The stage is hot, almost stuffy—such a contrast to the breezy night outside and the cold, clammy backstage where we got ready. Blotting the sweat that beads up through my thick stage makeup, I take a deep breath through my mouth and tell myself to suck it up. This is nothing I can’t handle, I think—I’ve done it about a million times before. But still my hands shake. I have only a few seconds left to calm myself before the glaring lights break through the opaque darkness of the stage and the music bursts through the intense hush that hangs over us in the stage wings. My dance instructor is giving the cue to two whoever is in charge of the lights.
“Three…” her voice is a barely audible whisper, “Two…”
…
Walking into the large performance hall, my brain swirls as I think about tonight. I’m here for a dance recital, just like I have been so many times before, but tonight is different. It’s special because I’m considering quitting dance. This could be my last recital ever, and I’m determined that it will be perfect.
Ever since I was a little girl, I took dance lessons and performed countless numbers on big stages under bright lights in front of intimidating audiences, and I’ve even grown used to the routine. Every year it follows the same format. In the beginning of the season, our instructor would pick out different options for our recital theme and we would vote on our favorite. Then we selected music—it had to fit the required time frame—and we would learn a routine that challenged us. Next was our favorite: we got to pick out costumes from a list that went with the theme we chose. Our instructor had a huge catalog with pages of pages of glossy print of stunning outfits. The final step to preparing for the recital was perfecting the actual dance. Every lesson we would devote hours to running through the routine start to finish, in segments, and step by step until we could do it in our sleep. The recital this year will be based off of the finale to Broadway’s Chorus Line, complete with gold glittery hats and an impressive kick line finale. Our costumes are sure to stop the show with their shimmery gold sequence that shivers as we move.
…
I finally reach the door to the greenroom that is across the hall from a door to the stage. When I open the door, I’m confronted with a huge commotion—noises of music, tapping, talking, and shouting over other talking all compete for volume. I’m actually surprised I can hear when my friend calls out, “Hey Amanda, over here!” from one corner of the room. Waving, I pick my way through the mess of bags and costumes and gussets and hair and makeup tools that seem standard to pre-recital prep to drop my things in a chair.
“Hey,” I say, kicking off my street shoes and unlacing my dance shoes, “When’s your next dance?” She’s part of other performances before ours, so she’s still in an elegant tutu for ballet. Routines like this make for a few stressful quick-changes, adding to the nerves tonight.
“We’ve got 20 minutes. That’s plenty of time to run through tap before,” she replies, waving over a few others. We find everyone in our dance and go to a quiet hall, where dancers are expected to practice in groups before the actual performance. Normally, this is where any last-minute instructions are given, questions answered, and the routine is completely polished, finally ready for showing off on stage. When we finish this practice-performance I glance at the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes to show time.
The next half hour seems more like half of a minute; it goes by so fast. It’s all about putting on costumes, pinning up hair, fixing the dark stage makeup, and adding the traditional bright red lipstick. Lots of hair spray and bobby pins are needed. Disconnected voices wish “Good luck” and “Break a leg,” express confidence that “you’ll do amazing,” and promise that “I’ll be watching for you!” And then there’s the hush backstage where everyone is holding their breath and rushing to get in order, while the lights go black and then come up, and our instructor counts down.
The next thing I know I’m under the spotlights, dancing to the music with the girls I’ve practiced with all year. My feet carry me across stage left and stage right. All I focus on is keeping my smile huge and bright and my heavily made up eyes fixed on a point far out and above. Chin up, the way they always remind us. Before I know it the curtain falls gracefully, blocking from view the audience giving us a huge standing ovation. Everything seems so surreal and I can hardly believe it actually is over until I’m back out in the white hallway backstage, surrounded by friends and family. “You were all amazing!” they say.
Yes, I think, it was a successful end to a year of dancing. This will be a performance to remember proudly.  How could I quit dancing? I think to myself. But I know that this recital is my last, and I’m glad that it ended with such a good night. Moving on to a different sport next year might be hard at first, but if there’s anything I’ve learned in dance it is that I should never be afraid to give up something good for something better.