2nd place.
2nd place is 1st loser.
It's not what I'm trained for. It's not what I practice so hard for. It's not what I aspire to.
But 2nd place is what I take home from the first competition of the season. 2nd place, and Miss Suzume's horrible sneer, and a boatload of brand new insecurities to lose sleep over at night.
I missed 1st place by .25 points. It's worse than coming in last, as far as I'm concerned, the knowledge that I had it right up until the end, but a tiny mistake cost me somewhere along the line. I even know exactly where it all went to shit: I missed a turn. I went for five turns, managed four. To the untrained eye, I didn't make a single mistake.
The bus ride back to campus is quiet. Miss Suzume fumes in the front seat beside the driver. The other girls congratulate me, since I placed higher than all of them, and I smile at their congratulations but goddamn does the gesture feel forced and empty. Like this whole ballet thing.
I would have been so proud of my 2nd place trophy three years ago. Back when ballet was what I loved, rather than…the only thing I can do, I guess, so I've got to do it well.
Now, though, I can't wait to get back to my dorm room so I can shove this physical reminder of my failure right the fuck under my bed where it belongs. Never to be seen again.
There are certain things that you have to tolerate, being a dancer.
The agonizing practices, the long hours, the frequent workouts, the constant dieting, the feeling of never, ever, ever being good enough and the destructive cycle of perfection and punishment, that goes without saying.
But there's also another aspect to it that you might not actually expect.
The feeling that I am always, always, always running out of money.
Dance is expensive. From the get-go, it's expensive. There's lessons when you're young, costumes, entrance fees into competitions and it only adds up over time. I was lucky to get a scholarship into KPAA back in middle school (a little girl from a ghetto foster home can't hope for much else than a miracle), but the scholarship doesn't cover everything. It's competition season, and the fees are steeper than ever, and I need as many first-place victories as I can possibly grab to polish my application to Konoha College of the Arts.
Bottom line? I need a job.
The problem is, I have almost no availability, except on the weekends. After my recitals. It complicates things one afternoon as I sit in my dorm room, my study notes on one side of my desk and the want ads on the other.
Who would hire me? I think, half in amusement, half in despair. A stressed-out, no-time-having ballerina?
I've never had a job before. Seventeen and I've never had a job. Well I guess you could count dance as a job, but it feels more like indentured servitude. I'm not collecting a paycheck for all the hours I spend in the studio, staring at myself in the wall-length mirror criticizing everything about me.
If self-critique was a job, I'd be CEO.
Maybe I could find a third-shift job somewhere, I think with a sigh, picking up the want ads without really wanting to. I could work overnight, sleep a couple of hours…it wouldn't really have to affect my dance schedule as long as I could pencil in some time for homework…
My eyes are drawn to a position opening for "overnight cleaner" at a tattoo parlor two blocks from my dance studio.
Funny, how I spend every minute of my life living, breathing, inhaling, expelling dance, and I might not even be qualified to vacuum floors in the middle of the night.
I don't tell Miss Suzume or any of the other dancers about my interview at Kakashi's Ink and Iron.
It's not that I'm ashamed of the fact that I have no money. If anything, I'm proud of myself for how hard I've worked and how far I've come; most of the other girls come from rich, privileged, loving, doting families who have time and resources to spend to cultivating their daughters' talent.
Not so much in my case. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time and seen by the right people. I'm lucky. They weren't handing out too many scholarships on the rough side of the tracks.
It's just that I don't want them to know I might be about to undertake another commitment. Dance is pretty much everything here, in the ballet studios of KPAA. It's priority one, all the time, even over schoolwork. None of the other girls have jobs; their parents foot the bill for all of our competitions.
So it's something I keep to myself at rehearsal the next morning. When I have to leave early to meet Kakashi at 5:00 for my interview, I tell Miss Suzume I have a doctor's appointment.
This probably won't surprise anyone, but I've never been inside a tattoo parlor.
Ballerinas don't have tattoos. It affects your employability. None of the premier studios want a girl who's gone and marked herself up head to toe with something that can't be washed off. I'm already at a disadvantage with my pink hair.
So, obviously, a tattoo place really isn't somewhere someone might find Sakura Haruno, but here I am. Dressed in what I hope is appropriate interview attire (but I'm applying for a third shift cleaning job, so maybe the dress was a bit too much), looking around nervously because I really only know my way around a dance studio, and nowhere else.
It's not what I was expecting, but few things in my life are. Kakashi's Ink and Iron is much bigger than I pictured, with a large front room and plush furniture, along with a few weird sculptures and paintings strewn about. There are several smaller rooms, all of them with curtains instead of doors, some of them with curtains drawn. I hear what sounds like drilling equipment behind the drawn-curtain rooms.
"So you're the Haruno girl," a voice interrupts my thoughts, and I jump and look up. There's a tall guy with silvery hair coming towards me, one of his eyes concealed by an eyepatch, the lower half of his face hidden by a bandanna. He's wearing a faded band T-shirt and jeans, tattoos streaking up and down his arms in no particular order. My first impression of Kakashi Hatake is that he might be a pirate.
Shows how naïve you can be in my industry.
"Yes," I squeak out, then I force myself not to sound like such an unemployable spazz. "My name's Sakura Haruno, it's nice to meet you." I stick my hand out, smile. Smile for the judges, Sakura. Find their eyes and make them watch you, make them love you, this is your only shot. "I called about the vacancy in the cleaning position."
Kakashi looks at me and even though I can only see one of his eyes, I can tell he's amused as he shakes my hand.
I know it shouldn't irritate me, but it does.
"KPAA?" he guesses.
"Could you tell?" I wince. Is it bad to attend KPAA? Do rough-looking pirate tattoo shop owners look down on kids in performing arts school?
"Well, you're on the short side for a dancer but you've definitely got the air."
When I look at him blankly, he chuckles.
"What I mean is, loosen up a little, sweetheart. This ain't an audition. C'mon, have a seat, let's talk business. You KPAA dancers don't have time for much else, right?"
At the beginning, I thought he might be making fun of me, but there's something strangely authentic about Kakashi that makes me feel relaxed. I'm so used to performing all the time, to being exposed to severe scrutiny and letting people judge every move I make. Kakashi has me talking for two minutes before I realize I'm letting my guard down.
Weird, right? I spend 60 hours a week with a ton of girls who don't know the first thing about me, but I'm in this shop for five minutes and singing like a bird.
"So," Kakashi says, sitting me down not at a desk, but on one of the plush burgundy sofas in the waiting room. He takes a seat beside me and doesn't consult my application or any papers at all, the way other jobs do, instead he slouches against the armrest, one leg propped up on a coffee table with albums of tattoo designs on it. I loosen my self-conscious, ladylike position just a tad. "You're looking at our third shift cleaning job."
"Yes," I reply. "I really need the money," I admit.
He looks at me, hard, and says, "We don't get many ballerinas sniffing around for cleaning jobs. Usually they don't need 'em, with Mommy and Daddy footing the bill over there."
"Well, Mommy and Daddy are dead," I say stiffly, before I can stop myself.
He blinks, then tells me, "Look, sweetheart, it's not like I'm against hiring you. You look like a smart girl and let's face it, washing windows and vacuuming carpets ain't rocket science. But you know this is a third shift job, right? You'd be here alone, at night. I don't know how comfortable I am hiring an underage girl to work alone overnight."
Oh. It's a rejection. Well, I'm used to that, aren't I. Too short. Not tall enough. Not enough emotions. Not enough drive. Not enough, not enough, never enough.
Bizarrely, irrationally, inconceivably, I'm angry.
Second place is first loser.
I need this fucking job.
"Look," I say, and my voice is sharp. Harsh. Unforgiving, like the little lost foster kid's shoving through the porcelain princess exterior, but for once, I don't hold that little gutterbutt brat back down. "I need the money. At this point, I'd turn to stripping if that's what it took. I know what I am, okay, I know I don't look like much but I can do this job. I will do this job. I can take care of myself and you won't regret hiring me. But I swear I'm more than what I look like."
I really hope so. I hope there's something inside me that makes me stronger than I look. But those are the words that come out of my mouth, and I stare at Kakashi waiting for his response.
His visible eye crinkles up in amusement.
"When can you start?"
You know the weirdest thing? I haven't been excited for very much in a very long time. Even, especially, about dance. The competitions I used to love going to are obligations now more than anything. Stressors. Panic-inducers.
But I'm fucking excited to start my job. I hurry to Kakashi's Ink and Iron from the ballet studio the next evening. I don't even bother to change; I figure no one's going to be there to care what I'm wearing, and I show up with my brand new set of keys fifteen minutes early.
11:00 pm to 3:00 am every weekday. Minimum wage.
I am thrilled.
The shop is closed, but there's still a light on when I slide my key into the lock and open the door. Maybe Kakashi's still here wrapping things up for the day.
To my surprise, though, it isn't Kakashi I see behind the front desk when I walk inside.
"Oh!" I say, taken aback slightly, because I recognize the slouchy, surly boy looking at me in surprise. "Uh, hey, Sasuke."
I didn't know he worked here. Like everyone else at school, I knew he had a lot of tattoos, but I never knew he worked in this shop.
It feels weird to say hey to him like we're best friends. The only time we've ever spoken, he was helping me out with Zaku, and that was over a week ago. (Zaku hasn't bothered me since.) But it feels weirder not to, and he responds with, "Hn. You're the new cleaning girl?"
I don't like how he says it. Like he's looking down at me or something. But that's the way I think pretty much everyone is towards me: acting like they're so much better. Maybe I'm paranoid.
"Yeah," I reply. "Kakashi told me he'd…"
"I know," he cuts me off, irritating me even further. "Here's your training manual." He slides a single piece of paper towards me, looking bored. Not really a manual, but then, how hard can cleaning be, really? "He told me to make sure you lock yourself in here. There's a panic button under the counter if you need it."
"All right, thanks."
Sasuke studies me critically, and I'm momentarily taken aback at how handsome he is. I didn't see him all that well in the dark when we met last week, and besides hearing all my classmates fawn about how hot he is, I never really looked at him before. All sharp lines and angles, deep dark eyes. Tall and jacked and…
"You have something against sleeping?" he demands.
Annoyed, I snap back, "I have something against being broke. Don't worry about me."
"I wasn't worried," he almost snarls.
We're off to a really good start.
"Then don't ask stupid questions," I hiss. "What I do and when I do it is my business."
"Whatever. Do what you want. Just lock the damn door after I leave."
"Gladly!"
"Ugh. Fucking ballerina janitors, what next." Sasuke throws up his hands in annoyance, then seizes a beat-up leather guitar case and a sketchpad with papers falling out of it. Sparing me one last glare, he stalks right out of the shop, then looks back at me expectantly through the glass doors. Rolling my eyes, I make a big production out of locking the door behind him.
And I give him a nice totally-not-a-ballerina-thing-to-do-but-he-fucking-deserves-it-anyways middle finger as I do it.
Do I imagine his smirk?
The shop's big and there's plenty to clean, but I kind of like the emptiness. I'm a fast cleaner (growing up in and out of foster homes, you learn your way around a vacuum) and I still have an hour to kill after I've done everything outlined for me to do on my 'manual.' So I wander around a bit, enjoying the solitude, and I find a book on the table marked Sasuke Uchiha that I really can't help but look at.
I figured he was an apprentice when I saw him inside the shop waiting to give me my orders, but I didn't know how good he was till I open the book and see some of his work.
Wow, I think, eyes sweeping over the Polaroids, and I'm impressed even though I kind of wish he sucked. And he's just an APPRENTICE? These are amazing.
I'll be the first to admit, I know next to nothing about tattoos. But even I can tell that I'm looking at some really great shit in this book. Mostly black and gray, a lot of good shading. Really clean. There's even some portraits that look so lifelike, they look more like photographs than tattoos.
He doesn't use color much, though. Here and there, but I can tell his skill is with black and gray.
I glance at my reflection in the ceiling mirror, the pink hair, the green eyes, the white skin, the purple sweatshirt and the yellow shorts and the charcoal tights and the coral slippers, and giggle. No wonder he's having such a hard time with me.
note.. Got my thigh tatted this weekend. Not quite as painful as my ribs were, but I'm a fucking dancer, yo. And getting your muscles tattooed feels like what I imagine the turkey feels like getting carved on Thanksgiving. That being said: FUCKING BEAUTIFUL. I am in love. My husband and I got matching Phillies logos on our wrists when we first started dating; he stopped at that first one. I didn't. I'll be the kickass pediatrician with full tat sleeves and shit. And Philly shops are no joke. My tattoo artist is fabulous, but he works with nutty people who don't bother with stencils, and just freehand that shit. Kind of reminded me of Sasuke. Arrogant as hell to screw with people's skin like that, but with the skill to back it up. By no means is it status quo for a tattoo artist to work without a tracing.
What'd you think? Happy Tuesday, y'all.
xoxoxo Daisy