Chatterbox: Inkwell

Koffee's NaNo! I understand if you want to shorten it a bit Admins. I won't post all of it right now, just the first chapter or so:

((From Amy's pov)):

Before dancing, my life seemed so bleak. Looking back on it now, it’s just a blurry mess of shapes scattered about the drab canvas of my life. After my first dance lesson, I began to feel again. But this time, I almost felt too strongly. Mother was so sure that she would make an actor out of me, and was none too happy when her little girl began cutting drama class to dance alone in the empty studio. Standing on the steps of Juilliard, I long for those blissful hours before the mirror. I long for myself.            My father left me when I was thirteen, and I believe that’s what pushed me over the edge. Before he was gone, I could never do anything right. If I avoided my acting lessons, I wasn’t good enough; if I threw myself into them, I needed to make time for other things. These things combined into the deadly cocktail that eventually transformed into anorexia at the age of fifteen. It was downhill from there.            I started dancing when I was twelve, and it was my first love. I’d always felt an obligation to acting. To carry my mother’s burden on my shoulders. She’d always wanted to be an actress, and assumed that I wanted the same. I didn’t know how to love anything, so I told myself that I loved acting. That was the first time that I lied to myself. Eventually I learned how to be charismatic and charming. I learned how to hide my grief. I got so good at it that people started interpreting me as “bubbly” or “sweet”. I could never bring myself to show them how wrong they were.            I left home when I was seventeen. I wasn’t sorry. That was a year ago, yet it seemed like yesterday. I could still taste the words on my tongue of the fights I’d had with Mother. I could still feel her hand across my face when she slapped me. I’d managed to scrape by, on odd jobs and fast-food swing shifts. I’d been biding my time, waiting for the moment. My only hope of getting into Juilliard was by scholarship. So I danced every day. After work, I danced. When I woke up in the morning, I danced. No friends, no life, no other purpose. It was just me and the dance, inside each other. And then the day came. The audition day. And while I was pulled along in the crowd of students, through the doors of the school, it felt like home.             The front hallway was crowded with people, and I look around for a place to sit. I spy a tall girl with dark hair sitting with her head between her knees. I walk over, trying to look charming. I needn’t have worried. My charming self fits like a second skin now. I walk up beside her and smile.            “Um, are you okay?” She looks up quickly, a blush rising to her tanned cheeks.             “Oh, yes, thank you.” She’s embarrassed, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. I wish that I’d gone to sit with someone else. And that feeling of not belonging claws its way back into my stomach. But I’m Amy. Charismatic, sweet Amy, that’s not haunted by anorexia and a startling lack of self-confidence. So I sit down next to her, still smiling my good-girl smile.            “What are you auditioning for?” She looks up, surprised that I’m still here.            “Oh, um, dance. Ballet,” she adds with a flutter of a smile, “And you? Singing? Acting?” I see her looking at my small form, assuming that I wasn’t strong enough to dance. My anger flares inside of me before I can stop it. My perfect mask forms a long, harsh crack.            “No, I’m a dancer, despite a seemingly popular objection from all my peers.” I’m sarcastic now. That’s not good. Amy is not sarcastic. Amy is sweet and doesn’t get offended. Sometimes I wish that I didn’t have to live up to the charming Amy. Sometimes I wish I could just be me; with a flaring temper and pain inside. It’s like I’m two different people sometimes. I’m always comparing myself to the perfect Amy. The Amy that everyone else sees.             The girl is taken aback my abruptness, so I put my charming face back on, “Sorry, I’m just a little sensitive about it, that’s all.” It’s a weak excuse, I know it is, but the girl accepts it and holds out her hand.            “I’m Chelsea,” she smiles, “Sorry….sorry about what I said earlier. I come on strong.” She has a nice smile, the kind that you practice in front of the mirror for hours, but still can’t get right.            “No worries,” I say, “My name’s Amy.” We shake hands. An awkward silence falls, but I do my best not to seem bothered by it. It’s going to be harder to act perfect as Juilliard. Who knew that masquerading as precision could be so difficult?            I glance down at my favorite dancing outfit, hoping that I don’t look horrible in it. Scolding myself, I turn my mind to something other than the Dark Years. That’s what I’d taken to referring to them as. The Dark Years. It seemed to fit, summing up everything; my Father leaving, me falling into anorexia, the constant push from my mother to be better than I could…             Stop it, I rebuke myself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and focus on today! I turn back to look at Chelsea, who looks near fainting. I think of how she had her head between her knees earlier, and hope I’m not keeping her from admitting dizziness.            I’m about to make an excuse to go to the bathroom or something, when they call up the next group. We both stand up, and I smile at her again, cocking my eyebrows. Mother once told me that my eyebrows were almost a trademark of mine. She’d said she wouldn’t recognize me without my waggling eyebrows. How I longed for that Mother. The one that told me things like that. Before I’d started cutting class to go to the dance studio.            I walk next to Chelsea’s side, and ogle at how tall she is. I’d always been raised to believe that dancers needed to be short. But Chelsea, Chelsea was something different. She walked with an air of grace, all long legs and pointed toes. She walked to the beat of a music I could not hear. She wasn’t a dancer; she was the dance itself, without even dancing. And while I watched her walk towards the imposing doors, I wondered who this girl was, and how she knew Dance like a friend.

 Thoughts? I'll post some from Chelsea's pov later :D