They’re in the dance studio, talking about tongue piercings.
Ethan says, “Mine fell out.”
“Oh my god! That’s what I’m always afraid of.” Tasha pauses to tie up her hair into a ballerina bun. “Did you swallow it? I always feel like I’m going to swallow it. It’s like you have this little piece of candy stuck to your tongue all the time. Or like when you’re swallowing pills—Tylenol—you feel it in your mouth and you’re like, oh my god, I just swallowed it.”
Ethan’s putting on his ballet shoes. He dumps his sweatshirt on the pile of backpacks, shoes and other belongings on the carpet next to the dance floor. “Yeah,” he says, and sticks out his tongue for inspection.
“There’s no hole. You just let it close up?”
“You can see it. I can see it. You have to know where to look. The back like fell off so I couldn’t put it back in.”
Annabelle’s sitting on the floor, tying her slippers. “Why would you even do that?”
Ethan shrugs. The mirrors behind him reflect his gesture: expansive, grandiose. “I can’t believe it fell out. Like, I got it a couple months ago.”
“Did it hurt?”
“I was sore for, like, days. It sucks. You can’t eat anything. Can’t eat shit.” Ethan hops across the dance floor to lean on one of the barres. “And oh my god the itch!” He writhes, hands to his mouth, makes a face like he’s coughing up something awful. “And you can’t get in there…”
“My tongue swelled up. It was disgusting,” Tasha says. She’s at the other barre now, stretching. “And it gets all tingly, like numb or something. Like tattoos?” She has tattoos. Her pink ballet slippers half-cover up the writing on her feet.
“I’m gonna get another,” Ethan says. He lines his feet up parallel, puts his hands on the barre, gets ready for the first dance of the day.
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