Ballerina

My favorite hobby

We are 11 or 12 years old, but most of us look younger; we have been chosen, in part, because we are small for our age. Our smiles are tense, our necks stretched, our backs erect. Perhaps we are pretending, as we’ve been taught, that a puppeteer is pulling up our heads by a string. We have been told that our ballet school is the best in the world; we have been told that we are lucky. There are 20 of us in the photo, and we all want the same thing: to dance with the New York City Ballet. My cheek is tilted toward the light, but my eyes are pointed down. This year, my body has begun to defy me: The curve of my hip is peeking out from my torso, disrupting the once smooth line of my leg. I can control my muscles and my weight, but, I am learning, I cannot control my bones. For picture day, at least, I have managed to subdue my frizzy hair. It lies flat against my head, slicked into a bun so tight I can almost feel it tugging at my scalp. I don’t want to add any volume: our school’s founder, George Balanchine, said that a dancer’s head should be small, and this will always be his institution, even if he has been dead for 20 years.