Page 7 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
“Why can’t it work that way?” I asked stubbornly. I’d already realized that the decision was final. They were pushing me out, so giving them a solution was fruitless.
“Just remember when one door closes—” the woman named Elena began to say, but I cut her off.
“You haven’t just closed a door,” I said quietly, unable to stop the way my voice shook, “you’ve closedthedoor. The only door I’ve ever wanted to walk through. So, pardon the language, but you can take the window you think will open for me and shove it up your asses.” I stood up, the sealed envelope containing the termination letter and my severance gripped firmly in my fist. They’d already explained the contents. I didn’t need to confirm it right now.
Part of me wanted to tear the envelope up and toss it in their faces, but I was also too rational to reject the money. I had some savings, but I doubted it would last long enough to find new employment. God, what was I capable of doing outside dance? No matter what path I chose, I’d be completely starting over.
Living expenses.
House upkeep.
Helping my grandparents… Though they’d never taken money from me, wouldn’t even let me buy them some groceries. Yet, I owed them so much.
And then there were the medical bills.
Imperial benefits were great. Good insurance coverage, full pay on short term disability, and they also covered work-related injuries up to twenty-five percent of patient responsibility. When I thought about how many checks Imperial probably had to write during my ordeal, I couldn’t really blame them for giving me the boot now. I’d already cost them too much.
But if they hadn’t lied…
If they hadn’t promised I’d still have a place here…
God, this would all feel so different now.
So, fuck them. I had every right to be angry.
The medical bills were still substantial, but manageable. I’d arranged to have the remaining balances put into payment plans. I should realistically still be going to physical therapy, but I’d been so hungry to return to work that I’d self-graduated early. Now, I wouldn’t go back because I didn’t want to incur further charges. No more Imperial contract, which meant my insurance would lapse soon. Private, individual coverage prices were insane. They’d truly ripped the rug out from beneath me.
“Is there anything else I need to do before leaving?” I glared at them.
Madoff’s mouth was open, eyes wide at my hostility, but he didn’t respond. Elena, the board member, looked like I’d physically struck her.
“Great, here's my access card.” I pulled the ID out of the inner pocket of my blush blazer, tossing it down onto the table’s glossy surface.
I didn’t say goodbye. I just left, slamming the conference room door behind me. They would probably talk after I left about how they’d dodged a bullet. They couldn’t keep such an emotional ticking time bomb at the Imperial.
Somehow,I managed to not totally fall apart as I revisited the worst moment of my life.
The stairwell dumped me onto the first floor, outside the private practice studios. Despite not wanting to give anyone a chance to approach, I had to pause there. It took concentrated effort to catch my breath and stop trembling. Tears stung my eyes but didn’t escape. I wouldn’t let them. I refused to cry. I was very good at self-control.
My life has always been structured. Every move I made, calculated. From the age of twelve, I took my body measurements daily, checked my weight, pulled at my skin to check its elasticity and see if I needed to hydrate more. I weighed my food. Counted out portions. Stayed in a calorie deficit in proportion to my practice schedule. I ate more if we were in active rehearsals leading up to a show. Less if we were on a seasonal break or a between-show hiatus.
Calendars and clockwork. A quantifiable, if not qualitative, life.
I stuck to my schedule. Up at five-thirty. A quick cup of tea, decaf because I didn’t want to be jittery. After that, I’d cut a bell pepper into circular slices, remove the seeds, pop one at a time into a frying pan, and crack an egg in the middle of each. Every morning, the same routine. The only thing that might change was the fruit I packed for my snack at the studio. I always bought whatever was in season.
Eat this, never that.
Skip the coffee. Skip the dessert.
Get enough sleep.
Wake up with the sun.
Run. Stretch. Shower.
Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance!
Dance until nothing else in the whole world exists.
