Monica returned from the bathroom. She put her stuff back and got into bed. She reached for her ear phones and looked for a while at her bedside time....She called my name. “Tina. Tina. Tina, are you awake?” I tried to continue fake sleeping.“Tina? Tina.”Monica turned on her bedside light. She walked over to my bed. “Tina.”I fake woke up. “What is it?”“Tina, were you using my vibrator?” I acted confused. I didn’t want to lie but also wanted to get out of the situation.Monica confronted me about. I HATE ballet. I hate the stupid costumes, I hate balancing on the tipsof my toes, leaving me in pain for hours afterwards, I hate sweating intight lycra, I hate being stared at by everyone as I struggle to remembera complicated routine. And yet... I'm not allowed the luxury of hatingballet, as I'm reminded when I finish my routine and I walk over to mymother, who is looking at me with her almost patented look of 'sternpride.'"Kayleigh-Ann," mum says in her rhythmic Welsh accent, "you NEED to. More

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