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Chapter Eighteen
The story I’m about to tell you starts with the clatter of a letterbox.
My letterbox, to be precise.
I spring up from the sofa as soon as I hear it. Today will be the day, I say to myself, the day everything finally falls into place. I race down the hall to the front door, almost slipping on the wooden floor, and gather up the post waiting for me on the doormat. I excitedly flick past all the boring stuff like gas and phone bills until I reach the letter I’m looking for. In the top-right-hand corner are the words Little Stars Dance Studio.
Yes, yes, yes!
I slide my finger under the flap, but pause before opening it. This could be the moment my biggest dream is about to come true and I’m not sure if I’m ready. Are you ever really ready for the big moments in your life?
I close my eyes for a second and visualise the words I want to see: we’d like to invite you for an interview. Those eight words will bring me a step closer to teaching dance, like I’ve always wanted to do. It’s the umpteenth trainee position I’ve applied for, but I have a good feeling about this one. It’ll let me study for my teaching qualification while building up my experience and earning money. It’s my dream job.
There’s only one way to find out what the letter says. I rip it open and unfurl it, my insides jumping with anticipation. I have a good feeling about this letter and although I’ve had the same feeling with so many others, I’m hopeful that this time will be different.
Except it isn’t.
In just a few seconds, my dream of being a dance teacher is dashed once again. It’s another “thanks, but no thanks” letter.
Ouch.
There’s an old song that goes a little something like this: every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.
It’s hard to remember that when you’ve just been rejected from your dream job, though.
I heave a deep sigh as my eyes scan the letter again. Key words and phrases jump out at me: lack of experience, stronger candidates, good luck with your future endeavours. I’ve seen them all before, but that doesn’t mean they hurt any less this time round.
Dear Miss Jones,
On behalf of Little Stars Dance School, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to apply for our Trainee Dance Teacher vacancy. Unfortunately, we are unable to progress your application any further at this time. This is a challenging, dynamic role and we felt that other candidates offered stronger dance backgrounds. Also, your lack of teaching experience may mean you’re not suited to such a demanding role at the moment. It might be an idea to build up your experience before applying for further roles. Good luck in your future endeavours.
Yours sincerely,
Lynne Penman
With a heavy heart, I shove the rejection letter into my desk drawer and throw my head into my hands. Although Little Stars is the latest in a long line of dance studios to turn me down, I can’t help feeling deflated. With every “thanks, but no thanks” rejection I get, my dream of being a dance teacher moves that little bit further away. A tiny spark of hope rises in my chest every time I send off an application, as I allow myself to believe this latest job will be “the one”. The optimism may seem strange, maybe even silly, but it’s been my dream for so long I can’t give up on it. Sadly, this time, as with all the other times, it wasn’t meant to be.
For now at least, it seems I won’t be Cleo Jones, dance teacher extraordinaire.
*
You know the saying “misery loves company”?
Well, it was practically made for my mum.
I go over to my parents’ house to fill them in on my latest dance school rejection and, from the moment my eyes meet my mum’s, I can tell she’s dying to say “I told you so”. She’s perched on the sofa with her patented “I told you so” expression firmly in place: arms folded, brow furrowed and a disapproving look in her beady blue eyes.
‘Let me guess,’ she says with a heavy sigh, ‘it was another no.’
I swallow back the tears threatening to completely engulf me, and manage a nod. ‘How’d you guess?’
At this point, most mums would envelop you in a hug, offer you a cup of tea, and tell you everything’s going to be OK. Not my mum, though: instead, she folds her arms, furrows her brow and shakes her head.
‘I said it wasn’t a good idea to apply for any more dancing jobs, didn’t I? I said you were wasting your time, and now look! You need to give up on being a dance teacher, Cleo; it’s obviously not going to happen and you know why.’
She fixes me with a pointed look and I take a sharp breath inwards. ‘I know, Mum. You don’t have to remind me about my accident every five minutes. I was in a car crash and I broke my leg in two places; I’m not likely to forget that, am I? Remember what the doctor said, though: teaching’s still an option, I just can’t dance professionally.’
She
