Their tears dripped down, filling those already deep waters that surrounded her enclosure.
I remember the day I took my first ballet class the summer before third grade. I was a new addition to the competitive dance team and was required to take ballet classes for technique. So, stumbling into class with neon shorts and a tangled knot leaning toward the side of my head, I introduced myself to the class.
Dozens of eyes glazed at me, wondering: Who is this new girl? Why has she intruded upon our territory? My awkward arrival was announced by the bobby pin that escaped from my bun and fell onto the dirty tarp floor, interrupting the silence. Picking up the pin, I winced as a long-limbed girl with a beautifully assembled bun cocked her head at me.
“Would you like me to redo your bun?” my instructor peered down at me. I felt as though every inch of water had evaporated from my skin, so parched and mute, I nodded.
When she finished, she turned toward the class and asked, “What do you think? Doesn’t she look like Cinderella?”
I remember expecting another air of silence, a silence which chilled my exterior, but its miserable feeling was familiar and welcome and nestled deep into the marrow of my bones. But, I barely had a chance to look up when I felt the novel warmth of the sun. To my surprise, the long-limbed girl opened her mouth and laughed a melodious soprano laugh, meeting her sea-glass blue eyes to mine, and said, “Yes, yes, she does.” I heard the rain break and the waves crash through as the rest of the class began to laugh too.
I had always seen Maddie Weber in the halls, amused by the way people’s heads naturally turned toward that high-pitched, giggly voice, and found myself similarly drawn to that tall human being who radiated before me. Everything about Maddie was elegant and bright. Despite being only a year older, her body length was double mine. She held herself with a confident ease, her head always tipped back in laughter and her envy-inducing hyper-extended legs grounded underneath her. She initially appeared far away from me. Other bodies always migrated toward her, crowding and covering her structure, so I never tried to get to know her. Maddie was just another in this massive ocean, and if the tide didn’t naturally pull me toward her, I wouldn’t move.
But Maddie was different: she didn’t just draw people toward her; she also allowed herself to be carried by the tide.
Over the years, Maddie and I became close friends, spending moments before dance chatting, breaks playing games and obsessing over fictional characters, and hours after school texting about our daily problems. From my perspective, our relationship developed easily and organically. But, reflecting back, I realize this was only because Maddie initiated most of our interactions. Other people always wanted to be with her, and I was too green and scared to approach her, so she actually took the time and effort to break away and talk to me.
Our first conversation was about something as casual as the beach, but her efforts were meaningful to me. While we were only elementary schoolers, Maddie assumed the position of an adult. She would always look me in the eye and validate my existence by interacting with me. As we grew up throughout the years, that core part of her never changed.
Dance was already a tight-knit community. Each dancer had to trust the other to move and breathe the same. My dance team made a joke family, naming people “the crazy aunt” or “the neighbor who thinks she’s part of the family but really isn’t.” I was deemed the father, and Maddie was my son. It felt like the whole dance community revolved around Maddie and me, and we brought other people into our family through our friendship. In some ways, we took on these roles as our lives drifted apart when we moved to different dance levels and didn’t see each other all the time—still connected but not together all the time.
I remember the last time I interacted with Maddie. It was our last recital when I was in 7th grade, and Maddie was leaving the dance team. After our final performance, the production with the entire cast of dancers, there was this collective heat of emotion from both physical and emotional unity. I remember hugging and congratulating every other dancer, specifically ignoring Maddie, and I recall hearing Maddie’s faraway voice saying, "If I even look at Ellie, I’m gonna cry.” I remember saving my hug for Maddie for last and the almost empty room as it was just me, Maddie, and the final stragglers. It felt like we were in the middle of the Red Sea, and Moses had parted the water just for us to say goodbye. I can’t recall the costumes we wore or the makeup smudged across our faces, but I do remember the warm arms that looped around my upper body and held me up as our memories together seemed to swim away from me. I recall the hot tears that flowed from my eyes and fell on her shoulders, and Maddie promising me she would somehow try and stay.
As the years went on and I continued the dance team without Maddie, then quit and moved to another school, I missed her. I only have the memory of who we used to be, our history sealed in an envelope and tucked into my back pocket. I’ve missed the days of having someone so close and constant while also being friends with someone I distantly admired.
I was immature, ignorant, inexperienced, and useless, but Maddie still chose to share her life with me. I didn’t feel like I was a pity project or a lame sidekick. Instead, Maddie was honest and kind, allowing me to share her spotlight. We never explicitly had serious conversations about the meaning of life or how much we cared about each other but shared an unspoken understanding that manifested its way in the open arms after an embarrassing performance, the glances in the mirror during class, and the lack of formalities, which I still find unnatural to this day because Maddie and I never felt the need to say “hello” or “how are you” all the time. We always knew the other was there, and we knew what we needed to do to make them feel better.
Sometimes, when Maddie posts on Instagram that she got a lead role in a musical or when I receive an occasional “Happy birthday!” text, I find myself back in the dance studio, feeling lost at sea, listening for that bright, bubbling laughter that yearned to burst forth from her throat, if you just looked at her.
Maddie Weber is a beacon, maybe a little farther away than she used to be, but still inviting me to be a light because she’s given me an overabounding amount of hers. Maddie Weber chose me to share her experiences, older-girl gossip, jokes, and opinions and to be her friend. This was the Disney show, the Nickelodeon movie, the childhood fantasy, where the cool kid actually and truly did choose the shy, unconfident, new girl, and she grew up. Only Maddie didn’t have to learn along the way to accept me; she just did.
~ Elisa C.
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