Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

harder and harder to not feel stupid for leaving college.
Tara was one of my instructors growing up, and I
continued to rehearse at home, but I also came to the studio
from time to time, since my father had paid for five hours a
week for room rental until the end of the year. I didn’t want to
use anything he left for me, but I sucked it up as an excuse to
get out of the house. Damon hadn’t been back since the
wedding days ago, but it was only a matter of time.
And I loved it here. I only thought about dancing here and
nothing else.
This was where my earliest memories of dancing were,
and I guessed I was luckier than some. There was a time I
could see, and I’d had four years of ballet training before I lost
my sight. I knew how pliés and arabesques felt and looked. I
knew movements and steps, and I knew a little technique. I’d
continued with a private trainer when I went to Montreal, even
though I knew my prospects weren’t good for a career later on.
I’d always known the reality.
I’d have a hard time in a chorus with other dancers and
especially with a partner. It wasn’t impossible, but everything
took longer to learn and not many would accept that challenge.
And I certainly wasn’t the first ballet dancer with a visual
impairment, but I was the first in a five-hundred-mile radius. I
held out hope. Someone had to start the phenomenon in other
parts of the world. Why couldn’t we have it here, too? The
only major problem was finding a company and a coach to
take on the work.
I slowed with the music as the song ended and finished,
bringing my arms down, wrists crossed in front of me, and
fingers displayed gracefully. At least I hoped they looked
graceful.
“Here,” Tara said. “Stay like that.”
Walking over, she ran her chilly fingers over the bend in
my wrist.
“Straighten them,” she instructed. “Like this.”