I’m on the ground of the Northwest band bathrooms. 

Hunched over the toilet.

Vomit spilling out of my face. 

Sweat pours down my back and onto my shaking legs.

My head is pounding. 

Everything swims in and out of focus in the bathroom stall, and my vision fades to black as the side of my head hits the tile floor. 

***

BEEP
BEEP 

BEEP

I jolt up from my bed and see a dark room. The first thing I notice is how bad my legs hurt from conditioning.

I grab my phone and check the time. 

5:30 a.m.

Crap

I had to leave for dance in thirty minutes — I was already behind. I grabbed my sports bra and black heeled character shoes, then sprinted to the car. 

My Schedule For The Day: 

Dance Team: 6:15 a.m. – 9:15 a.m.

School: 9:15 a.m. – 2:40 p.m.

Musical: 2:50 p.m. – 6 p.m. 

Dance Company: 6 p.m. – 9:30 p.m. 

Homework: 10 p.m. – 12:30 p.m. 

Lay Awake: 12:30 p.m. – 2 a.m.

School was long and boring.

My brain was foggy by lunch. My friends’ faces faded from view; all I could see was my salad. The lettuce swam in front of my eyes until the hunger subsided into an uncomfortable contempt. 

This happens when dance gets too intense: my appetite disappears, I only get a couple of hours of sleep and I get tunnel vision. 

And right now, I’m barreling into a pitch black cave.

God, I’m not even halfway through the day.

***

The Shawnee Mission Northwest theater has been my home for the past three months, and with “Chicago” growing closer, I have been here too much. 

Clad in my blue sports bra and shorts, I laced up my heels and jumped onto the stage. 

This is what you’re good at.

I was the kind of dancer who knew the counts, was always three steps ahead, had the highest kicks and leaps.

I was the first freshman in memory to become a dance captain.

I couldn’t let everyone down, myself down.

Quitters don’t become great dancers.

Minutes later, our choreographer announced, “We are running ‘Both Reached For The Gun’.”

The hardest number in the show, of course. Four minutes of nonstop dancing in huge reporter jackets. 

Halfway through, I was already panting and shaking. 

Chasse, run, run, leap 

I can’t do this.

Saute, saute, saute

I’m going to puke. 

I prep into my a la seconde turns.

My mind goes blank. No spotting. No thoughts. Just spinning around myself. When I land, I can’t hear the music.

My friend Alondra’s voice penetrates my daze. 

“Harper, are you okay?” I blink for a moment, hearing her but not quite understanding the question. 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I respond. 

Tears sting my eyes, and heat hits my body in waves. 

I crash into the blue stall, lock the door and fall to my knees in front of the toilet. 

Hot vomit pours out of my mouth, stinging the back of my throat. 

After I stopped throwing up, everything started to spin around me, my eyelids became heavy, and my vision went black as my head hit the tiled floor. 

I woke up to the sound of ringing in my ears.

How long had I been out?

****

After sitting in the theater for a couple of minutes, the choreographer and director came over. 

“We heard you got sick?” I nodded in response. “Stomach problems?” 

No

I wanted to tell them how I’d been running myself into the ground for the past two months, trying to balance everything. I wanted to tell them about the salad and how I hadn’t eaten a real meal in days. I wanted to tell them that if I didn’t have a break soon, I would explode.

But I didn’t. I nodded.

“Stomach problems.” 

They sent me home. 

When my mom came back from work, she went straight to my room. 

“You threw up?” I already knew her next words. “Did you eat?” 

She already knew the answer from the salad left in my lunchbox. The salads that had sat untouched for the past week. 

“Harper, dance is going to kill you if you don’t take care of yourself.”

The door shut behind her, and my head hit the pillow. 

****

BEEP 

BEEP 

BEEP

I woke up to sunlight shining through my window. A warm May day outside. 

I checked the time.

5:15 a.m

I grabbed the bags from the foot of my bed and took a bagel for the car ride.

“Newsies” rehearsal consisted of cleaning the dance numbers and doing a stumble through of the show. 

I didn’t end that rehearsal sprawled on a bathroom floor, puking up my guts. I ended it on the patio at Dairy Queen, looking at my friend’s smiling faces, eating a medium chocolate-dipped cone.