The Recital

"Hold up!"

Sara perked up with a pinch of anxiety. The warm studio, filled with the afternoon sun, had relaxed her. The end of dance practice had allowed her mind to drift her plans for after - walking around the city a bit to see if an ice cream cone or a dress in a little boutique under lush green city trees could tempt her. All that vanished the moment she heard the sharp voice. The other dancers' bodies pressed past her to rush out the door while she anguished. Attention was rarely a good thing.

"You know that Regalio is visiting from Buenos Aires this weekend. His partner sprained her ankle and can't perform. He saw you in the video I took of the warm-up. He asked if you wanted to perform with him at the dance party this Saturday. What should I tell him?" asked Madame Smith. She used to be a dancer with a national company in her youth. Now, she seemed more comfortable with her clipboard, glasses, and eyewear retainer strap. Her eyes darted around the room to display mild annoyance at having to wait for Sara to make up her mind.

"Yes, of course," replied Sara with a gentle smile that hid the millions of suns exploding inside of her heart. Regalio was one of her Instagram crushes. The studio had been buzzing with excitement about his visit. His hands were legendary for being so fast and invisible to make followers dance the most complicated figures effortlessly because there was always a hand at the right spot on the body to give the right amount of pressure. They called him heaven because dancing with him was like surrendering to a soft cloud that would shape and mold her body in the most exquisite and stunning ways.

"Dismissed," said Madame Smith with an authoritative voice that sounded upset at the million little things like these that she had to do running the studio.

Sara quickly ran out of the door to catch up with the other dancers in the lobby pulling jeans, sweatpants, and hoodies over their dance attire to cover up for the street. She tried to hide her grin, but the corners of her mouth simply wanted to poke up with such force that her entire face tensed. However, nobody paid attention to her. She had always been the mild-mannered average girl in the background. She didn't want to make the other dancers jealous, especially not Lydia, always the number one dancer in calls, always the one to be called upon to perform a solo in front of the class. That girl had a mean streak. She'd burst out yelling at other girls. She once pulled another girl's hair. Sara considered for a moment if she should give up her role to Lydia because Sara didn't feel like she deserved that special dance. Her skill wasn't that great. But Sara was so excited. She wanted something for herself.

When Sara walked out of the building, she knew exactly where she was going to go. Over at Andrew's Square, there was this little boutique that had opened fairly recently by a woman from Amsterdam. Sara had often wandered by the only little shop window to steal a glance at the dress that was displayed. She didn't stop anymore when she wandered by but stole her glances while slowly walking because this once the lady had seen Sara standing there and asked her to come in. The lady had looked wild to Sara. Multi-colored oil paint had been splattered on the lady's left arm. Above the lady's elbow had been a cushion with a hundred needles strapped to her arm. The right side of the lady's head was completely shaved off. The lady looked like an intense artist. Her face didn't have the dead facade of a gold smile that all the workers at the apparel chains had. Her face looked lively like if you ventured into her store, she was going to interact with you in a way how very familiar friends interact. That's where she was going to find a dress for her recital unlike any other dress the girls had seen before.

As Sara crossed Andrew's Square, her pulse quickened. From the distance, she saw the only dress in the shop window: A barely yellow dress that evoked baroque times from the bell shape of the lower part, the wasp-like waist, and the elaborate white ruffles and lace that were sown onto it. Yet it had been altered to fit into a rock concert. First, the hem was taken up so high to be a mini. Then there were slashes crafted all over the place like it had been worn during a knife fight to expose skin. And the décolleté was provocatively cut out with the breasts pressed together. Scandalous! But so elegant and refined that you couldn't say anything against it. Sara wanted to look her best for the show. She had to step out of her comfort zone.

Ring-ding, she pulled the door open. The interior was dark, almost stale with a brooding energy. As her eyes adjusted, she realized that the store was only a tiny room. There was a single rack. A podium took up the central space with a draping mannequin on top. The lady was on her knees affixing a row of needles to a half-finished dress. The lady was wearing comfortable leisure clothes, a giant wifebeater top, bootie shorts, and barefoot. An intense rock ballad roared at low volume in the background. As the lady didn't stop her work, Sara watched her draft the dress. Midnight gown came to Sara's mind because the fabric was so supple and silky like what a princess might wear in a villa at the Mediterranean when she can't sleep and the moonlight bathes her.

"What can I do you for?" the lady asked without turning her head away from her work.

"Hi! I've got a very important dance recital this Saturday. I need a special dress. You know something that looks stunning and draws attention!" Sara explained, her hands sweaty with discomfort. The lady seemed to be the opposite, completely comfortable. There was a half-eaten paper bowl of ramen with chopsticks. Over there were a couple of pillows and a blanket on the floor like she took naps in there.

"All I do is stunning!" said the lady with offense in her voice that made Sara squirm. "Take your clothes off. I'll take your measurements in a minute."

"Where is the changing room?" asked Sara.

"It's only us girls here! Just put your clothes on the chair over there," said the lady. Her accent carried that European flair. Her attitude carried that European liberte.

Sara only took off her jeans and sweater. The yoga pants and snug t-shirt must give the lady enough access to take the measurements. The lady surely didn't mean for her to take off anymore. When the lady turned around, she let out a deep sigh of frustration as if all her frustration of having to deal with American customs since moving came out with it. However, the lady didn't say a word about it but asked her to step up on the podium. Next to the mannequin.

"I've seen you many times. You don't trust your desire much, do you?" the lady asked Sara. There was that discomfort that Sara had been dreading - a direct question aimed at the core of her. The lady ran a measuring tape across Sara's belly. Then the tape came up the middle of her legs from the ankle to her groin. The tape ran up Sara's back. The lady let her fingers linger on Sara's body and brushed across her body. There was a lot of unnecessary touching. Finally, the lady's hands curved across her boobs to feel the shape of it. Sara bit her lip and told herself that the lady was simply an artist and getting the right fit. Surely the lady's face looked too focused and industrious for anything else. This was simply the way it was to get a dress directly from an artist. She still hadn't answered the lady's question. At this point in the delay, her question started feeling more like a rhetorical question that Sara could avoid answering altogether.

"You're a sweet girl. I like you. Why don't you get something from H&M. They have cute stuff. I don't think you are ready for one of my dresses," said the lady with a warm, friendly tone of voice. The lady's hands were still resting on Sara's boobs as to make a point. And the uncomfortable sensation of being touched so intimately made Sara swallow her protest. She saw the vision of her dream to be the hottest, most desirable woman in Regalio's arms fading away. She struggled so much internally to fight with the uncomfortable feeling of the close intimacy of the lady and her desire to once feel special that only a single tear rolled down her cheek.

The lady immediately hugged Sara with a warm embrace that was so engulfing and intimate that Sara felt like thrown into a hurricane of overwhelming emotions. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry," whispered the lady in Sara's ear and held Sara gently with an intensity that said, "I'll always hold you and be there for you." Sara's heart was pounding. The dread of entering the little shop had turned true, but she also felt so safe in the lady's arms. The empathy and acceptance of Sara's silence made Sara feel that she could open up in this almost, in a way sacred space of a European artist. The lady didn't rush Sara and held her in a timeless embrace as time seemed to be running by.

"I'm good now. I'm ready," said Sara, clearing her throat from saliva that had collected there.

"Yes, you are, my baby," said the lady with strong reassurance. "Let's get you a dress!"

When the lady thought that she had reassured Sara enough, the lady pulled away to read Sara's face for emotions and evaluate Sara's body for the dress fitting. The lady had dark brown curly hair that hinted that she was fashion-conscious, but the fuzz on the fringes of the strands suggested that she also did her own styling. She appeared as someone proficient in creating looks.

The sports bra underneath that pressed her boobs flat. Her hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. She had no makeup except for subtle lipstick to fit in with the girls. There was nothing provocative about her at all. What was visible about her body under the pile of clothes appeared taught and firm like the body of a dancer that had wilted off any fat from the cardio and developed even musculature everywhere, but the constrained diet didn't allow for any bulk muscle to build up.

"Not prom. You look a little older," guessed the lady. "Wedding! Not your own though. You don't wear a ring."

"Actually, I got chosen for a dance performance with a visiting Argentinian dance star. It's such an honor to share the stage with him. I need to look the part. He has 10 million followers on insta!" explained Sara, gushing with excitement. "I need to expand my comfort zone for this once-in-a-lifetime chance."

"Ah, it all makes a lot more sense now!" replied the lady. "I'm Annabelle. When is your performance, dear?"

"Oh, it's tomorrow," explained Sara.

"Dear, you are so innocent. I love taking babies like you under my wing. But I make custom dresses. They take about 6-8 weeks to craft. The only option is the dress in the window. An uppity bitch from across town ordered it. Then she refused to take it because the shade of yellow was one point off. I showed that cunt the fine print of the contract and charged her card the full price. It's her loss if she refuses to take it. So it's essentially paid for already. She's about your size. I could make some small alterations to fit you," said Annabelle.

"How much do your dresses go for," asked Sara cautiously, afraid of the answer.

"Ooooh," Annabelle hummed as if she were going through her catalog in her mind, "mid four-figures to low five-figures.

"I have two-hundred dollars," admitted Sara uncomfortably.

"I guess it's a good thing that the uppity bitch paid for your dress," Annabelle said with a smile as if she had found long-yearned for relieve from the scorn of the customer by paying the customer back. Annabelle didn't seem like the woman who took a slight easily. With that, Annabelle already stepped up and into the shop window to lift the dress off the mannequin.

Sara's face was flush red. She looked uncomfortable, clearly wanting to leave.

"You gotta take your clothes off for real now. Or I can't get a good fit," said Annabelle sternly, as if she wouldn't tolerate any dissent.

"But you don't have a changing room. What if somebody walks in?" cried Sara out worried that her concern would be ignored.

"Oh, hush, little baby! I'll close up the shop," replied Annabelle, sounding a little inconvenienced. The shop was so little that Annabelle was already at the door, flipping over the sign and clocking the lock closed.

"You have to turn around," insisted Sara.

Grudgingly, Annabelle faced the wall. Hurriedly, Sara pulled down her yoga pants and her t-shirt up. Wary that Annabelle might turn around, Sara wrapped one arm over her bra to cover herself. Then she struggled with the dress. The cut was a snug fit. Rather than made from an elastic material, that commercial clothes use to adjust to different bodies, the fabric was rather firm because the cut was made with exacting precision to the body of the previous owner. Little by little, she wiggled her arms in and inched the dress down her body.

"If you'd let me turn around, I could help you!" suggested Annabelle with a sing-song voice meant for a child.

"No," stomped Sara firmly. "Don't turn around yet!"

When Annabelle was finally allowed to turn around, she found a mess of a dress on Sara. The hip bone had prevented the dress from coming down and made it bunch up at the waste. There was extra bulk in the lower back. Where succulent glimpses of boob skin should have been was a teal bra. The top end was pulled up all the way to the armpits to cover more chest area.

Annabelle sighed, "And you got panty lines, too! I can put some quick fixes in that'll make the fit dramatically better. However, I'm not going to put the work in if you are going to wear the dress like that. It's sacrilege to the beauty of the dress and what it was meant to be. People are going to laugh at you if you were a sexy dress with your grandma underwear!"

People laughing at her got through to Sara. That could never happen. She dreaded the idea of it terribly. "Of course not!" denied Sara.

Annabelle kneeled on the side of Sara on the floor and pinned a row of safety needles to mark a sliver of material that she was going to cut out. Then she drew lines on the side of the hips where she planned to add fabric. The whole thing turned into a very meditative affair. Sara felt her dress being tucked on, flattened, stretched, and lifted to put pins in. Sara had to make the occasional 360. There was a lull and relaxedness about the affair that made Sara babble.

"I don't understand why Regalio didn't pick Lydia. She is so beautiful. She is the number one dancer. Everyone was afraid to deny Lydia anything because she was a fierce Latina with anger issues. The reason she catches so much attention among us dancers is because she has a butt lift and boob job. Us dancers, all lose fat in those areas. However, hers are perfectly full. The men call her the only woman among the girls," blabbered Sara.

Annabelle listened silently while she was focused on picturing the draping she wanted to inflict on the dress.

"The guys are so crude. I saw Fernand staring at my chest the whole class a couple of months ago. And when we walked out of the studio, I heard him tell his friends, 'I want to jizz all over those tits.' He wasn't even discrete about it. He said it at a volume where half the other girls heard him say it."

"One time, Lisette got a little tipsy at a Saturday dance party. Fernand smelled it right away. A ring of guys formed around her sitting on the side because she was too unsteady to dance. They encouraged her to drink more. They held her three cups of punch and a beer bottle that they had smuggled in. Because she was a little tipsy, her defenses were down, and she drank more. It was so obvious that the guys had only one thing on their minds to do to her. But the studio director got suspicious at the crowd of guys around one woman. She came and sent the guys away."

"When they are in front of the class or when the teacher comes close, they play so innocently like they are little dance lambs. 'Yes, madame!' They hold their poise and smile with gratitude, 'I am humbled to be able to dance with such an amazing dancer.'"

There was something so soothing about Annabelle's delicate hands working methodically and rhythmically on Sara's body. Annabelle seemed so understanding of the world, like a big sister. The silence of Annabelle could have also easily been construed as approval or empathy, but her thoughts were actually never spoken.

"Okay, hon'! It's time to take off the dress. I'll have to help you this time, or you'll pop out some needles," explained Annabelle.

There was no arguing with that logic. Sara had also opened up to Annabelle. This was going to be alright, reasoned Sara. Annabelle's slender fingers reached under the hem to start the delicate lifting job. The hem quickly got stuck at Sara's hips. Annabelle slipped her fingers under the dress and ran her fingers along the length of the hem, with each smoothing, the dress lifted another quarter inch up the hips. The job was very intimate. Sara had to allow another woman to tug on her and pull on her. It actually felt good like a forbidden pleasure. Sara assured herself that the door was locked and that Annabelle was ten years her own age.

"Before I start cutting and sewing, you gotta show me how you dance. You owe me at least a dance for payment, don't you think?" insisted Annabelle.

Sara deliberated about being in her underwear. This was very improper. However, she was with another woman. The dress fitting had already created an intimate space. She owed the woman so much money for the dress. It was hard to refuse her. "OK," said Sara monosyllabically.

She started a classical ballet song on her phone. She poised herself in the starting position on her toes with the arms held as two arcs. She did a couple of relevés to the musical introduction before she pushed off into short steps to build the momentum for a jump with the violin raining down a solo. She spun around her axis spotting her eyes straight at Annabelle. Then she did a complex foot choreography that took up the entire space of the shop with its unique shape and all the little things like the plant planter accounted for. For the ending of the singer crying about the death of her husband in the war, she let her arms sway like seagrass in the Saragosa Sea.

Annabelle clapped enthusiastically, "You are are dance genius! I'm so touched! That dress is going to be so honored to be in your performance!"

"Oh, what I did was crap! In the second count, my ankles were wobbly. I need to work on my extension. In the middle, I got a bit nervous. My steps were so sloppy on the beat. Most of the step pattern was so contrite that a limping farmer could have done better," Sara felt so embarrassed about the suggestion that she could have been good. She was fighting the desire to allow herself to feel good because people would snatch that good feeling away. That felt so horrible each time it happened.

"Ha!" was all Annabelle at first said, listening to the Tirade. "You know my favorite thing was the seagrass arms at the end. That was so unique!"

"Oh, that isn't even proper style. It's just a silly thing I do. Nobody likes it," Sara distanced herself from any hint of feeling good about herself and making herself vulnerable to the criticism of others.

"You know, Sara," said Annabelle really thoughtfully. "I see myself a bit in you. I don't think you fit in with your school. They teach the same square things to every student. But you might have a bit of a genius. You have creativity and innovation. They don't know what to do with that. The instructors don't know how to teach it. The students don't know how to get it. So you threaten them because you have something they don't. And they try to make you feel bad about you instead of admiring you. Because if they recognize what you have, they know that they have to admit to themselves that they are no longer #1. I got kicked out of fashion college."