perfect?

I am five, running after a Monarch butterfly in my favorite orange dress.

My toes dance across the grass, and I look back at the dog, dozing on the driveway, pink tongue poking out of his mouth.

“Tazz!” I yell, and his floppy ears prick up.

He stands and trots over to me, and I scratch his head.

Not anymore.

Now I am twelve, entering seventh grade.

I step into Nike shorts and fasten a shiny choker around my neck.

My hair is straightened, my knockoff Longchamp bag in my hand.

I look around.

I am surrounded by people.

More talented, more beautiful, more desirable people.

I look down.

I walk away.

I am fifteen, halfway through my freshman year.

My battered biology spiral lies three feet away on the shaggy cream rug.

I curl into a ball, squeezing my eyes shut.

The shadow still gnaws at my insides, hissing that I am worthless, unlovable, and alone.

Not today, shadow. I have things to do.

I push at it, digging my heels into the earth.

It slides a few inches.

I give it another shove.

A few more inches.

I ram my shoulder into it with all my strength.

The shadow goes flying backwards, landing crumpled in a corner.

I slam the door on it, jamming a chair under the handle.

I know it won’t hold for long, but it’s the best I’ve got.

I pick up my spiral from the floor, ready to ace another test.

I am sixteen, deciding what to wear on the first day of my sophomore year.

In one hand I hold a ‘Harvard University’ t-shirt, in the other, a pastel pink dinosaur printed button down.

No more black jeans and boring tops, I tell myself.

We’re going rainbow.

Two minutes later, I walk out of my closet in the dinosaur button down and my comfiest pair of not-black jeans.

As I stride through the hallways, compliments wash over me, coming from friends, classmates, and even strangers who seem to like the fact that I love clothing with dinosaurs on it.

Not bad, I think.

I am almost seventeen, tying my pointe shoes for variations class.

I stand up, my Blochs tapping lightly on the marley floor.

The music starts, and we all begin to move, sweeping into dainty arabesques and soaring across the floor.

I am keeping up with everyone.

I am dancing a solo from La Bayadere, Swan Lake, and Don Quixote.

Step, turn, leap, brush, hold the balance.

Again and again.

I stare down at my shoes, and black stains stare back, evidence of my flight across the studio.

I did it, I tell myself. I did it.

I am seventeen, just finishing my junior year.

My friends and I sit in a hot tub, the sun setting across the lake behind us.

Cotton candy clouds drift across the sky; music plays softly in the background.

I take my best friend’s hand, and he rests his head on my shoulder.

We look around, bubbles brushing our toes, laughter drifting over the water like mist.

In a year, we will all go our separate ways, wandering whichever paths present themselves to us.

None of us know what we will face next May.

We just have a year left to spend with each other.

That’s only around 365 days.

But we will make the most of them.

We will laugh, fall, cry, love, break, cheer.

We will live.

I squeeze my best friend’s hand, and he squeezes back.

The stars have come out, and I tilt my head back, gazing skyward.

Warm, dappled light from the hot tub bathes our faces.

Perfect, I think.

And this time, I mean it.