Ruyton Girls’ School - Scripsi 2015

The Dance Of

The Rain

Vanessa Lay

Isobelle Carmody Award

for Creative Writing

Honourable Mention

I rest my head against the window, watching the blurs and smudges

that are other cars passing, and I wonder where they are going. I

wonder at the tranquil state the rain has put me in, sliding down the

glass in droplets that look as fragile as crystal. I imagine myself as that

delicate droplet, gracefully sliding down the cold glass. If only I could

incorporate those delicate droplets’ movements into myself. Maybe

then my mother would really be proud of me…

‘Penny?’ I hear a voice say.

I look up and see my mother staring worriedly at me in the rear

view mirror, creases appearing in her normally smooth, perfect skin

as she raises her eyebrows.

‘I’m fine,’ I mutter, turning away again to stare at the dainty,

elegant dance of the rain, merging together and then falling ever so

quickly down the window. I am unconsciously drifting back to my

earlier thoughts. What could I do to make my mother proud?

Something in the nature of the rain, in its quiet, tranquil beauty. I

have always wanted to dance…

I feel an idea poking at me, illuminated with flashing lightbulbs

and I instantly sit up straight from my normally hunched position.

Who said I couldn’t dance?

‘Mum,’ I start and she nods to signal she is listening, though still not

taking her eyes off the road. ‘Could I… maybe start learning dancing?’

She looks startled but quickly recovers. ‘Why yes, of course! My

friend’s friend’s cousin owns a ballet studio! You could join there! It

is an absolutely elite ballet studio for only the upper class.’

My eyes widen in horror. Ballet? Horrible images of pink tutus and

frilly, lacy clothes flash through my brain. I have been thinking more

along the lines of jazz… I open my mouth to protest but as I look up at

my mum I am helpless as I see the enthusiastic look on her face. I

slump back against the seat again, as she goes on and on about how I

should start straight away so I have less time for dilly-dallying.

‘

I cannot help but turn around and around, looking at everything,

stunned into complete, utter bewilderment and fear at the spacious

studio. It is just a bit too elite. The floors glitter and glow so brightly

that I risk blinding myself looking down. There are chandeliers and

bright, white walls and everywhere I look there are snotty girls

chatting to each other and just being elegant. I look down

halfheartedly at the navy blue leotard I am wearing. I take a deep