Later that week, I had dance practice.
Normally, I would have loved dancing and would have relished in every step that I took. But something was wrong with me, and I couldn't put my finger on it. I couldn't look myself in the mirror that ran along the wall, pointing out every single step that I took.
My dance teacher was watching me so studiously, watching every step I took. I concentrated on my steps, and performed them all flawlessly.
All but one.
Her eyes shifted away from me disgustingly when I did. I knew she saw what I had done. She moved me to the back row, saying something about how I looked better back there. I knew she was just trying to hide my failure.
After the lesson, I ignored my friends and shrugged on my sweater. Walking with my hands in my pocket, tears threatened to spill from my eyes as I angrily pulled at the thread that I could feel was beginning to lose its strength.
Why can't I be perfect?