She Belongs in Another Decade

“I love narwhals. In seventh grade I did a presentation on them. I liked them before they became popular!” Her round blue-gray eyes seemed to hold a certain glow to them. Her sparse, blonde eyebrows jolted up to show off her excitement. Her dimples peeked out of her cheeks when she smiled. 

I laughed in admiration. I’d never seen someone so thrilled about narwhals. 

It was the summer of 2018, and we were at the Nutmeg Ballet Conservatory in Torrington, Connecticut. I walked into Room 206, which held four black bunk beds, three brown chests of drawers, and two long mirrors. A girl stood next to one of the chest of drawers. Hiding behind her shy, small lips, her gleaming white teeth presented themselves to me with a gentle smile. Her Rapunzel hair flowed down to her mid-back. She wore dark-wash denim shorts, a yellow and green T-shirt, and low-cut royal blue Converse. When I first saw her, I didn’t expect her to be such an outgoing and blunt (in a good way) teenager. She once wrote “Don’t f**king steal our ice cream” on Room 206’s dessert in the freezer.

A few days later, we were sitting in our room after a long day of intense ballet classes. Slowly decompressing and eating chocolate covered pomegranates from our recent Rite Aid trip, we talked about anything that came to our minds. Our other two roommates were hanging out in the lounge, probably eating ice cream or sewing pointe shoes. 

Her pale hand reached into her purse and pulled out her ancient flip phone. This wasn’t any regular purse. It was a purse that looked like a typewriter. The top of the purse had a fake piece of paper coming out of the typewriter with the words “Dear…” imprinted on it. The bulk of the bag consisted of a white keyboard contrasted with a black and red background.

“Cecilia! Did he text you back yet?” I asked excitedly. 

“Ugh! No, not yet. I’ll let you know what he says so we can figure out what to write back.”

Our conversation moved on to many new topics. We talked about our ballet classes earlier in the day. We marveled over how good the girls were in our class and decided which teachers were our favorites. We gossiped over boys we were into. We described our schools and the different kinds of people we knew. We braced ourselves for how sore we would be the next day. 

“Amita, let’s see if your BioFreeze works. How am I supposed to put this rolly thing on my toes?!” she said in her funny, sarcastic tone. “I need some for my legs and feet. I’m so sore.” (BioFreeze is a blue-ish gel that cools and heats sore muscles. It’s basically another version of Icy-Hot.)

She asked my roomates and me, “How do you say alright? In Massachusetts we say ah-right.” We always teased her about her small-town Massachusetts accent.

After talking for hours, our conversation turned from surface level to deep-sea level. “It would just be great to be a professional dancer. Even though the pay isn’t really that good, you get to travel! You get to do what you love,” Cecilia said with a longing look on her face. She told me about her stress with college as a rising junior. We both wanted to attend an arts college but knew how competitive it is. We both wanted to make our dreams to travel with a dance company come true. 

It was almost 10:30 p.m. Cecilia reached back into her typewriter purse to retrieve her orange iPod Nano. She liked ‘60s and ‘70s music. Cecilia told me how she once wore a fisherman's hat and navy blue blazer to church and a few old ladies told her she was just like John Lennon. While listening to ABBA with her iPod, she read a book. She reminded me of how I used to read books every night and how I could stay up into the late hours of the night just trying to read one more page. The world of technology had captured me, and I wished to be Cecilia in that moment.

Sometimes she would do her French summer work when she listened to her music. She bopped her head up and down, mouthing the lyrics and giving me and my roommates a live performance. She was about to enter the IB program at her school. I admired how intellectual and open-minded she was. She always wanted to learn more about anything—narwhals, my culture—and all issues in the world. She joked about how “bland,” her food is, and how she yearned for spiciness and wanting to attend an Indian wedding filled with flavorful food, bright pinks, reds, and purples, loud music, and silky saris. I promised her that she’ll attend my Indian wedding.

Sometimes she would draw when she listened to her music. She sketched the letters of my nickname she gave me, the “BioFreeze Fairy Queen,” with a black pen. It had a thickly drawn “Amita” in the middle of the paper, with small stars and “BioFreeze Fairy” surrounding it. 

I admired how versatile she was—a great dancer, a great artist, and a smart girl. When Cecilia danced, her arms gracefully led her body to the next move and her perfectly arched, pointed feet sprouted like a blooming flower, with energy. Her hips were extremely flexible—she would sit in a middle split while reading her lengthy book. During grand allegro (big jumps) her legs sailed like a butterfly and she seemed suspended in the air. Her personality was exemplified through dance. She was bubbly and a risk taker. She loved how “dance demands the unnatural,” how she will always be reaching for something greater, knowing that it will never be achieved. When she told me this, I think I saw a similarity between us. She put into words why we love dance so much, words I never could have formulated. During an improvisation class, we had to dance across the floor by writing our name in the air with our body. Personally, I don’t like improv as it requires lot of confidence to make up choreography on the spot. While watching Cecilia, I took in how carefree she was with her improv. Her beautifully pointed foot drew a “C” in the air, followed by her elbow creating an “e,” and so on. 

Outside of the studio, she didn’t keep Snapchat streaks or post on Instagram. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. Her phone only allowed for the built-in text messaging app as a means of social media. We couldn’t make a group chat between all of our roommates because her phone just didn’t let it happen. I had to email her some photos we took because her phone wasn’t processing them. We always teased Cecilia: “As soon as you get a smartphone, make sure to create a group chat between us!” After two weeks at Nutmeg, Cecilia and I agreed to write postcards to each other to keep in touch, along with some texting. We haven’t made the group chat yet.

I envied her. She was a simple girl in that, unlike the average teenager, she didn’t worry about how many likes or views her post got, or what other people thought of her. She texted me saying, “I’m totally convinced I used to live as a hatmaker in the 1930’s. A girl at school showed me her new portable iPhone charger and had to explain what it was to me.” 

Sitting on the slick wooden floor, my roomates and I sewed on elastics and ribbons to one of our pointe shoes. It was around 11 p.m., and Cecilia suddenly realized it was too late. She would always fall asleep at around 9 p.m. My roommates and I said that we changed Cecilia. She was staying up later every night! I like to think she felt a little rebellious, or maybe I did, changing the rules for Cecilia. 

Her round eyes wilted like a dying flower. Her sleepiness darted through her body. Cecilia climbed up to the top part of her bunk bed, her lengthy curly blond hair swaying with every step. I could see her from across the room in my bottom part of the bed. 

Her wilted eyes fell asleep quickly.