I gracefully raised my hands in the air, poised my head, lifted my right leg behind me and began the routine that I’d
been tearing my hair out over for weeks. I couldn’t wait to get out of this class. Don’t get me wrong, I love dancing, it’s only ballet I hate. However, ballet is apparently the only type of
dance that is ‘dignified’ enough for a politician’s daughter. Or Irish Dancing. Whatever.
My point is, the fact that NOBODY CARES what type of dance I do is seemingly meaningless to my dad. Actually, I think the whole ‘politicians daughter’ excuse is just a cover-up for his conservativeness.That was why I hadn’t told him I had taken up hip-hop. I knew he wouldn’t understand how much I loved it. That rush of excitement I feel when I master a routine is the reason I get up in the morning. That was why I was so bummed when my
parents busted me at hip-hop. I mean, it was a dance class.
Believe me, there are a lot worse things a girl could be doing. I knew my sister Savanna (who’s only six) hadn’t meant to let my secret slip, but it was too late. The damage was done. Luckily, she sent me a text letting me know what had happened, so I was prepared when my mom turned up to collect me from ballet looking murderous.
I don’t get it. I really don’t. I mean, THEY were mad at ME, even though I was the one who had had to move away from my beautiful, peaceful hometown of Dunnaman to the bustling, busy, dirty city for THEM! The only upside to this move was that I had been able to take hip-hop lessons. Up until now.
Now, my parents were going to take away my dream without even seeming to realise it. Well, actually, I suppose they didn’t. Realise it, I mean. Considering I had never actually told them hip-hop was my ambition. Still. They should have figured it out for themselves when I – Tasha Connelly, who, unlike most other fourteen year olds, has a reasonably clean room, no skimpy clothes and report cards with no D’s on them – went behind their back in order to have a few dance classes. Unfortunately for me, they didn’t get the picture. I was confirmed of this fact as I walked in the door to be greeted by a bellow of ‘HOW DARE YOU!'' from my dad. I’m serious. That was what he said. There was no hello-how-was-your-first-week-at-your-new-school for me. Not even a sorry-for-moving-you-away-from-your-best-friends-Tasha. No, I get shouted at for following my dream. I had to blink back tears over the unfairness of it all.
All of that was probably the reason I yelled ‘STAY OUT OF MY LIFE!’ into my dad’s very astonished-looking face, ran into my room, locked the door and proceeded to start working on a dance I had been trying to choreograph by myself for over a month. Surprisingly, the dance seemed to flow out of me with ease. This had never happened before. I thought that my hip-hop teacher Lily would have liked it a lot.
Then I remembered something Lily had said a few days earlier and realised that all the angriness I was feeling was coming out in the dance and that was why it was better. I flopped down onto the bed and sighed. I began thinking about the move. I remembered how much I had protested but I supposed I had known it was futile. My parents had made up their mind and they were going to drag us along for the ride, whether we liked it or not. I thought that they were being unfair, unjust and unconscionable. But hey, no-one ever said my parents were fair, just or conscionable. If that’s even a word, but whatever.
Later, I glanced at my watch and realised it was almost six o’clock i.e. strictly dinnertime. I shuffled downstairs reluctantly but although my parents exchanged nervous glances as if afraid to see what I might do next, they didn’t say anything about my (admittedly bad) behaviour.
At the dinner table, as I sullenly chewed my mashed potatoes and pork, (yuck) Savanna flashed me an apologetic look and I gave her a look back that told her I had forgiven her. After all, I knew e really was sorry. On the other hand, Rayanne looked positively delighted to see me getting in trouble for a change. If my parents hadn’t been sitting right there, I would have hit her one, just to get that disgusting smirk off her face.
After dinner, my dad said cautiously, but firmly, ‘Tasha, your mom and I have talked long and hard about this. We have spoken to your dance teacher and we do not give you permission to continue these, er, hip-hip lessons.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Hip-HOP, dad!’ I corrected him, but then what he had said finally sunk in. I didn’t say anything because I decided I would never speak to them again. I just turned my back so as to hide the tears that had uncharacteristically come to my eyes.
‘It’s for the best, honey,’ my mom assured me.
Yeah, right.
No more hip-hop.
The words hit me like a tonne of bricks. My life’s so over.