I was sitting on the edge of my parents’ bathtub. There was a bucket in my hands. That bucket contained a liquid blacker than even Death’s blood. Glancing up, I peered in the mirror, squinting from the bright, florescent track lights. There I was, in a black tank top and pink shorts, with full pink lips, bright blue eyes, and platinum blonde hair that almost glittered in the sun. I once used to take pride in my luscious blonde hair, and the way it looked in a bun as I did my routine at the ballet barre. But now, it was just a reminder of the old me. Who cared if I looked like a ballerina anymore? I wasn’t one.
I looked back down to my bucket. I was done with this hair. I was done with looking the way people wanted me to, even though they thought I was insane. Crazy. Bitter.
As I stared into the black liquid, it began to ripple, showing me the past. There I was, dancing on the stage in the group dance. I was front of everyone, doing arabesques and pirouettes. I was smiling beautifully (something I don’t do often nowadays), basking in the spotlight, greedily soaking it up like a dying plant presented with water. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Keisha inching up from behind me. And then she pushed. And I fell.
I crashed onto the ground beside the audience, hearing a sickening crack as searing pain rushed into my leg. The music was stopped. The audience screamed. My mother ran to my side.
“Marceline! Oh my god!” She shrieked as my eyes rolled back into my head and I fainted. But just as my eyes closed, I saw Keisha, and she was smiling.
Shaking my head, I returned to the real world, to the bucket. I thought of my parents and my dance instructor, Mrs. Samson. They tell me it never happened. They tell me I tripped. They tell me Keisha never laid a hand on me.
But she did. I know she did. No matter what anyone says, I know that she did. My idiot of a therapist tells me I’m just afraid to admit that I made a mistake, so my conscience created an imaginary scenario in which I’m not to blame for my accident. But I’m not crazy. It happened. I’ve spent the last eight months visiting the hospital, seeing my counselor (his name is Dr. Richards), and not dancing. All because of Keisha Summers. Even if the audience refuses to acknowledge it.
So with a final fleeting glance in the mirror, I plunged my hair into the bucket. When I pulled it out, it was midnight black. All of a sudden, I heard a loud rapping on the door. Oh no. My dad was home.
“Marceline?” Slowly he pushed open the door, and when he saw me, his jaw dropped.
“What did you do?” He roared, angrily grabbing his own blonde hair. My dad was young, only 35. He and mom had me during high school.
“I dyed my hair.” I answered plainly, in the same monotone voice I’ve used for the last eight months.
“How could you?” Dad cried, “You had beautiful, blonde hair. You had hair that other girls would kill for!”
“Well I’m not like other girls.”
My dad’s mouth opened wide to say something, but instead he tore the bucket from my hand. I braced myself. I knew he’d hit mom before. That’s why she divorced him two years ago.
Dad furiously slammed the bottles and soap off of the sink. He ripped the towels off the hangers. But to my surprise, he stopped and silently left the room. He was probably thinking that his daughter was screwed up enough as it is. But it’s not me, it’s him... And Keisha. Thank god he didn’t know about the red gems I had pierced through my belly button, or the tattoo of an ivy vine on my lower back. Otherwise, I’d be in for it.
I cleaned up the mess my dad had made, and then brushed my teeth. It was late, so I decided to head off to bed. But before I shut off the bathroom lights, I stared into the mirror. A girl, still as beautiful as before, looked back at me. But now she looked the way I felt. Misunderstood.
The next morning, a bright, glistening Saturday, I awoke to the sound of a phone call. Who in their right mind calls at 6:30?
“Hello?” I muttered groggily, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder and stretching my arms above my head.
“Marceline? This is Mrs. Samson.”
I nearly dropped the phone. That woke me up. “What do you want?”
“No need for the attitude,” Mrs. Samson replied with a chuckle. “How are you?”?

“Fine.”
“Glad to hear it.”
I knew she was waiting for me to ask her how she was as well. I didn’t.
“Anyways, Marceline, I was wondering on how you’d feel about doing a solo for me.” She spoke slowly, over enunciating the word “solo”.
Now it was I who was really shocked. “W-what?”
“Well, Miss Summers had agreed to do the sugarplum solo for our annual rendition of The Nutcracker in two weeks, but apparently she is experiencing symptoms of mono. So we are without a sugarplum fairy, and I know you are familiar with the choreography.” Mrs. Samson explained. “Would you mind making a comeback for our show?”
“Don’t you have any other available dancers?” I asked, thinking back to all the other girls in the company. Somehow I couldn’t recall any of their names. It was only Keisha’s horrible face I saw.
“None of them have the necessary skill and experience to do the solo, and besides they’ve all be cast as other roles. And, I would need more than a month to teach someone new all four dances.”
Oh right. The sugarplum fairy was the lead. She had several gorgeous solos, which always took the crowd’s breaths away.
Trying desperately to mask my growing excitement, I cleared my throat. “But, I haven’t danced in eight months and I haven’t stretched or done barre work since the spring show!”
“Well, then I suppose I will see you in class tomorrow. Don’t be late.” And with that, Mrs. Samson hung up.
I was awestruck. I was going to dance again! And Keisha wouldn’t even be there. She was so careless and ungrateful. When I was sugarplum fairy, I didn’t let myself get sick. But with this show, I was going to redeem myself. I’d show the audience I was too good to simply fall. They’d finally admit it was Keisha, and that she pushed me. Because I know that it happened. Because I know I’m not insane.
If anyone looked at me, they could’ve still guessed I was a ballerina. Even without months of practice, my flat stomach and delicate, but visible, muscles practically screamed “dancer”. Still, the following two weeks were filled with intense training. The skin on my toes became raw within the first few minutes back on pointe. My arms were sore from holding them in third position for hours on end. I tortured my untrained body, forcing it through four ballet classes and three private rehearsals a week. But first, I yanked out the gems that encircled my belly button. It hurt and I bled, but it was nothing compared to what I had been through. After all, Keisha had caused me to put several small scars on my wrists. Then, to my dad’s great pleasure, I re-dyed my hair. It wasn’t the same pure blonde I had once possessed, but I knew that in time it would grow back in. All that was left was my ivy tattoo, but I decided to leave it. I could always cover it with make up if necessary.
The day of the performance arrived quickly. And there, in the bustling dressing room, I sat alone. I did hear one scrawny girl with a little upturned nose refer to me as “the girl who lost it last year”. Whatever. She was just jealous. None of the other dancers welcomed me back, nor did they congratulate me. However, I did have several visitors.
The first was Dr. Richards, warning me of the possibility of an episode from the trauma of my last time on stage. I ignored him. Next was my mother and father, who I had forced to (awkwardly) accompany each other. I hated my mom’s new boyfriend, anyways. And finally Mrs. Samson came to wish me luck. I didn’t need it. I was going to be amazing.
The minutes before my turn on stage were painfully slow. I could practically hear the clock ticking over the loud whirring of the dressing room. I wiggled my toes in anticipation. My body yearned for the spotlight.
I could hear my cue. I beautifully sashayed onto the stage and began my solos. The audience roared and clapped with all their might. I was still Marceline Rivers, the star of Heart Beats Dance Company. And I was better than Keisha.
That evening, after the show, I knelt in the empty dressing room, packing my bag. Mrs. Samson came in with both of my parents. They had news for me.
“Marceline! You were so beautiful!” My mother gushed.
“Thanks.” I replied, tearing out of my purple tutu.
Mrs. Samson put a hand on my shoulder. “Yes, you were really wonderful. That is what I wanted to talk to you about.”
I started to remove my make up. “Hmm?”
“I’m allowed to send one dancer from my company to audition for early admissions to Juliard. I was going to have Keisha do it and she was to perform the sugarplum solo, but since she is ill, I would be honored if you took her place.”
I raised an eyebrow. Until my incident, I had been looking for performing arts college opportunities. But as a senior with little interest in academics, I had been planning on finishing with my high school diploma. But now, now my dreams of an arts college were rekindled. This was perfect.
I smiled. It felt weird. “I would love to.”
“Oh, honey! This is going to be so good for you!” Mom rambled excitedly.
“Let’s begin rehearsals next week, we will be heading off to New York at the end of January.”
I finished packing and stood up. “This is such a great opportunity!”
“Yes, it is. But it’s mine.” A voice hissed from the doorway.
Keisha.
No one spoke for a few moments. Everyone knew I wasn’t speaking to the girl.
“But aren’t you sick?” My dad asked skeptically.
“I’m almost better. And I will be completely healthy for the audition. And Mrs. Samson promised it to me already.”
Furious, and panicked, I looked at Mrs. Samson. I thought that she would surely take my side. I was wrong.
“Oh, in that case, I am so sorry Marceline! I suppose I rushed into this. I cannot break my promise to Keisha... You understand, don’t you?” Mrs. Samson pleaded.
I stood up and left the room.
A week went by and my hatred for Keisha grew with each passing minute. I wasn’t going to let her ruin my life again. Why should she get everything? The dances, the trust of the audience? All I got was false accusations and a broken leg. It was time for my revenge.
One afternoon, I followed Keisha to her private rehearsal. I sat, hidden in the dark, as she danced the sugarplum solo. My solo. I watched her for about ten minutes. Mrs. Samson was nowhere in sight... Perfect.
I snuck through the isles in the audience and climbed onto the stage as she did her triple pirouette. She stopped immediately when she saw me, a look of terror in her eyes. After all, I was “crazy”, wasn’t I? And she was alone with me, in a dark theater, and she knew I was more than angry.
“You ruined me.” I stated, with pure disgust and fury in my icy blue eyes. I wanted to see her pain.
“No I didn’t!” She protested. “I never pushed you!”
“I saw you!”
Keisha trembled with fear. “Well... You’re insane! Everyone knows it!”
I screamed. NOW I would make her pay. I lunged forward, slamming her off the side of the stage. Her body buckled and she crumbled like the Twin Towers. I could hear the same sickening crack I had felt. She was going to suffer the exact same way I did.
I grinned, looking at Keisha convulsing in pain. That’s the way I felt for eight whole months. She had gotten what she deserved.
“I didn’t even push you.” Keisha sobbed.
“Yes you did! I know you did!” I screeched. She looked so pathetic, lying limp on the floor. I liked what I had done to her.
And nobody would even suspect me. There was no evidence that I was there. Keisha would be the crazy one now! I even chuckled a bit at the thought. I looked at Keisha. She winced. Her leg was definitely broken. My work was done here.
I turned around to leave through the back entrance, satisfied with what I had done. But as I turned, I crashed into Mrs. Samson. She had been there the whole time. An open cell phone rested in her hand, and I could see “911” had been dialed. I heard the sounds of the sirens outside the building. Panic-stricken, I looked around the room for an escape. Maybe there was a side door. I don’t know. All I saw was Keisha. She was smiling.
“Have fun in court.” She sneered.