Rachelle was an expert tap dancer, but hadn’t tapped in years.
Her youth was spent being shuttled to classes – most of which she wasn’t particularly keen on. Her parents would drive and drive, making sure she made it to wherever they wanted her to go. And she went, uncomplaining, because she thought it was normal – despite her classmates’ denials – and because she liked the attention.
When she reached university, she had a scholarship based on tap – specially created when the university saw her money-making potential – and so she continued.
Graduating, with few other job prospects, she continued. She even convinced the Olympic committee to include a tap category, though it failed after one year due to rampant vote-rigging and chicanery.
Rachelle continued her tap, lacking any other real direction. Her school of dance was successful, and she raked in money left right and centre. But it didn’t inspire her, didn’t make her happy. She administered the school, which was okay. But ultimately, she was unfulfilled.
Still, she carried on, administering and organizing, and leaving her tap shoes on the wall. She didn’t dance again, except for two instances of the Macarena at weddings, and a single round of the chicken dance one night after a bout of drinking.
Such was the life of Rachelle, who had to tap shoes bronzed on her grave.