What was she willing to sacrifice all for the title of Dance Mom?
“She failed, didn’t she?” I said to the judge, unable to refrain. I had a seat behind Mr. Christianson, the devil of judging. His reputation for impossible standards had blemished his name in the dance community. My daughter Brielle had never danced for this crusty, hard-nosed judge who didn’t belong in little girl dancing competitions. Who had thought he deserved a spot on the panel baffled me. I sat on the very edge of my seat and stretched as far as I could so he could hear me. They had purposely kept an empty row of seats behind the judges to protect them from mothers like me.
“I hope you understand that if her dance shoes hadn’t been stolen, she would have delivered a perfect dance,” I said. That might have been the fifth or sixth thing I had said to him.
Mr. Christianson swung around so quickly; I am surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.
“If you do not silence yourself, I will disqualify your dancer.”
I threw myself back so hard into the seat that something in my back cracked. I had spent the last four years getting Brielle ready for this competition. She had practiced this routine to flawless perfection, but someone had stolen her shoes two hours before her performance. She had to perform in her old dance shoes, which was the only reason she failed. I flexed my fists open and closed.
Cathy took me onto the empty stage, where a million little girls had just danced and brought pride to their mothers—pride that never lasted. For as soon as they won this competition or lost it, their mothers were riding them for the next competition.
“Do you want a hug?”
“Of course not!” I snapped at Cathy as my head betrayed me and bobbed up and down. She hugged me, bringing the collective spirit of all dance moms upon me. We were catty bitches, honestly. There to support one another, and then in an instant, plunging a knife into the other’s back-Sometimes within the exact second. As Cathy pulled away from the hug, I ran my hand along my back to check if she had left a knife. She handed me Brielle’s custom-sewn bag with tights, makeup, and clips in it. That bag cost almost three hundred dollars because one of the uppity-up moms said the girls needed matching bags.
“If you want the other dancers to take us seriously, then they need high-quality bags that match.” She had pushed for a Grift Dance 33” Tower bag. I fought against the matching bags altogether. Collectively, we moms settled for a Mosiso bag, which price only increased with the embroidering. I would be draining another week of pay from my husband for the damn bag. Little Mrs. Uppity sulked for three months that she had to settle for a Mosiso, and I fumed for those months that we had to have it at all.
Cathy asked if she could do anything more for me behind the stage curtains as the remaining voices in the building trailed away. “Do you have money for the fare,” she asked, knowing that all the girls had gone to Georgie’s house to celebrate their loss, and she had been Brielle and my ride. I would not attend the party as planned, because the judge had kicked me out of the auditorium and knocked off points from the Rhoad Island Rhythmic Rush—Brielle’s dance team.
Like I want to celebrate their loss, anyway. If I had my way, they would be practicing more and not celebrating.
I sat behind the glass doors, watching for my taxi to arrive. Did I make an ideal dance mom? Of course, I did, but I couldn’t celebrate mediocrity, and being uninvited to the party, I wouldn’t have to.
How will the ladies treat me in dance class on Monday? I had lost their team; our team, precious points.
I shuddered at the thought of seeing them the following practices, as they would scoot away from me as I entered the studio, huddled together in a corner to gossip about me. Hell, they would spend the night tarnishing my name.
When I walked into the apartment and saw Liam’s jacket in the space behind the door, I wondered if it had been worth it.
“I can’t chase behind you two every day, begging for the attention of my wife and daughter,” Liam had said in his ultimatum monologue. “Everything in our lives is about that blasted dance competition. It is ridiculous. Just let Brielle be a girl. Just be a normal housewife.”
“Housewife!” I had screamed. “How dare you use that antiquated term for me.” Had dance mom upped my status? “I can’t believe you want to kill Brielle’s dream, her future.”
“Her future as what? A stripper? Most kids don’t carry on with their childhood hobbies past high school. And is this really Brielle’s dream to dance competitively, or yours? We can put her in a regular dance class that doesn’t consume and upset our family life.” I had thrown my arms over my chest and turned my back to my husband of sixteen years. And in response, he turned his back to us.
I picked up his coat and let out a blood-curling scream as I chucked it across the empty apartment. I could hear the sound of each other’s voice floating around, as if ghosts occupied the space. I hadn’t always thought Liam was the best husband or that we made a great couple, but he was the one whom I had trusted with my secrets and life for the last sixteen years. Many people thought we were an ideal couple. It must have been a shock when he moved out.
And for what?
Dance competition.
In the dance bag, I pulled out slightly damp tights, a sequence dress, clips, and a few other things. That dress had cost a hundred and eighty dollars. Just one of three outfits for this last competition. With Liam gone, who would now pay for the ridiculous dance outfits? My fingers rubbed at a red spot on the dress. There was blood on the outfit. Had one of the sequins snagged Brielle’s skin? I put her bag in her bedroom, a room that tripled as an office and storage unit. My fingers clutched the ridiculous Mosiso bag. We didn’t have the money for this exuberant hobby of Brielle’s—Of mine. We could hardly afford a decent place. I paid cash for everything for dance. But that only meant that the rest of our life we put on credit.
Can’t have the other moms thinking that we can’t afford competition class.
*
When I saw their picture on Facebook, I scrolled to read his status.
—In a relationship.
That had happened fast. What had it been? Three months. The lady draped her arm over Brielle’s chest, holding her close as if she were the mom—as if the three of them were the perfect family.
If I hadn’t embarrassed Brielle at her competition, would she have moved in with her dad and quit dance entirely?
I doubted it.
“I was only doing it for Mom,” she made the wild accusations. “I hate dance.”
I slammed the laptop closed.
Brielle was in dance because she loved it! She had done it for herself, not for me.
I think Liam had brainwashed her once she moved in with him to quit.
Of course, he had.
She loved to dance.
Didn’t she?
Or had it been me who had brainwashed it?—Forcing her to be the perfect dance child I never got to be.
I constructed another box and filled it with the things from Brielle’s room that she had left behind. Most I would throw, but some I would keep. I didn’t have much room in the studio apartment I would be moving into. It would take two jobs to afford it.
I picked up the Mosiso bag and threw it out the balcony window. Let them report me. I am moving out anyway.
That bag represented the end of two relationships.
Mine and Liam's.
Mine and Brielle’s.
—All for the title of Dance Mom.
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All For the Title of Dance Mom
by Stephanie Daich
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