage to show quite a lot of the problems in you Louisa….” And then Mrs. Maria one again completely absorbed in her other pupil.

Sarah nodded half heartedly, fingering the loose ribbons on her pointe shoes. Her fingers wormed their way through a whole peeping through her dilapidated shoes. It really didn’t matter. She was only talking to Louisa really, always Louisa.
**********


“Really Sarah, I cannot stress how delighted I am for Mother to be paying you to be my practice partner Sarah. Yes, anyways, your mistakes have helped me, and you know how I’ve always wanted to go a professional ballet school.”

Sarah nodded in reply. The dimly lit changing room was silent except for Louisa's interminable rambling voice. She remained silent, afraid of saying anything unhandsome and fighting to control her annoyance inside. Did Louisa have to repeat all this at the end of every class? To try to remind Sarah of her scruples for not feeling gratitude in having free lessons perhaps? Sarah knew she was only receiving classes with Louisa since she served as someone with similar dancing abilities as her in order to demonstrate her where to improve. She had known that the very first moment she had stepped into the studio.

Sarah saw a glimmer of her reflection on the changing room’s mirror. Her face was flushed to an unflattering shade of red like a radish, stray strands of unruly blond hair escaped from her bun like hay. Every line from the dropping curve of her eyelid to her quivering knees bespoke fatigue. Her grey-blue eyes lost its usually depth and looked like pools of turbid water. Sarah turned and scrutinized Louisa as she settled her lustrous brown tresses on her shoulders, her flashing, animated green eyes radiant with mirth. That effortless poise and self-possession as she stopped down to gather her purse, her lithe, bird-like bone structure “so perfect for dancing” as her affectionate mother had gushed so elegantly and gracefully bent. Yes, there really was nothing similar between she and Louisa. Sarah looked what she felt – always like a watered-down version of Louisa.
**********

“Sarah, Louisa, I’d like a word with both of you.”

Sarah whirled around in surprise, her foot still arched in an arabesque.
Her and Louisa?

“Girls,” Mrs. Maria began her tone solemn, as they assembled in the center of the studio. “One of the ballet masters in the New York Children's Ballet, who also happens to be my acquaintances, is coming view today’s class.”

Beside her, Louisa gasped, her green eyes wide in surprise. Sarah felt her own heartbeat quicken.

“I know what you’re thinking Louisa, and yes, if Mr. Laurence sees potential is in you, you may be offered the chance for an audition. I have informed him about you and your wish so he shall be closely examining you for most part of today’s class.”

Sarah repressed a sigh. Why should she feel excited? Going to a professional dance school… It was Louisa’s dream. But suddenly, Sarah felt Mrs. Maria’s intent brown eyes focused on her.

“Don’t look like that Sarah, I know what you are thinking. You must do your best too. You’re dancing ability is frankly speaking, not bad. Now back to the barre, girls.”

Sarah shuffled back to her spot in front of Louisa, her eyes focused on the cracks of the floorboards. Her mind spun with her teacher’s words. She was frankly speaking not bad. She did like ballet, it was possible… not very probable…

“Alright, straighten your knees Louisa! Pliés girls, remember, small bends!”

Sarah steadied herself as dulcet piano notes tiptoed on their pointes and through the silent ballet studio. She tried to vacate her mind from everything except the music and her moves, from the tip of her reasonably neat bun to the arch of her foot. A dancer was like an artist – today she will paint portraits from her dancing to the background of music. And then he relentless, repetitive practice began again - the steps that all dancers do, from a prima ballerina to the humblest members of the corps, the tiring, constant exercises which perhaps defined a dancer’s life more than any sensational performances.

Mr. Laurence arrived around halfway in the practice. Sarah caught site of his bald forehead and grey curls dancing around it from the side of the studio mirrors. She felt Louisa tighten beside her. He was regarding them attentively. They had progressed from the barre to the center of the studio. Normally, Sarah felt the need to somehow grow smaller, as if to grow more inconsequential, negligible, to divert away a person’s attention on her. A trickle of sweat wormed its way down her neck. I want you to try your best too. Well she will, for once, at least today.

As they continued through the exercises, Sarah focused herself on nothing except to place her foot perfectly, to stretch her back to the limits, letting her feet dance as if it had a mind of it own, letting it trace pictures across the studio. They were on fouettes now. Sarah willed herself to launch into those daunting series of fouettes effortlessly, her pointe shoes landing on the ground with gossamer lightness…

Sarah felt strangely lost as Mrs. Maria announced the end of class. For once, she had not peered at the clock every few minutes, anticipating the merciful end of class. She had been so intently focused on perfecting her every move she had almost forgotten the studio and Mr. Laurence observing behind the glass. Hastily fastening her hair into a recognizable bun, she stumbled to the studio door, her mind still lost in a daze.

Mrs. Maria was deep in conversation with Mr. Laurence behind the doors of the studio. For a moment she dawdled behind the safety of the glass door. Louisa glided fluidly past but still Sarah stood immobile. And then she smiled. It was a funny thing: what exactly was there to smile about anyways? But Sarah knew what. She had finally given herself a chance today. She had finally peered over these barriers she had built for herself, to fragment this mirror she had created not to reflect others, but herself, her own cowardice, to strive for what she wanted. It was a small step, but isn’t life made of a series of small steps, anyways? Sarah felt the sudden need to straighten her back and lengthen her neck, to align her collarbones to a perfect straightness. She was a dancer. Dancing made all dancers equal. Dancing offered everyone a fair chance. Sarah scrutinized her dim reflection in the glass door. Who is the mirror here?