Dreamer Ballerina

Rat-a-tat-tat, my feet hit the ground, and the sound sings up like music. I am dancing on the sidewalk, skipping home from school, free as a bird, and my feet are flying. People stare then look away fast, but I don’t stop dancing. Not for them, not for no one.
With small, soft steps, I glide over the ground, kicking up dust in little red clouds around my toes. Dangling from its strap, my school bag bangs against my legs as I go. I can feel Miss Priss and her posse behind me, walking to Vicky’s Ballet Studio for their class. They’re all sweater sets and saddle shoes, but I know they’ve got pink tights and pink leotards and pretty pink satin ballet slippers in their bags, locked up tight against the red, South Carolina dust.