Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

Winter
Present
“Arms up!” Tara called out.
I reached up, leaping across the floor, the muscles in my
back and shoulders stretching tight as I tilted my head back
and my face toward the sky.
“There’s the energy!” she shouted. “Let me see it again!
GGood!”
I exhaled as I hit the ground again, my right foot landing
on the border of sandpaper lining the perimeter of the “stage”
to signal when I was within two feet of the edge. Beyond that,
there was another six-inch-wide border to alert me I had no
more room and to stop.
Sweat trickled down my back, and I swung around,
veering right again as I stepped, glided, and then arched my
back before coming up on one toe and stretching high for a
moment’s pose and coming down again to continue the dance.
The music filled the room, my unconventional number of
Nostalghia’s “Plastic Heart” choreographed by me and soonto-be
performed at nowhere for no one.
No one would hire me. I tried to stay positive, especially
since I needed out of here more than ever, but it was getting