Rumors spread fast in a small town. In small towns, everyone knows each other, so they gossip about who has done what awful thing, and what they are doing wrong with their life. I live in Cold Spring, New York, a town with a population with a little over a thousand people. Unfortunately, the latest town rumor is about me. The rumor is this, Claire Jackson got herself a boyfriend over summer break, she’s spending all of her time with him, ditching school, and because of him, she doesn't care about ballet anymore.

“That’s not true!” I nearly yelled at my friend Lola. She wasn't the first person to ask me.  I was pissed that people think that I would abandon my passion. I put my pointe shoes on quickly and stood up. I walked over to the bars and began warming up. I gazed out the window that was in front of me. I looked at the mid-19th century architecture buildings that were laid out in nice neat rows. The rainy October day gave the town a bit of an eerie feeling but I didn't mind that. 

“So what did happen over the summer?” she asked. 

“What happened was, my family and I went to NYC for a month so I could do a summer intensive at the American Ballet Theater. I met a guy named Rayan Dawson. He’s really nice and he’s from NYC. We were partners for the intensive, so we got to know each other really well. We ended up going on a few dates. But that was it.” 

“But what about the whole quitting ballet thing? And ditching school? You did miss the first few weeks of school,” Lola questioned. 

“I was on college tours with my family! We ended up going to UCLA, U of O, NYU, and Julliard, just to name a few. Along with a few other schools in different states that both my brother and I are looking at. There was no way that I would have been able to come to practice.” 

 “Bonjour class!” My instructor Madam Flurabell walked into the studio. “Today we are getting right to work. Line up, no need for bars today. We are going to start in bras bas, brisé to chassé followed by pas de bourrée couru finally to four pirouettes.” 

We did as we were told. Although, it felt like Madam Flurabell seemed to make me do additional things and more complex routines. It was like she was punishing me for something. Something I prayed that she didn't believe. 

After finishing a grueling ballet practice, I put on an oversized sweatshirt and put on my uggs. I didn’t bother to change out of my leotard and tights and take out my hair from the tight bun. I’m still pissed that people are judging me based on a complete lie so, ignoring Lola and the other people in my class’s questions, I left the studio. As I walked down the street, I could feel the judgmental stares of people burning a hole into my sweatshirt. I made eye contact with some of these people. All of their stares made a clear message.“Quitter. Disgrace. Diva. She thinks she’s better than everyone else.”And more hate filled messages. 

My walk turned into a run. The rain hitting my face felt like little needles were being stuck into every pore on my face. I fought tears the whole way home.  After 15 minutes of running and being yelled at about being a quitter, deadbeat, selfish, no good high school dropout and more from what seemed to be the entire town, I ran into my house. I ignored my brother, who was in the hall and went straight up the stairs to my bedroom. I ripped my leotard and tights off and put on a pair of gray sweatpants and another oversized sweatshirt. I walked into the bathroom and took my bun out and let my blonde hair fall. 

I looked at the girl in the mirror. She seemed scared, her face was pale and her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. The sight of her made me sick. I grabbed a brush and brushed out my hair. I kept my eyes closed. Once I was done, I walked back to my room and collapsed on my bed. I heard a ding! I grabbed my phone off of my nightstand to see who texted me. 

From Ryan: Hi! Wanna talk? 

I tossed my phone across the bed to the other side. I didn't want to talk to the person who is involved in this whole damn rumor with me. My room seemed to drown in the silence. The only noise that occurred was from my alarm clock. Tick tick tick tick. The constant ticking was driving me insane. Out of anger, I grabbed the clock and ripped out the battery, which I then threw against the wall. I dropped the clock on the floor, not caring that I could have broken the face of it. I laid on my bed and curled up into a ball. I wanted to disappear, run away, anything that could get me away from this hellish town that seemed to target me and only me, not even Ryan, just me. There was a knock at my door. 

“Come in,” I said. I glanced up as the door opened. My brother was leaning against the door frame, his hands in his pockets. 

“My twin sense is tingling.” Vincent said this all the time, usually to get me to laugh or smile. This time, neither happened. I laid my head back on the mattress and stayed quiet. I didn't want him to see my tears. 

“This whole rumor has really gotten to you, hasn't it?” He asked as he laid on my bed next to me and put his arm around me. The tears started to flow like the Niagara Falls. I cried into his shirt. After a bit of silence, Vincent spoke sympathetically, “People just don't realize how damaging a rumor can be.”