#her talent is some of the best amateur ballet i’ve seen. her routine was beautiful and got a rare standing ovation from the MissAm crowd

[dozydawn]

Heather Whitestone of Alabama is crowned Miss America 1995. She was the first deaf woman crowned Miss America in the pageant’s 75-year history. Her talent was ballet.

Presenter: Miss Alabama, you may have read, is hearing impaired. No hearing at all in one ear and 5% in the other. So I must ask you, you dance so beautifully, do you hear the music?

Heather: I can hear some sounds with my hearing aid, but what I did, I feel the music and listen to the music for the first time, a couple times, and then I count the numbers, and then I memorize in my heart and that’s how I dance.

[heart-eye-harrington]

hold me closer, tiny dancer

Summary: based on the Elton John song

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: one (1) curse word

Author’s Note: hello! this is my first mulit-part writing and I am so excited! I’ve wanted to write this idea for so long and am happy with it so far! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Hope you’re staying safe and sane, sending love♡

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Quiet towns were inhabited by two different types of people; those who were content with the quiet, who bought houses in a cul-de-sac, settled down, and found comfort in routine patterns of life, and those who despise it, counting down the days to when they could get the hell out, when they could run away to somewhere they felt would be exciting. People bought their tickets out in a variety of ways, some worked dead-end jobs to save up money, others poured their efforts into talents or skills that would ensure them good cash once they were gone.

Very few straddled the line in between wanting to stay and wanting to leave. They could see the charm in the tight-knit community and small buzz in the streets, but something deep within yearns for more. 

One breath of life in the stagnant air was art. Being able to create something new, express oneself in more than words. While it wasn’t something the entire community took notice of, it was all a small subset clung to. Like dandelions growing in the cracks of the sidewalk, breathing new life into the existing set solidarity. It wasn’t easy, but life would find a way. 

The small theatre in Hawkins was never as crowded as Hawk Cinema, meaning the owner welcomed any performers with open arms; the Hawkins High drama department, starting bands, amateur comedians and dancers from the local dance studio.

The owner was a kind old man, Mr. Dave, who knew how much the space meant to people. He allowed the aspiring artists in almost every day, and most took full advantage of it. His only condition, he was allowed to check in every once in a while to observe. 

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The shopkeeper’s bell chimes through the small lobby, causing Mr. Dave to lift his gaze from the day’s newspaper. A grin spreads to his ever rosy cheeks when his gaze falls upon you and the duffle bag resting on your shoulder.

“Good morning sweetheart.”

“Good morning Mr. Dave. How are you today?” his cheery expression only grew with your words. You adored him and always made an effort to strike up conversation, the least you could do for everything he did for you and the community.

“Doing alright, how bout yourself?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Is there?-” he laughs, cutting you off before you could finish. He knew how shy you were about dancing in front of other people. He was honored to be the only exception

“No sweetie, no one else is here. Go in there and dance your heart out.” You flash him a smile full of appreciation, and with a quick nod, you enter the auditorium. 

He was telling the truth, it's nothing but you and the stage. A familiar warmth and excitement wash through your body, tingling with anticipation. You felt your muscles cry for joy. Your body craved ballet like it did a warm fudge brownie, and your craving was about to be satisfied. Not wanting to wait a second longer, you rush to the stage, eager to start.

Placing the duffle bag on the worn wooden stage, using your now freed hands to take off your jeans and sweatshirt, revealing the leotard underneath. You place the discarded fabric into your bag, exchanging them for your pointe shoes and cassette player. 

You knew Mr. Dave wouldn’t mind if you used the audio system, but there was something so intimate about having the music to yourself. It was just you, the singer, and the stage. You were free to move however you wished. 

You place the headphones over your ears and clip the player to the waistband of your stockings. Clicking play, a soothing voice begins singing. You stand, take a deep breath, and move.

The music is soft at first, allowing you to slowly warm-up. Small, precise movements allow your muscles to awaken, but when they do, they want more. As the music grows and swells, so do your movements. Arms move to create stronger lines and spins get tighter and faster. As your mixtape goes on, the music slows again. Feeling warmed up enough, you go into full pointe. The moment you fully extend and place all your weight on your toes, you fall.

Hitting the floor with a soft thud, you mentally curse yourself. You knew these shoes were dead, but wanted to milk them for any life they had left before shelling out more money on a new pair. You had a spare, but that didn’t mean you wanted to use them yet. A groan rumbles through your chest as you sit up, drawn from your thoughts by movement in the dark auditorium. 

“Sorry Mr. Dave, I hope the noise didn’t scare you. I’m alright,” you call to the shadow. When it doesn’t respond, instead continuing its journey to the stage, unease slowly adjusts its grip on your heart. The feeling isn’t long-lived, as the shadow makes its way into the lights illuminating the stage. 

He wears a concerned and embarrassed expression on his undeniably beautiful face. He rakes a hand through this mop of wavy brown hair, which you can instantly read as a nervous habit disguised as an attempt to keep cool. 

“You sure you’re ok?” his voice is sweet, making you feel a sense of comfort around the stranger. You reach to your shoes and begin untying the laces.

“Yeah, thanks.” your gaze stays trained on your handiwork, feeling a sudden shyness under his watchful eyes.

“You were amazing. I’ve never seen someone move like that. It was like I could hear the music you were dancing to without even needing to listen” There’s a sense of wonder in his voice, its tone soft yet true.

“…. I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner, I-I just couldn’t bring myself to interrupt.”  you blush at his words, standing to put your shoes away and stealing a look at him. His hands are dug into his pockets, eyes trained on the ground near your feet. You allow a smirk to grace your face at the nervous energy you both emitted. 

“I’ve never seen you here before. Are you a performer?” you look up to him as you dig through your bag. 

“Oh God no. I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. My friend Robin’s in a band and they’re practicing today. She wanted me to watch them, something about L.A.” your ears perk up.

“L.A.? What are they gonna do out there?” 

“Beats me, but she’s wanted out of this shithole for as long as I can remember.” you nod, zipping up your bag after getting the new shoes, ribbon, and sewing kit. Looking up to him, you pat the space on the stage next to you. He takes the invitation with a small smile and sits. 

“What’s all this?” his words are full of curiosity, a door to a world he had never seen opening before him. You giggle at his tone. 

“I have to break in a new pair. Pointe shoes are basically an extension of your body, so you have to fully customize them.” You place the ribbon on the side of the new slipper, taking out the needle and thread, and expertly sew the ribbon and attach it to the shoe. All he can do is watch in awe and the speed and grace in even your sewing skills. It’s evident that you could do this in your sleep. You’re done both shoes in record time, and hold one out to him. After the expected quizzical look he shoots you, you place it in his hand. 

“Feel how hard it is near the toes?” His fingers move across the smooth satin before gently pressing on the toe area, afraid to break the seemingly delicate footwear. Upon pressing down, he’s surprised to feel how hard the area is.

“It’s to support your foot when you go up on your toes. My old pair were used to death so they got flimsy. That’s why I fell, no support.” You hold out your old shoe, urging him to feel the difference. It is softer, and he’s surprised you didn’t break an ankle.

“So, we have to break these new ones in. Wanna bang?” He looks at you with wide eyes, the conversation taking an unexpected turn. Looking from the shoe in your hands and up to him, you instantly realize your mistake, nervous laughter filling the air. 

“Easy tiger, it’s not what you think. Banging is when you bang the shoe against something hard to make it a bit more malleable. Like this.” You grip the arch of the slipper and slam the toes against the stage, a loud bang echoes throughout the theatre. You watch as the tension in his shoulder releases, replaced with a goofy grin. He holds the shoe just as you did and taps the ground. You laugh, urging him to go harder. Hesitantly he follows your advice, the bang echoing just as yours did. 

“Yeah! You got it!” Before you know it the two of you are wailing the shoes against the stage, the cacophony mixing with your shared laughter. For a second you forget you’re strangers, embracing the oddity of the situation. The moment is short-lived, as a voice edges through the noise.

“What the hell is going on in here?” The question doesn’t come from a place of anger, but of pure confusion. You and the stranger stop the pounding and laughter, embarrassment trapping it in your throat. You look up to see a girl with short dirty blonde hair followed closely by two guys; one with a buzz cut, the other a mess of curls. The boy beside you sits up, clearing his throat.

“He-hey Robin! What’s up?”

“I think I asked you first, dingus.” she chuckled, shaking her head. She leaves him alone for mere hours and he’s already finding his way into another story. 

“We’re banging,” he replied effortlessly. The smile playing his lips gone the instant the words left his mouth, realizing the band was just as clueless to the meaning of that phrase as he was mere minutes ago. The realization came at your expense as he felt you awkwardly shift beside him.

“Her shoes, we’re banging her shoes” he sheepishly taps the toe against the hard wood of the stage to demonstrate. The trio in the audience do their best to calm the giggles brought about at the scene before them. 

An awkward heat fills your entire being. You hated sitting here in front of strangers as they laughed at you. You knew it was of no fault to the boy beside you, whose name you assume is Steve after hearing Robin call at him. Eyes locked with the worn stage, you raise your gaze just enough to see the pointe shoe hanging loosely in Steve’s hand. As if scared your motions will activate another horror, you slowly reach for it. He almost jerks away, sadness etched in his features at how his blundering could change your joyous demeanor so quickly. He lets you take your shoe back, relaxing when you give his hand a reassuring squeeze, silently telling him it’s ok. 

“I should probably get out of your hair” your words don’t seem to be aimed at anyone in particular, head ducked down. 

“Wait. We were laughing at him, not you. You don’t have to leave just yet, it’s gonna take a bit for us to get our gear in here.” Guilt was evident in Robin’s words as she attempted to fix the awkward first impression. Her bandmates behind her reflect her remorse.

“No, no it’s ok. I have to get back to the studio anyway. But, thank you. I appreciate it.” The band nods and makes their way out of the theatre to get their equipment. You surry behind the curtain on the side of the stage to put your sweatshirt and blue jeans back on. Walking back into the light of the stage, you see Steve still standing there, a sheepish look on his face. 

“Sorry about that.” was all he could muster, the motion causing your heart to flutter. 

“Steve, it’s fine” you giggle, doing your best to convince him. 

“Wait, how do you know my name?” 

“Your friend Robin said it.”

“Now I feel like a dickhead not knowing yours”

“No one said it.” You both laugh at the small back and forth. After a moment you give him your name, and he gives a warm smile in return. 

“Well, y/n, will I see you again?” joy washes over you like the hot sun. It’s a feeling you could get used to. 

“Yeah, you will. I’m here almost every day.” You stare into his eyes. They’re some of the prettiest you’ve ever seen, the stage lights twinkle in the mix of hazel and honey, or maybe they were always like that. Either way, you could get used to getting lost in them. You blink, snapping out of your trance. 

“I’ll...see you around” You sheepishly turn, hoping he didn’t notice the blush rising to your cheeks. Maybe if you hadn’t been so worried about yours, you would have noticed the pink creeping onto his face as well.