Dancing Girl

Stephanie LaSalle and her mother Tristan are, of course, related. But that does not mean that both share the same mind-set.

DANCING GIRL

The attractive young brunette girl's well-toned but feminine body glistened with a mixture of oil and sweat.

On a large boom box that sat on the waxed wooden floor, an aggressive dance track blasted silence into submission. The bass seemed to originate from the walls of the large open room themselves, with the potential of taking part in their eventual crumbling. The track was one that the girl attacked aggressively, with the perpetual movement of her body.

When the last notes played out, the girl collapsed in a heap on the floor, exhausted. After a few minutes, she got up and walked over to a long table against the wall. She picked up a water bottle, took a deep drink, and then poured the remainder over her face and head. She shook her head from side to side vigorously. A mixture of water, oil and perspiration flew in all directions from her face and long ponytail, and resembled a dog shaking off excess water from its body.

The girl did not hear the woman walk in.

"Stephanie!"

"What, mom?" Stephanie said. There was a touch of roughness in her voice.

The woman; petite, middle-aged, but with a well-toned body herself, was blonde haired and still attractive in an aloof sort of way. She just stood in the doorway of the studio and stared at the girl that was her daughter. She shook her head, in disgust.

"That chain hanging down. Is that a piercing in your navel?"

Stephanie looked down and touched her flat, tight stomach. "Yeah, it is. You like it?"

"Stephanie," Mrs. LaSalle said. "Are you crazy? What will the judges think?"

"Mom," Stephanie said, "chill, alright? I'll just remove it in competition. It comes out." She shrugged. "At least, the chain does."

"Where on earth did you get it? And why didn't I know about it?"

Stephanie sighed and rolled her eyes. "Dad took me to get it in Johnstown for my birthday. And he didn't tell you, because he knew you wouldn't approve."

"I don't. It's tacky. I'm going to kill him."

"Mom!" Stephanie said. "Leave dad alone. Please?" A few seconds of silence, followed by a wicked but playful smile. "So, I guess you didn't notice the tattoo, huh?"

"What tattoo?"

Stephanie turned around to reveal a large tattoo with a scrolling design at the base of her back. "How can you look at me and not notice anything?" She asked.   

"Oh, my god!" Mrs. LaSalle said. "Stephanie, you can't dance with that. What are you thinking? Have you lost it completely? Do you want the judges to think you're from the inner city?"

"Just like all the other girls from predominately white, upper middle-class areas of America that have tattoos and piercings and do ballet, too?"

Mrs. LaSalle groaned and rolled her eyes.

And who's gonna see, mom?" Stephanie said. "If I am doing ballet, I'm covered up. And if I'm doing this stuff, it's no big deal. It's expected." An incredulous look with knitted brow. "What are you getting so angry for?"

Mrs. LaSalle shook her head in disgust. "Where's your self respect?"

"The last time I checked, self respect isn't measured by a tattoo and piercing, mom," Stephanie said. "You want me to be a little rich, Sewickley Heights girl, like you were. Thinking you're better than everybody else, because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth and they weren't as lucky. Well, I'll pass."

A small amused chuckle. "I don't think I'm better than everyone else."

"No, not everyone. Just better than those that aren't on the same social rung as you."

"I'm not a part of that life anymore. In case you haven't noticed, Pinwheel is not exactly Sewickley Heights."

"No, it isn't, mom. But that doesn't mean that you don't wish you weren't back there, again." A shrug. "And you still have the bank account, so it's like you never left that thirty room monstrosity that you grew up in."

"Stephanie!"

"Mom, bottom line? If you really love me as you say, then you'll accept me the way I am."

"Stephanie, I know you're a good person. I would be the first to say that you're better than I am in a lot of ways. I didn't--"

"Then what mom? What do you want me to say?"

Mrs. LaSalle held up a hand. "Nothing, Steph. You're your own person." A pause. "You're a transcendentalist. What else could you be?" A grunt. "Your father's love affair with the Beat generation. Ginsberg, Kerouac, Burroughs. He drags me into that stuff." A slow, negative head shake. "But shouldn't I worry about you?"

"I think we've just covered it, mom."

"But I'm your mother, Stephanie."

"Yes, mom, you are. So, why don't you start acting like it?"

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, " Stephanie said, "that I'm not your little girl anymore. In less than two years, I'm going to be in college. Forty miles away, in Pittsburgh. What are you gonna do then?"

"Worry about you."

"That's fine, mom. And I'm glad you do. I do. But not you or anyone else is going to live my life for me."

"But you're still living under my roof, Steph."

"Yes, I am, mom," Stephanie said. "But, just say the word, and I'll move out. If I'm that much bother."

"Stephanie, you're--" Mrs. LaSalle began, and abruptly ended. She groaned. "And where would you go? To live with Geoff Chilcoat in that little rickety old row house of his parents?"

"If I had to. At least Geoff's parents accept me. That's more than I can say for you."

"They accept you around their irresponsible son," Mrs. LaSalle said. "I don't."

Stephanie smirked. "Really? Another established fact."

"Stephanie--"

"Mom, enough already!" Stephanie said. She held up a hand. "Please? Could you just not go there again, now?"

Mrs. LaSalle reluctantly shook her head and sighed. "We'll talk later."

A brief silence followed, where mother and daughter stood and faced each other, almost as if they tried to figure out who the other was. Stephanie sensed some softness in her mother's demeanor and contacted her with a determined kiss to the cheek.

"I love you, mom. I do."  Stephanie said. She walked away and grabbed her things from the table surface. "But I gotta go shower and get dressed. Dad is expecting me downstairs for piano practice in about half an hour."

And with that, the younger LaSalle was across the studio and through the door to the dressing room and shower. The older LaSalle stood in the entrance way, thoughtfully focused on a perceived afterimage.

All that was left of her daughter.

Author's Note

This story is also a chapter in my novel Common Threads.