─ You are just a bitch. The leading role is rightfully mine and I will have it.
In her dreams for sure. Actually I am occupying that place and I am not about to leave it. It is time for her to be reasonable.
Chapter 2Caitlyn
The day of the premiere has finally arrived. Despite an upsurge of letters, for me very unpleasant, I was able to succeed by emptying my mind as much as possible, and by letting go out, through dance, all the emotions that lingered on me. That had not been without difficulty since the letters had become more and more threatening in the run-up to the show. The last one, the very same day of the show, did not arrive at the theatre like all the others, but directly at home, to my sanctuary, to my refuge, which then seemed to be less safe and less comforting. Therefore, the choreographer found my expressions a little too aggressive during our last rehearsal, and asked me to use makeup to soften my facial features tonight to the maximum, but overall he is satisfied with my performance.
My grandmother is here, I know, I feel her eyes on me. She had no time to visit me at my dressing room before the performance, but I always know when she is here. I immediately feel more soothed, which I need a lot. Like for any autistic person, noise, crowds, are factors difficult to bear. Fortunately, the hall is plunged into darkness and the audience is silent, focused on the music and dancers who evolve fluidly on stage, telling one of the most famous children's tales. I make my entrance with some pirouettes on pointe. I close my eyes and let the music take me away. I feel the vibration of the sounds from the tip of my toes to those of my hair, waving in rhythm, occupying all the available space on stage. My heart beats with the violin notes, my breathing accelerates as my steps are linked. I feel everything at the deepest of my being: Aurora’s exile, her isolation in the middle of the forest, the joy of finding her loved ones, the pain of losing them as soon as she is back, and the hope of finally being loved. This ballet is made for me. It kind of traces my own life, from the time I left Florida to the time I found my place on stage. No prince charming for me, but a great love all the same: the love of dance. This passion that fills my heart with joy. Time runs so fast on stage. At a frantic pace that I cannot realize. Very quickly, too fast, the ballet is over. The curtain is lowered to the deafening applause of the audience. With all this uproar I feel my shoulders tense. I wish I could run away from the crowd, but it is not possible. I am the first dancer of the show and the spectators are largely here to see me. I manage that the ovations do not to go on forever, but that is the only compromise I have been given. Therefore, I clench my teeth while the whole troupe joins me on stage and we greet the audience together as soon as the red velvet curtain rises. The room is now lit, allowing me to realize the extent of people that came, and I prefer not to prolong this vision that makes me panic. I am looking for my grandmother's eyes. She is in her usual seat, on the balcony to the left of the stage, and I focus on her face. Her features have not changed since her last visit ten months ago. To believe that time has no hold on her. Her silver hair is straightened in a sophisticated chignon and her outfit highlights her slim waist. I may be far away, but I can guess her pride in her look and in her smile. I see from the corner of my eye my parents by her side, but like every time they look at me, their faces do not express anything. No joy, no pain. It seems that my performance and my success have left them indifferent. I wonder why they keep coming to see my premieres since they never seem to enjoy ballet. Fortunately, the curtain finally drops and I can erase my facade smile that creates cramps in my zygomatics. The whole troupe jumps for joy and kisses, taking care to avoid me. Everyone has understood that I am not tactile. Only some dancers pay attention to me and nod to congratulate me.
─ You are pathetic. You think you are so much better than everybody else that you cannot even rejoice with us.
It seems that Agatha has not exhausted all her energy on stage. She is full of gall for me. I prefer to ignore her and turn my back on her to go to my personal dressing room, but my competitor has decided otherwise. She stands in front of me, blocking my way, and raises her voice so that all eyes are on us.
─ Look, you have nothing to gloat about. Your performance was not terrible. Only mediocre. Do you have a preoccupied mind perhaps? You should leave the show before you ruin it for good.
─ Leave her alone, Agatha. Caitlyn danced very well tonight. She has been fabulous, like always.
Alex... My guardian angel against all odds. Our story was brief and of little interest, but it turned out that to me he became a much better friend than lover. He is the only one who has adapted to my versatile character and my obvious lack of communication. He rapidly realized that it was not meanness on my part, but that was the way I was. He is the defender of the oppressed and the just causes. I believe that I alone represent most of his work as a knight in shining armor, even though I am not the only one to benefit from his unconditional support. I am probably withdrawn, but Agatha does not like anyone and makes some of us feel it. I take advantage of Alex's intervention to sneak discreetly down the hallway while Agatha shouts her bile to anyone who wants to hear her.
My colleagues are convinced that I have no character. If they had made the effort to know me, they could have guessed rage was bubbling in my veins and shining in my eyes. When I was younger, the slightest annoyance caused a violent tantrum during which I hit and broke everything I could get hold on. Then I started dancing, my seizures were less frequent until they disappeared. Dance was my outlet and I do not want to go back. Rather look dull and unsavory than crazy. When I was a kid, the first doctor my parents saw accused them of abuse. Of the 42 signs of child abuse, I had more than half of them, ranging from physical injuries to emotional and behavioral disorders. Fortunately, the social worker who was sent to my family for investigation was trained in autistic disorders, which prevented me to be sent to a foster home that would have only worsened my psychological state. The idea of expressing my emotions through an activity comes from her. A blessing. I became less violent, hence the significant drop in bruises and sores on my body, and it became easier for me to concentrate at school since I could let go in the late afternoon. Only my running away continued. I never went far. I took refuge at my grandmother’s waiting for the storm to pass. I only had to think of her, to see her appear in my mirror. She is the only person authorized to have access to my dressing room.
— Good evening Caitlyn cat.
She will always make me smile. Despite the passing years, she keeps calling me like when I was little. I put down my cotton pad and my make-up remover to hug her. Here we go. I am finally home. It is enough that she is here, no matter where, for me to feel soothed.
─ Good evening, Granny.
─ Let me look at you my kitten.
She steps aside a little and I gladly consent to her inspection. Nothing escapes her, and certainly not the dark circles under my eyes that are now visible without the makeup that camouflaged them.
─ You look great, darling. Only you work too hard and it shows. You need to rest.
─ I’ll think about it, Granny.
She raises an eyebrow skeptically. She knows me too well.