More creative nonfiction:

JULLIARD

The first time I rode in an aid car was in New York City, on one of those rare, warm days in October. I remember practicing my dance, for days, even before I was invited to audition at Julliard. I had lived the piece since I learnt it in April. I practiced it first and last every day, I dreamt about it, I visualized it.

                I was practicing over and over in the holding room, waiting to be called on deck.

                “278,” the young stage manager called into the room full of nervous dancers, and again, “Number 278!” this time with more urgency. A woman, in her early twenties, slid off her purple leg warmers, tossing them on her street shoes as she darted after the stage manager.

                I looked down at the number safety pinned to my spandex, 279. I got that nervous sensation, that I used to get before performances, feeling as though I was going to cry, just holding it together. One more practice and then I’ll wait, I thought. As I landed the final leap, I crumpled to the marley floor with a crack that quieted the whole room.

                I stared up at the ambulance’s ceiling, bright with its lights glaring down at me, glistening off the tears sliding down my neck. The paramedic told my mom as she sat next to the gurney, hand clenching mine, that I had popped out my knee cap, tearing my ACL.

I looked down my horizontal body at the knee wrapped in ice packs, tripled in size. It was grotesque, unearthly, but I couldn’t stop looking. My mom dropped my hand to lean across to my left side, unpinning the paper number 279 and pushing it into the depths of her purse. 

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit