That icky feeling that she picked up in junior high has never left her. If she had a third eye in the back of her head, she’d be able to prove it. But as is, she had to rely on the sickly prickles rising up her neck. No point turning to see. People are all the same: looking. And judging. The first didn't bother her, it was most definitely the second. They’d smile that fake smile like it was nothing but she hated the trickery and never trusted it. The rare person she did find once in a great while that saw her, just saw her, and didn't measure her from how far out of their cultural norm and scewed ideal she was, she treasured. They were like gold. The few times she had been on stage only intensified this feeling of mistrust. Her musicianship suffered because of it. She loved music, just as she loved dance. But feeling their judgement was a straight jacket. She yearned to break through it. But it took a very special friend at a very different college before she finally felt free. And no, no illicit substances were present to help.  To dance till her bare feet had blisters on them was an incredibly freeing event. She vowed never to be afraid to move again.

Yet, here she was in an alien environment without the comfort of any friend. Moving was hard. Not because of her will as much as the ocean had its own design on her body. Learning to dance with it was difficult but a joy. Although she did wish that it would allow her a few different steps after a while and a rhythm that was a bit more predictable.

There was no escape from watchful eyes here either. It was hard to hide in the curtains when it seemed her existence brought the guys such merriment by troubling her. She let it be water off her back as much as possible, ignoring their insistence that she be their theater. No, she came to work. Let them watch, if they must, she had a job to do. And by the gods in high and low places, she was going to get it done.