By Anne Georg

Ursula’s arrival sucked the air out of the locker-room. 

Teenage girls, skinny, stretchy, sidling along benches, pulled on white tights and pink tutus, tightened ribbons on leather slippers, turned their bun heads to stare; long torsos frozen mid-bend over sinewy legs, gossips hushed mid-sentence. 

Ursula stared back, braless under a tie-dyed singlet, wearing unbleached cotton yoga pants; at twenty-two, after traipsing through Europe for six months, she was plumper than she’d ever been. 

She’d signed up for the class at the London Ballet Centre, prompted by her modern dance teacher back home. Ursula had not stood out as an exceptional dance talent. Her awkward swingings and tossings-about lacked subtlety, even by modern dance standards. 

“I studied ballet,” she’d lied to the girl at the desk. 

Ursula wore the arrogance of an egalitarian, assured in her worthiness wherever she chose to insert herself; embodied the hubris of the not-yet-humbled young. She’d come to this prestigious institution on a whim, something to do on her journey of days crammed with every possibility.

Dainty ballerinas spilled out of the room, shuffling against each other in their haste to leave. 

Ursula fought her urge to flee. She’d paid dearly from her skimpy budget for this. And hadn’t she come to Europe for experiences? She pulled over lumps of breasts, her only bra, yellowed with age and flimsy, then a white T-shirt; she tugged over midriff and hips white tennis shorts, then donned white ankle socks and Keds. 

She examined herself in the mirror. Wrong outfit. She cringed. Her reflection glared back. Intimidated by teenagers? She hadn’t been the worst student in her dance class. Was she not intelligent, adventurous, and beautiful? People had told her that. 

Fuelled by a burst of bravado, Ursula strode down the narrow hallway to the ballet studio, thighs rubbing together, perspiration prickling under her arms. She opened the door to the scent of floor wax, rich in the air, adorned with a hint of Anais Anais eau de toilette. 

Fifteen teenaged ballerinas gasped, twittered.

“Don’t be rude, girls.” The instructor glided toward her. “Welcome to our ballet class. What is your name, and from whence do you come?”

“I’m Ursula. From Canada.” 

“Ahh. That explains a lot.” 

Tinkling laughter, like breaking champagne flutes. 

“I don’t suppose you come from a place called Red Beaver? Or Beaver Deer? Something like that. It’s in Canada, I know that much,” he mocked.

“You mean Red Deer.”

“Yes!” he chortled.

“I live near there.” Ursula offered, eager. 

He’d lost interest. “What’s your ballet history?”

“I took a class at a community centre.”

“How quaint.” He pranced to the front of the room. 

Girls’ giggles sprinkled like confetti.

“I’m Rod. These angels have studied with me for years. Let’s get to work, girls. I want you to form a line and jeté across the room.” He directed the pianist to play. “Let’s see what you can do, my Canadian dumpling.” 

Ursula took her place in line behind bedazzling ballerinas, leaping, suspended in jeté, like the deer she’d watched bound over the fence on the farm last winter. Her folly careened into focus. Cubist shards of light glanced off the mirror, exposing her distorted reflection, incongruous in this room where legends like Rudolf Nureyev had practiced their pliés. 

Her turn. She was trapped. She held her breath. Plunged forth, breasts bouncing; arms flapping like the wings of a drunken albatross; Keds thumping against the floor, oblivious to the piano’s rhythm. She made it. Exhaled. The ballerinas sniffed, shifted, and shuffled away from her. Ursula nosed an armpit, alarmed at its tang. 

Rod frowned at Ursula. 

“Okay, ladies. Pirouette across the floor two at a time.” 

The girls paired up. One, blonde hair pulled back from her narrow face—too slow or unpopular—padded toward Ursula. Floral perfume emanated from her, smothering grateful Ursula’s pungency.

“I’m Ursula. What’s your name?” 

“Celine.” She smiled at Ursula, demure, eyes lowered. 

Pairs of ballerinas twirled across the room, looking like music box figurines. 

Celine gathered her nimble body, perched on pointe, held her arms in a delicate circle in front of her; lifted her chin, arranged a performative smile on her face, and on the count of four, whirled away. Ursula stumbled behind her—Keds squeaking their complaint, refusing to glide—lurching, turning, reeling, careening toward the knot of girls. They fluttered out of her trajectory; only Celine remained, back turned. Ursula staggered into the slip of a girl, knocking her off her feet, before she herself sprawled on the polished floor. 

The piano’s trilling silenced mid-flourish. 

“I’m sorry!” Ursula wailed, surrounded by bodies swirling above her. She hoisted herself up.

“You should watch where you’re going.” Celine, unsmiling now, rubbed her shoulder. 

“You’re not injured, are you, darling?” Rod loped to the ballerina, lifted her up, placed his arm protectively around her waist.

“These exercises are well above your level.” Rod bristled at still-dizzy Ursula. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s best you leave, my plump friend. We don’t want to have a massacre, do we, girls?” 

Snickers stung like slaps of judgment as Ursula escaped into the relief of an empty dressing room. The mirror’s reflection exposed her: bewildered that the brash force of enthusiasm couldn’t overcome her inexperience, betrayed that as a child of the universe, her citizenship was not universally acknowledged. 

She washed her armpits, sniffed in satisfaction, changed into singlet, yoga pants and flip flops and saw herself reflected anew: wizened, wary, aware of her weirdness, weary of wandering, wondering. Who am I? She wasn’t a girl scrabbling anonymously around the globe. She belonged, shared history, held her place among family and friends. Not aimless; she was on a quest for self-awareness. The ballet humiliation? A bruising misadventure, newfound understanding, one page in her journal with many pages yet to be filled.

“I need a refund,” Ursula demanded, clocking the clerk’s quizzical gaze. “He kicked me out of class.”   

Outside, she merged with an uncurated throng ambling, surging, zigzagging through unchoreographed lives, thrusting her forward with them.