By Leslie T. Fry, high school senior, New York.

They stuck us in Studio 8. At first glance, it looked in decent shape. The professional company never danced there so the floors were rosin-free, letting us pirouette with ease. The room also had gaping windows and a cavernous ceiling.

Mr. Vankan would implore the boys: “Look how much ceiling you still have! Jump so high you hit it!”

For us girls, the ceiling only helped us feel dainty. The studio’s wonky mirrors trapped us in our own private funhouse.

We all knew that the end-of-the-year performance was scheduled for two months from now, though the specific details of our dance remained unknown. In the other studios, the older girls already had started rehearsals. The soloists’ gracefulness took our breath away. I longed to be a soloist someday; I suspect we all did.

Mr. Vankan’s yellow notebook appeared more frequently as we got closer to the performance. He creased the spine before placing it open on top of the speaker.  We remembered that book from our audition. When that book came out, our PTSD returned, along with the insecurities of our 15-year-old selves. He circled around us as we danced, then stopped to stare at someone’s foot or head before jotting down his verdict. Our bodies felt sore, and we wanted to go home. Often, he would excuse us early, testing our commitment. We demonstrated our resilience by staying as long as he did.

A month before the performance, Mr. Vankan pulled out the dreaded notebook and studied his notes. He instructed the boys to leave early and then told us girls to stand in a line from shortest to tallest. Surprisingly, the boys left without hesitation, presumably sensing that he was in a particularly sadistic mood.

He assigned places, repeating, “Remember, these places are not set. I just want to see how it looks.”

For a week, Mr. Vankan moved us girls around as if playing chess. Under the touch-move rule, he would leave his finger on the piece until the last minute, convincing us that he was sure of his move, only to dash expectations with a “Nah, I don’t like it.”

Historically, we had been good at learning choreography, having danced from infancy, but we had questions.

When we asked him whether our arms should be up or down when we ran to the back, his puzzling response was, “Do whatever everyone else is doing.”

We smiled at him in disbelief, waiting for the punchline that never came.

He split us up into two sections, supposedly intending to give us equal practice time, though he never did. Instead, the second cast sat on the floor in extended splits for the last half hour of class.

Mr. Vankan yelled: “If you’re sitting on the ground, you better be doing something!”

Our hands marked the routine accurately, without ever breaking a sweat.

In one muggy session, all were surprised to find Ms. Robin teaching class because of Mr. Vankan’s unannounced trip to Germany. Previously, he had asserted we couldn’t skip any classes whatsoever. Many of us pushed through illness, and one of us even skipped a funeral of a close family member. Now, he had disappeared. After watching both casts, Ms. Robin clenched her teeth, forcing an unnatural smile.

“Uh, okay,” feigning a supportive tone. “Where are your arms supposed to be when you run to the back?”

We collectively shrugged, as if choreographed.

“What count do you enter in on?” she continued questioning.

No one knew.

* * *

A week later and two weeks before the performance, Mr. Vankan returned, tanned and well-rested. He didn’t bother to explain his absence and dove right into class.

“Noooooo, you run in on 5-6-7-8, not 3-4-5-6-7-8! Again! And Christa, Crystal, uh, whatever your name is, point those feet! You look like a clumsy duck!” Mr. Vankan mocked. It was her first day back from a week of dreadful coughing and sneezing.

Tears rolled down Christie’s cheek, despite her best efforts to hold them back. During the rest of the rehearsal, I watched her with the hope that she could hold in her emotions until arriving safely in the privacy of our changing room. Oblivious to Christie’s crying, Mr. Vankan pushed her harder and harder.

“Look at your extensions! What’s happened to you?” he blurted out.

We all knew that you usually try to sleep when sick, not stretch. It wasn’t fair, but there was nothing we could do. She had no clue about all of the changes that Ms. Robin had made. Neither did Mr. Vankan, who was fumbling with the speakers. Tchaikovsky blared from the speakers when Mr. Vankan confused the varispeed and volume knobs, making it impossible for us to verbally comfort Christie. Mr. Vankan was slow to adjust the volume and even slower to get back to the right tempo. The first cast started to dance with Mr. Vankan’s count. However, Christie seemed to dance to her own music.

“No, no!” Mr. Vankan exploded.

He stopped the music. A cluster of worry wrinkles formed on Christie’s forehead. Mr. Vankan sat in his chair, face buried in one hand and mumbled, “You know what . . . we don’t need you.”

Christie stared at him as if asking, “Are you serious?”

Mr. Vankan was entirely serious.

Looking down to hide her tears, she jogged over to the wall. I walked over to her and gave her a hug.

“It will be okay,” I whispered. “You’ll be fine.”

I let go of her. She looked at me with streams of tears trickling down from her red eyes, and she ran out of the room without being excused. I entered the changing room when I could. Her locker was open and empty. I smiled, at least on the inside. Someone was getting promoted to first cast.

* * *

Christie did not return the next day or ever again. In the corner of the studio where she set her bag, I set mine down. Her absence left a noticeable gap in the choreography.

“Does anyone know Christina’s part?” Mr. Vankan petitioned as he looked around the room.

My hand darted in the air before he finished his sentence. He nodded and motioned for me to fill the gap.

“If you see an empty space, that’s where you’re supposed to be,” he instructed, and that was all.

I didn’t need more, even though it was my first time dancing with the first cast. My head spun as I chased the empty spot, like a cat chasing a laser, not knowing where it would appear next. My spirit soared when I felt my arabesque turned out like never before. Renewed energy coursed through my veins as I stretched my legs through. I glowed with confidence. I didn’t even mind that Mr. Vankan was not watching me, just as long as he didn’t take out his yellow notebook. As I held my final pose with a sense of accomplishment, I caught my beaming smile in the mirror, attached to a body that I could not recognize as my own. It would take some getting used to, but I knew I was in the spot where I needed to be.

——Leslie T. Fry, high school senior. Leslie was born in Hong Kong, and she also has lived in The Hague and New York City. Leslie has been dancing seriously since the age of two. Apart from dance, she enjoys literature, art, math, psychology, and chemistry. In addition to English, Leslie studies Chinese, Dutch, French, and Latin. She plans to study behavioral neurochemistry at university and hopes to eventually become a neuropsychiatrist.