Today’s ballet rehearsal was both exciting and super embarrassing at the same time. I wore my favorite pink leotard with the little sparkly skirt that makes me feel extra girly. I had my headphones on the whole bus ride there, listening to my soft playlist and humming the melody quietly while imagining new TikTok choreography in my head. I love dancing so much—it’s one of the few times I feel less timid.

We were working on flexibility exercises at the end of class. The studio floor felt cool against my bare feet, and the air smelled like rosin and faint lavender from the diffuser Mr. Madison always uses. I was trying really hard to be perfect, like always. I’m such a perfectionist about these things. While the other girls were doing their regular stretches, I went down into a split and then slowly reached even further forward, sliding my hands along the smooth floor until my chest was almost touching the ground. It felt nice—the gentle pull in my legs and hips, the way my muscles lengthened so easily without hurting.

Mr. Madison noticed right away. He walked over and said in his calm voice, “You are very flexible, Paisley.”

My cheeks instantly got hot. I wanted to show off just a tiny bit because it felt good to be able to stretch so far, but at the same time I felt so embarrassed that he pointed it out in front of everyone. I’m usually so shy about attention. I sat up quickly and tried to make myself smaller, tugging at the edge of my skirt. I repeated softly, “Thank you…” but I had to say it twice because I’m always too quiet and people can’t hear me the first time.

He smiled and added, “Don’t stretch out too much, now,” like he was warning me not to overdo it. I didn’t really understand if he was being serious or not—I never get sarcasm. In my head I kept thinking, am I not supposed to be this flexible? I tried to deny it to myself and pretended I wasn’t actually that bendy. It’s probably normal, right? Everyone can do splits like that if they practice enough. But secretly I felt this little spark of pride mixed with embarrassment for drawing attention to myself.

I went back to stretching more carefully after that, humming my song under my breath while imagining my stuffed animals watching me at home. Mr. Whiskers would be proud—he always “cheers” the loudest in my imagination. I kept my movements graceful and controlled, pointing my toes perfectly and feeling the soft fabric of my leotard shift against my skin with every motion. The music from my headphones leaked out just a little as I moved.

By the end of rehearsal I was tired but happy. Even though I got embarrassed, it felt nice to be noticed for something I’m good at. I just wish I wasn’t so overly sensitive about it. Tomorrow I’m going to practice my new dance routine in my room where no one can watch.

Paisley