“We knew it was coming.” I make the Life is Hard Face. “No, it’s not your fault.” I hoist my messenger bag up my shoulder and speak a little louder, just over the girls’ conversation. Sorry, but not everyone’s got Daddy’s credit card in their back pocket. My black, shredded leggings, are reflected in every walled mirror in this tiny car, and I fight the sudden urge to glare at Wide Eyes, who looks like she’s trying to decide if my lace-up boots and camo tank top are some designer brand. All have on loose cover-ups made from the kind of fabric you can’t wash in a machine. Two are wearing athletic shorts over pastel tights. Kind of.įrom the corner of my eye, I study their outfits. Even her eyes seem a little too wide, like blinking takes effort. Everything on her copper-brown face seems stretched by the tight bun she’s wearing on the back of her head. “No.” I sigh heavily, catching the nearest girl’s attention. I’ve got five minutes to work some magic. If I miss it, I’m late for work at Pete’s, and that’s the last thing I need. Now I’ve only got twenty minutes to book it down Lake Street and catch the red line to Devon Park. According to the Copeland Ballet Academy’s online schedule, Dance II-a requirement for all third-year students-gets out at ten to four on Mondays. Holding my cell tightly against my ear, I drill my opposite thumb into my temple, careful not to let the four girls entering the elevator on the fifth floor see the phone’s blank screen. I was told the truth: that some people get lucky, and some people don’t, which is why I’m skipping fifth period to ride an elevator in one of swanky Uptown’s old arts buildings. Or that wishes were made of stardust, or candy canes, or were delivered by unicorns. I was not told that if I worked hard, my dreams would come true.

Some parents tell their kids they can be anything.

Article 5 by Kristen Simmons