My heart is pumping out of my chest.  I’m sweating all over.  My hands are in fists, knuckles white from the pressure.  I shuffle my feet on the wood stage beneath me.  I look out around the curtain at the audience.  My stomach feels like hundreds of butterflies are flapping around in it, searching for an exit. 

            This is me right before I go on stage to perform my first dance solo.  I am nervous and not confident.  Now I’ll take you back to how I got into this situation.

            It’s a crisp, fall day in September.  The leaves are starting to change, and the temperature is dropping.  I am getting ready for dance.  I stare at my reflection in the mirror, while practicing how to ask for a solo in the recital this year.  I have so many ideas for dances, music, and costumes.  At this point, I am feeling eager to pick one and go roll with it.  I feel confident, for now.  I am ready to be independent and step outside of my comfort zone for a change. 

            I walk into the studio, and there is a different smell in the air.  It’s fresh, clean.  I can tell that my teacher is in a good mood.  I cross the practice space, watching my strides in the mirror.  I reach the office and the door is open.  An invitation for me to enter.  There are other girls in the office paying dues and trying on shoes.  I walk over to Becky, my dance teacher, who is sitting at her desk.

            “Hi, Raina! How are you?” she says in a happy tone.

            I answer loudly, “I’m good.”

            “I was going to ask last week, but it slipped my mind,” she said.  “Would you like to have a solo in the big show this year?”

            I’m shocked.  That was easier than I thought it would be.  I stand there, silent for several seconds.  Then I finally speak.

            “Yeah, that would be cool,” I say, trying not to show my excitement.

            It is now the next week.  Becky and I are supposed to be starting my dance.  Unfortunately, she had been so busy with her new baby, she forgot all about it.  She reassures me that we will start next week.

            But another week comes and goes, and still no start to the dance.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we begin the process.  At this point I’m still excited to perform alone.  However, that is all about to change.

It is now the night before the show, the day of the dress rehearsal.  We barely finish the number, with only three hours before the beginning of the rehearsal.  I do my hair and makeup in preparation for the run-through.  I dance in six other numbers and change into my solo costume.  I can hear the music from the dressing room, and I realize that the song playing is the one right before I have to go on.  I race down the hall and make it just in time.  I run onto the stage and get into my starting position.  The music begins and I start dancing.  I hit every count until I get to the fast part of the song.  My mind goes blank and I stop moving.  I stand on stage frozen like the statue, looking out into the audience.  All I can hear is my heartbeat and the sound of the curtain closing.  I run off stage back to the dressing room.  I find the bathroom and shut the door.  Locking the door behind me, I collapse on the floor.

“Honey, are you okay in there?” a woman on the other side of the door says.

“You were doing so good,” said another. 

            But that didn’t make me feel any better.  I don’t reply.  I just sit there, tears running down my face.  I think to myself, if this is how the rehearsal goes then the real performance will be just as bad. 

The day of the recital arrives, and I feel sick.  Of course, I forget my makeup at home.  This does not help my nerves.  By the time I run home and get back to the dance hall it’s ten minutes before the show is supposed to start.  I rush through my makeup, making several noticeable mistakes.  I call it good, and rush to the lineup area.  The dance ahead of mine is just about to end.  I slide past some other dancers to get into the wing.  Once again, I examine the audience.  It’s packed from front to back.  I know that my whole family is there to watch me.  The pressure is on.  My heart is pumping out of my chest.  I’m sweating all over.  My hands are in fists, knuckles white from the pressure.  I shuffle my feet on the wood stage beneath me.  I look out around the curtain at the audience.  My stomach feels like hundreds of butterflies are flapping around searching for an exit. 

            The song ends and it’s my turn to take the stage.  I walk unsteadily to my starting position.  The curtain opens and the bright lights hit my face, blinding me.  While waiting for my cue, I feel the sweat run down my neck.  The song begins and I start dancing.  I turn and leap with ease.  I haven’t made a mistake, but I know the hard counts in the middle are coming up.  I never get that part right.  The music starts speeding up and I don’t miss a beat.  This is the best I’ve danced in my whole career.  The steps and emotions are all there. 

The music fades, and I kneel in my ending position with a huge smile on my face.  It is silent for a few seconds and then the audience erupts with applause.  My breathing is still heavy.  I stand and bow.  Then something unexpected happens.  The audience rises, still clapping.  A standing ovation.