Meredith Pugh ’28 was named a finalist in the Eleventh Annual Narrative High School Writing Contest for her short story titled “Flamenco.” The contest welcomed submissions from high schoolers around the globe. Read more about the contest here, and read the story below.

My sweaty palms are shaking with nervousness as I get ready. I put on my gítano-style flamenco dress, lacing up the back and smoothing down the ruffles. I apply my eyeliner for the third time, trying to still my trembling hand. I put my special flamenco shoes on, needing a moment to adjust to the high heels. The nails hammered into the bottoms of the shoes clack on the floor as I go down the stairs. I walk outside to our patio, where my parents are watching. We — my sister and I — are going to perform for them. They haven’t yet seen the result of the classes we’ve been taking for the past year. I am so anxious, but also so excited to show them what I’ve learned. However, all of the nervousness disappears as I hear the first few guitar notes. My flamenco teacher positions herself behind my parents' seats. My sister — who doesn’t feel the same way as I do about flamenco — didn’t really practice the dance, so our teacher is there to “remind her” of the steps. The singing starts, and I walk out, clapping my palms to the rhythm. The song starts out slow — a tiento, it’s called — and I slowly step out, moving my fingers, then wrists, and finally arms. I shift my weight from one leg to the other, and then softly spin, lightly tapping my feet. Suddenly, the music speeds up. The tango section of the dance has begun. I start to clap the new beats out — one, one, two three four, one two three four. My mom’s voice shouts out “OLÉ!” and I grin, a little embarrassed. Suddenly, my feet start up, stomping out the rhythm. I forget my surroundings as they go faster and faster, stomp stomp stomping. I twirl and spin, seeing my dress whirl around me, taking up the whole patio. I lift the bottom of my skirt up and swish it back and forth, following the movement. I hear the loud pounding of the tango in contrast to the gentle tapping of the tiento. Now that I have gotten into the flow of the dance, I am more aware of my surroundings. I can smell the flowers in the garden, then the one in my hair. I can feel my hair trying to unravel from its tight bun, the hair tie straining to keep it in place. I start to get hot, sweating in the heavy fabric of my dress, but I can’t rest now. As the finale of the dance begins, my feet start to stomp even harder. I go faster and faster, feeling my legs burn from the heels. And just as suddenly as it began, the tapping stops. I do a final spin, then strike a pose, my hands in the air above my head. I look out at my parents, amazed by what I’ve learned in a year, clapping ecstatically for me. I take a deep breath and relax my posture, smiling. I really just did that. I can now say that I, Meredith Pugh, am a Flamenco dancer.