Ballet school

And a questionable encounter with Rudolf Nureyev.

At the very tippy-tail end of the nineteen hundred & eighties, I graduated from high school (well, more accurately, I was done with high school), packed up some meagre belongings and a twin mattress in my mom’s minivan, and moved to an even colder and more desolate city to attend a prestigious ballet school.

I had attended an artsy high school that allow…