Grown men and women have such unique perspectives towards children. Normally when adults make mistakes, bystanders let out a chuckle or two in reaction to their clumsiness or a lack of knowledge. But when a seven year old makes an unintentional error, they find it “cute”. A fluffy dog can be described as cute as well as a cuddly teddy bear, but it is not cute when humiliation is in the equation.
Everybody has bad days. Whether it is dropping a good slice of pepperoni pizza on the floor, or tripping over a pavement or landing into a muddy puddle, it is inevitable to have days like that. If only there was a way to see the future, perhaps a device that could wipe out all mortifying experiences. Since such an invention does not exist, blemishes will still remain. Though I haven’t been living for as long as my parents, I have already attained quite the collection of embarrassing experiences. There is one in particular that has shadowed me till today.
Nine thirty A.M: shreds of weightless cotton joined together, pressing heavily against the city. Although the sun was nowhere to be seen, humidity managed to transform the city into a sauna. It may be a depressing atmosphere to some, but this is the best Hong Kong has to offer. Like any other days, I opened the bedroom door and pitter-pattered towards the sound of sizzling and the clinking of tableware. I walked in only to realize that mom was not making her typical scrambled eggs or her perfectly oval shaped stuffed omelet, but her astonishing, salivating blueberry flap jacks. I jumped up and down with ecstasy, gave mom a kiss on the forearm and ran back to get ready. With one swift motion, I pulled my chiffon sleeved orange top and my mustard colored silk skirt off the hangers. It was ten thirty A.M. I drenched my two homemade flapjacks with Canadian maple syrup creating a river that flowed from the small chunk of butter to the polished plate and scarfed them down within minutes. Mom had always told me to savor every bite, but I was feeling tempted. For once, dad was awake and changed on time. I know he wouldn’t pass on my big show for the world. He patted my head with the sweetest most genuine smile and we all retreated to the car. Due to Hong Kong’s regulation, I wasn’t allowed to sit beside the wheel, so mom and dad occupied the two front seats. Ten fifty A.M, I opened the window and clasped onto the edge of the car hoping to get some fresh air, but all I got was a blast of scorching wind pushing my light as a feather head against the seat. I pulled the window back up with a click of a button, fixed my hair and enjoyed the rest of the ride with Westlife circulating the interior of the car.
They said, “every girl’s dream is to be a ballerina”, however, this was only a generalized statement. I understood why little girls desired to be a ballet dancer. Being able to own a tutu that elegantly stretches out from the hips with silk flowers and ruffles on the edges was the clincher. I on the other hand found no adrenaline towards pliés and pointes but rather flips and leaps. Unlike a tutu, which only remains immobile on the waist, a hand silk fan and a multicolored braided whip require movements.
The car halted to a stop in front of the “Lee Theatre”. Mom and dad wished me luck and blew me a big old kiss. I skipped into the theatre through the backstage door while humming the tunes of “Skip to My Lou”. The room was dim. All there was in sight were bulbs of lights illuminating around each individual mirror. Little kids in the same orange outfit sat on chairs with feet dangling off the ground and having their make up done by grown ups. On my tippy toes, I pulled myself up onto a vacant chair. My dance teacher with her space gray asymmetrical haircut approached me with a petite bag in her hand. She pried it open and with a massive paintbrush, dusted my cheeks with powder that resembled a raspberry flavored pixie stick. She then pulled out a pen and a multicolored palette. I shied away as she held the writing device closer towards my eye, but she continued on anyways. Though both eyelids were twitching, she managed to draw two straight lines right above my lashes, which miraculously curled up with a use of a complicated looking metallic tool. She then held up a spray bottle five inches in front of my face. Without notice, a mist of scented water blasted onto my forehead, eyes and cheeks. It was eleven twenty A.M and I was all set.
Like little ducklings, we followed the director in a single file towards the pitch-black stage. The curtains were shut, no spotlight was on and no track was playing. We stood at our designated places and waited for the cue. Everyone on stage and behind the curtains was silent. There was no sound but the drumming of my heart and the heavy breathing from behind. Eleven thirty A.M, the curtains pulled away from each other revealing hundred pair of eyes. I inhaled deeply with my eyes shut, pushed my shoulders back and lifted my chin up. The drums entered the room vibrating all four walls. One and two and three and four, we shot our fans high up in the air with great confidence. At that moment, I knew I could not afford to mess up the recital. It had to be flawless: it had to be memorable. Simultaneously as the tempo of the track decelerated, we galloped clockwise forming a spiral at the center of the stage. Considering that we are all only seven year olds, the spiral was spot on. Four, one and two, we raised our whips and formed an enclosed circle above our heads like cowboys on galloping horses. An entire year of dedication to this very moment paid off as the performance went on. I began to disregard all the criticisms and labor my dance teacher had thrown at us. The spiral then unwind and transformed into three equal lines. The adrenaline kicked in and my heart began to race, not because of nervousness but of ecstasy. I’d been waiting for this part of the performance since the start of the track, where we mimic the form of a wave. Eight, two and three, the first row leaped into thin air with their chiffon sleeves flapping gently and elegantly by their shoulders. I slightly bent my knees and tightened my quadriceps before the first row landed. I sprung both feet off the ground with a big smile on my face as if I was having the best day of my life. The track reached to its climax as all kinds of instruments joined together playing in harmony. I was more excited then than seeing an ice cream truck pass by. But then, my skirt unbuckled. From the best day of my life to the worst, I was filled with embarrassment. I hesitantly looked around to see if it was noticeable and at my dance teacher for guidance. She beckoned, but I didn’t want to leave the herd in the middle and disrupt the show, so I remained on stage with one hand grasping onto the unfastened buckle. The stage felt much duller and colder in comparison to the beginning. I could identify a couple of fingers pointing at me with eyes squinted and silent smiles. Some even mouthed the word “aw”. My cheeks were flushed pink like a ripened peach, overpowering the pigment of the pixie stick powder. What could I have done?
After all these years, I am much grateful that I wasn’t wearing my rainbow colored dream bear undies. But there is one question: why didn’t I just fasten the buckle after it has fallen? The mystery remains unsolved.
