A Ballerina Upstairs
Donna Gagnon
"Reeeetaaarrrddddd!!!"
Angry sound swirls behind Bonita as she walks home. It’s harsh music that doesn't match the rhythm of her heart or the way she believes her feet sound on the sidewalk.
"Fuckers. You better not touch me. I'll call the cops."
The kids keep screaming words at her. It's just noise, like those stupid barking dogs, and she has to be somewhere. The sun's sitting over the red chimney. Her lunch bag's empty. Tonight the garbage has to go down to the curb and everybody says it all has to be done right.
She unlocks her apartment door. Slams it safely behind her. Stands inside the kitchen, listening to music that's spilling through the window from somewhere down below. Bonita smiles. Her toes itch and she slides her fat feet across the floor. No one sees how beautiful she is when Bonita dances like an elephant. No one cares that there's a ballerina upstairs.
Bonita forgets, as she invents thunderous choreography across one room and another, that she's only allowed to live here on her own if she does everything right. The sun slides behind the red chimney. The music fades away. Bonita keeps smiling and dancing until she hears knocking and a voice pleading with her to stop, please stop 'cause I can't take anymore and she gathers up the garbage and walks it down to the curb.
Tomorrow, she'll tell everyone on the bus where to get off. She's a ballerina, dammit.