Eleven Years

By Nina Bodnar

This is my moment, my final test of the season. The berry-sweet smell of makeup and anticipation fills my nostrils as I shift my weight, taking great caution not to give anything away with my tap shoes. D.A.N.C.E. by Kristin’s 14th annual showcase, presented at a local high school, is about to come to a close with this year’s senior tap piece, one we’ve been competing with and attempting to perfect for the last six months. I close my eyes and relish the before, one last moment of quiet control. I take a full, smooth breath—a last-ditch attempt to settle my nerves—before Dave Matthews Band’s Ants Marching breaks through the speakers and my feet are free to enchant the audience. I am hyperaware of each miniscule sound in the auditorium. Each screech of the rusty, faded chairs echoes in symphony with every clink of hardware on the curtains gliding open. The melody of my own breathing joins the cacophony as the audience is revealed to me, covered in a thick veil of darkness. 

And that’s not even the best part. 

The stage lights flash on in time with the music, and the thrill that emanates from my chest—the all-natural high of performing—hijacks my body. I can feel my heart beating in 4/4 time with the music, and that same tempo sparks each nerve. This energy expands to my core, escaping through my feet, through my hands, through the smile across my heavily blushed cheeks. 

I catch the eye of one of my fellow dancers and laughter flutters up from my lungs, floating through the air to reach my friends. Bubbles of joy pop over each dancer, glittering excitement and energy around us until our happiness becomes all-natural, not just a show for the audience. We share winks and broad smiles as we move through the dance together.

I’ve spent twelve hours a day, five days a week, for eleven years working with these dancers. 

We’ve grown our strengths and blended ourselves together to create this success. We’ve worked incredibly hard for this one moment, this pure surge of confidence. We’ve pushed ourselves to the breaking point, until our muscles became lava flowing beneath our skin. We’ve gone through the movements hundreds of times, pushing our bodies to move stronger, faster, smoother, until almost nothing could soothe the fire escaping from our lungs. We’ve listened to these musical phrases until we sang them in our dreams, despite Dave Matthew’s nearly indecipherable lyrics. We’ve analyzed each of our performances, carefully picked apart each other’s movements, and written corrections in our notebooks until the pages became velvet and our pens drained of ink. We’ve taken our teachers’ encouragement and constructive criticism to heart, replaying their words in our heads almost as much as we rewind the steps of our dances. 

We do all of these things because we have also failed. We’ve failed separately, and we’ve failed together, but the knowledge of this imminent danger—the constant pressure of a mistake lurking in the shadows of our minds—is what keeps us pushing toward the finish line. This heat within us is ignited by the desire to succeed, to end this season with our failures outnumbered by successes and our hearts filled with honor. 

While the urge to leave this season on a high note threatens to take control of my limbs, each choreographed movement flows through my body the way a warm summer breeze floats through the trees—effortless and unconscious. I don’t have to think about what I’ve just done or what comes next. The only thought that crosses my mind is the complete bliss of dancing, the ability to let go and absorb the moment. The rest of the performance is a blur of passion, every last ounce of energy I have poured onto the smooth, grounded stage.

I glance around at my friends when I have the chance, endlessly proud of how far we’ve come and how much we’ve grown together. There is a mutual feeling of success between us. When we are dancing together, we not only feel the accomplishments in ourselves, but we also feel them in each other. The counts we didn’t hit in rehearsal, the sounds we missed, and the spots we didn’t look sharp enough on, are all a close memory—one that allows us to bask in the success of the moment like a cat stretching its soft belly in the sun. The collective knowledge of truly leaving everything on the dance floor is invigorating. We are sure of ourselves and of our abilities, because we understand what it means to execute each dance and the effort it takes to accomplish each phrase. 

I use every last bit of energy that I have in me to hit the final pose, throw one last wink at the audience, and soak in the stage lights as if they were the sun making its brief entrance in the middle of February. I take a final deep breath before slowly growing out of my position and joining hands with my fellow dancers. Our hands intertwine, tightly squeezing the adrenaline out of our systems. We step forward, and take a bow. If it’s even possible, our smiles grow larger than before, our pride radiating from the glitter in our teeth to the shine on our tap shoes. We catch the eyes of our teachers. Their lips spread even wider than ours, their own satisfaction painted on their faces. 

My tired arms wrap around my friends on either side of me. We close into a circle, knocking our hair-spray-cemented heads together. On the smooth, black marley floor, a sudden puddle of tears forms, sparkling in the harsh stage lighting. An audience member might mistake them for a rogue sequin flown from a costume, or a fallen silver earring forgotten on the stage. A laughing sob escapes my throat as I look up into the circle, and lock eyes with each of my friends. I am unable to fathom the ridiculousness of the situation, the idea that this could possibly

be our last time dancing together. The applause roars from the audience and the heavy, velvety curtain wooshes closed for the final time.

I lied before. 

The best part isn’t the rush of emotions, or the audience cheering for you, or even the second nature of doing what you cherish the most. The best part is this: The love that you feel for the people after all of the blood, sweat, and tears you’ve put into creating this dance. This love for dance, one of the most raw things that I have ever felt, is only there because it pours out from the love of the dancers that I share the space with. I would be nothing without them, without their love, support, and commitment to themselves and each other. 

Even today, nearly two years after I danced with these people for the last time, it’s hard to believe that simple fact. The idea of never stepping foot on stage with these people ever again is a crushing feeling, one that does not make my heart beat fast in anticipation or sheer joy. Instead, it forms a weight on my chest, an inescapable pressure forcing the taste of bile to rise in my throat. My lungs constrict, and instead of fluid deep breaths, all I can manage are shallow scoops of air. I will forever be dancing a memory, tapping to a beat that only exists in the past. 

How can you ask someone to spend twelve hours a day, five days a week, for eleven years together, and expect them to be okay when they leave?

Nina Bodnar is a member of the class of 2028 pursuing majors in English Literary Studies and Creative Writing, as well as minors in Professional & Public Writing and Dance. Nina has been passionate about reading, writing, and dancing for as long as she can remember, and she is ecstatic for the opportunity to share this with others. Lately, Nina's writing has been focused on making the most of every fleeting second with the people and things that she loves the most.