She held the brochure at the tip of her hands. "Dance Art Academy. Too bad I'll never be able to go." She sighed and threw it down. It landed with a plop on the couch. It stayed on for a second then slid down to the floor.
She picked up the remote and turned on the radio. Kate Royal's Mesicku na nebi hlubokém (Song to the Moon) filled the air. She smiled and began her routine.
After a minute, she turned the radio off when she heard a car pull up in her driveway. In two weeks, classes began. She had to convince her parents to let her enroll. She had already talked to the headmaster, Esme. She didn't like being called by Ms or Mrs. ____. Just Esme. She's sent in an application, too. Esme is looking forward to seeing her.
"Mary! Come down here!" Her mom's voice called. Here was her chance.
She took the brochure and jogged up the stairs. Before she had been in the garage. She started going into the garage three years ago. It was the only place she felt comfortable dancing. It really didn't even look like a garage. More like just another room, except colder. The ground didn't have a rug or anything like that. She had seen that before. Why did people go so overboard with garages? The only reason she shaped hers up was because she wanted it to seem more homey. It had a few articles of Ashley Bouder and Sara Mearns pinned up. Her walls and floor were plain. A couch pushed against the far east wall. A desk and radio at the head and a huge space in the middle. She needed all the free room possible for her dancing.
She reached the kitchen. Her mom had her head bent over the counter, chopping green onions for dinner. Her dad had his hair slicked back, two arms holding onto the counter, his body facing out in her direction. A cigar stuck out his mouth. She smiled with pressed lips. She slid the brochure over the counter in her mom's direction. Her mom peered up.
"Dance Art Academy in Los Angeles." Her mom read the title aloud.
She heard her dad laugh humorously behind her. "Dance academy? Please. You don't even dance. I bet you're not even good. Plus, it doesn't run in the family. You know the rules." She sighed. Yes, she knew the rules. Your career in life can only be something people in their family's past had done. Keep it running. Dancing was not one of them.
"Yes, but maybe we can start something new?" It came out differently then she had wanted. She wanted it to sound like a statement, but it came out as a question.
"No."
She looked down. She knew once her dad said no, it was final. It's off to lawyer school for her.
Once her parents peeled up the stairs to get out of their work clothes, she got a piece of notebook paper and a pen and began to write:
Dear Mom and Dad,
You were always telling me to chase my dreams. Dancing is mine. Your parents let you chase yours, and it's time I chases mine.
Mary
She grabbed her already packed suitcases, acceptance letter, and headed out the door.