Your mother blinks. "You woke up..." she says slowly. "Because your alarm went off. You stayed up late...which I warned you about...and now are running late for practice." She's using that 'oh wow the kid is asking stupider things then usual' tone of voice. You've heard it before, usually when she thinks your being wierd.
"Mom, I'm not a girl." you reply, quite reasonably.
She blinks again. "No dear, your not." she says. Finally, at least now you have the conversation back on track and are getting somewhere! Then she ruins it. "Your a polite, well-mannered, refined and graceful young woman. You get good grades, your an excellent dancer, you have plenty of friends, and you are amazing with the violin. Victoria, I have never been prouder to call you my daughter. But...I wish you'd listen to me and not stay up all night gossiping on the phone."
You reel back in shock. What the hell? Since when? You glance about again, and notice the small details of the ultra-feminine room. How organized it is. The large vanity with decorative pointe-shoes. The open closet with a large shoe rack (and at least two dozen shoes in it, including a variety of boots, heels, mary janes, and even a number of dance shoes), the very large assortment of dresses, each more feminine then the last. The bright pink rhinestone-covered iphone. The lack of a computer, videogame system, or anything referencing sports. How absolutely clean, dust free and organized the room is.
"I..." Your voice trails off in shock. "I'm not Victoria." you say. "I'm Victoria." Wait, what did you say? "I'm Victoria. Victoria, Victoria." Oh god.
"Yes...sweetheart. I know your name. I gave it to you." your mother says patiently. "Now dear, you need to get dressed. Your running late. You have eight hours of dance practice today. Its Saturday. If you really want to do this professionally someday, you need to practice. Today's ballet, and tomorrow you do lyrical and tap."
A dancer? A ballerina? Oh no, you are not waking up to some radically changed life, and becoming one of those ultra-feminine artsy girls who dreams of going off to a big city and becoming a dancer. You can't be. You just can't.. That's not your life. That's not who you are. She can help you. You know she can. She's your mom. You try to explain it to her. You say, 'Mom, I have no intention of ever being a ballerina. That's gay. I want to play hockey!'
Instead, what you say is, "I love dance practice so much. I love feeling so graceful. I do like figure skating too though."
Your mom smiles. "Quite a bit of ballet is needed for a good figure skating career, sweetheart. We won't neglect that either. Are you sure you want to stay that busy, however? You've taken on an awful lot of responability. I don't mind paying for all these lessons and practice, but is this really who you are?"
You try to shake your head. Instead, you nod emphatically. "Absolutely mommy. I love keeping busy. I'd hate just sitting around the house all day."
Oh god.
Your mother helps you get dressed, in a leotard, tights and a short ballet skirt. You feel absolutely mortified, and though you seem to have a great deal of control over your actions, that control is limited to things that fit in with your new 'ultra feminine' life. As a graceful, artistic girly-girl.
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