“My friend, my friend, did you check your email?” Umbrella asks with a roar. “No my little rain shield, what is it?” I replied.
“You’re going to be a ballerino!” Umbrella screamed. My palms got sweaty, I felt faint.
“Are you sure?” I ask, as I stumble to my open window. I notice a fat squirrel burying some nuts.
Turning to Umbrella in one swift motion I shout, “Don’t lie to me, you know I’m still fragile. Don’t play those mind games with me like how Cinnamon does.”
“I’m not lying to you, you overdramatic fool, just read this!” Umbrella said while turning my computer screen towards me with his petit arms.
My eyes darted back and forth reading the letters on the screen. “Hazzuh! My dream came true!”
Two days later: N.H. Hall 2 p.m.
It was almost time to show these ladies my talent and woo the director. I was nervous, my shaking knees were close to giving out, my heart was beating furiously; the anger vein on my right temple was now pulsating from my unnaturally high blood pressure.
Umbrella, who was now concealed in my knapsack, was peeping out from a little unzipped portion. He brought an apple flavored juice box, and some goldfish for snacks.
As I made my way through the doors and into the dance studio, I could see pretty ballerinas everywhere. I was the first boy to arrive and all the ballerinas were staring at me. “Act natural, act natural, now’s your chance to meet a pretty lady and ditch Cinnamon for good.”
“Keep quiet in there. I’m here to dance, you know that! The only way you’re getting let out is if you pretend you’re dead.” Umbrella, who had demanded to come, whispered back, “Ok, ok, no one will ever know, but seriously act natural.”
Out of my bag I took Umbrella, one apple flavored juice box, one ziplocked bag of gold fish, one Polaroid camera, one bleached white headband, one book titled “Ballet, the Secret to Being a Ladies’ Man.”
Game time. I adorned my white headband and sat Umbrella in a nice up-right position in a chair so he could watch while snacking on some goldfish and sipping his juice box. Grabbing my Polaroid camera, I tilted it up high in the air and snapped a selfie of the book and me for my blog. Then did a casual slow motion 180-degree turn towards the ballerinas as the book recommended, and of course, they were all staring at me because I was looking good in my skintight neon green “manatard.”
My really pretty ballerina partner and I began dancing, and she was really good. I even started to get butterflies in my stomach, something I hadn’t felt with Cinnamon.
We began talking about my blog and my friend Umbrella. I told her that Umbrella is the only person that understands me. She smiled and glanced away at all her friends who were all giggling and pointing at me, another positive indicator according to my book.
The director began the music; it was a song from “The Nutcracker,” one of my favorites. Everything was perfect. My fouetté turns were precise and perfectly timed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the director with his head tilted sideways with a look of amazement on his face.
I looked to Umbrella for reassurance; he gave tiny thumbs up then he went back to pretending dead. Now as the final lift approached, I held my ballerina high above my head puffing my chest out and paraded with her around the dance room.
In the end, I became a ballerino, dumped Cinnamon for a pretty lady, but unfortunately, I forgot my dear friend Umbrella.
Stay tuned for Monday, to find out what happens to Umbrella.
Follow the Man and his Umbrella on Twitter @CYaarg