dancergirl

“Certainly, Samantha. That’s one way to approach it.” Eva gives the rest of us a raised eyebrow. “Since no one else is volunteering, the floor is yours. CD?”

CD versus iPod is a huge issue at Moving Arts, although no one in class knows except for Eva and me. For months, the staff lobbied for new sound systems in each of the studios. State-of-the-art docks, better speakers. Just before fall classes started, Lynette called an emergency meeting.

“Enrollment is down, folks. Rent is up. I can either not cut salaries or buy new sound equipment. Your choice.”

Which is why Eva’s now holding out her hand for Sam’s CD.

Blake and the rest of us settle along the back wall. Samantha rustles through her dance bag. She laughs nervously. “It’s here somewhere. I’m sure I dropped it in last night.…”

“Maybe if you didn’t have so many leotards—” Blake snickers. I smack him in the arm. For once, I’m on Sam’s side. I’d be a perfect mess, too, if I were about to present.

She waves her arm in triumph. “Here it is, everyone!”

“Oh, goody,” Blake mutters. Eva bites her lip as she drops the CD into the player. I swear she’s trying not to laugh.

“Tell me when you’re ready to begin, Sam.”

Samantha moves stage right. She takes a couple of dramatic breaths and does a few deep pliés before she nods.

The opening bars of a famous piece of classical music catch my attention. I know the name of it but my brain feels like the peas the cafeteria ladies dish out on the hot-lunch line. Soft, mushy and puke-green.

Suddenly, it’s Blake who’s nudging me. “Wake up. Sam’s about to cross in.”

I try not to yawn. “Got up early. Couldn’t get back to sleep—”

Jacqui, who’s taken Choreography for the past two years, leans over to shush me. Sam runs into the center of the room. She flings out her arms and does a strange series of twisting motions, which leads into a sort of hunched arabesque.

It wouldn’t have mattered one bit if I’d yawned. Everyone’s mouth opens in astonishment. Samantha couldn’t have picked a worse piece of music to go with her choreography. Or maybe she just chose awful movements. Either way, the display in front of us is pretty gruesome.

After what seems like an eternity, she freezes. The music, however, keeps playing. Sam looks up. “That’s it.”

Startled, Eva shuts off the player and begins to applaud. The rest of us eventually follow her lead. Sam takes a graceful, though nervous, bow.

“Comments?” Eva asks.

The hush is epic.

“Then I’ll begin,” Eva says cheerfully. “It was very brave of you to present first, Samantha. I liked the opening phrase but wondered why you chose that particular piece of music. Perhaps you can tell us what you’re going for?”

That’s all Sam needs. She starts in about wood nymphs and fauns in the afternoon and the quintessential beauty of the forest—yes, she uses the q word. After twenty seconds of her mumbly-gook explanation, I space out. I didn’t like her solo but who am I to judge? I haven’t even begun mine.

I jerk back to earth when I hear my name.

“Alicia?” Eva asks. “How about you?”

“Oh, uh, it was pretty good. The music was pretty.”

Eva looks amused. “It should be. It was written by Claude Debussy. But we’ve moved on from Samantha. Pay attention, Ali. I asked if you want to present next.”

“Sorry. Mine still isn’t finished.”

Eva runs a hand through her spiky hair. “As long as it’s started.”

Chapter 13

Charlie calls during dinner.

“I’ve got a list of this week’s locations,” he says. “We just have to figure out when we can meet.”

“Hold on.” I take the cell into the living room. “I can’t do anything for a few days. I’m drowning. There was a choreography solo due today that I haven’t even started. And if I tank another math quiz, it’s straight to remedial.”

“Screw school. This is the big time.”

“Yeah, screw school. My mom’s going to be thrilled with that attitude.”

“Don’t you like the new video?” Charlie asks. “My other ideas are even sweeter.”

“I’m sure they are, but I need a break. Just a few days. Maybe a week. I couldn’t sleep last night—”

“I don’t get it! The whole point of being a dancer is so people can see you. I’ve thrown you hundreds of thousands of views.”

“Yeah, but who’s doing the viewing? Have you actually read what people write about me?”

“Grow up, Ali. Ignore the things you don’t like.”

“Sure. You can say that because no one actually sees you. No nerdy fan boys discuss your butt. How would you like it if they called you a Tarantino wannabe, with stupid glasses and a pimply face— Omigod. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— It’s just weirding me out, Charlie.”

“We can’t stop now. Please. People suspect it’s not real.”

“It’s not!”

“Just a couple more days and I’ll leave you alone,” he pleads.

“Alicia!” Mom calls. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

“Later, Charlie. I’ve got to go.”

I’m pissed off the rest of the evening. At Charlie, for making me feel like a turd. And Jacy, who instead of helping with math like he’s done for the past six years, chucked me out of his life for no reason.

He hasn’t called, texted or shown up at the apartment since he kicked me out of his room. I haven’t done any of it, either—I’ve got some pride.

Still, I miss him.

After Mom leaves for work, I throw the algebra book at the door. Maybe I can clear my brain by working on Eva’s assignment. The rules are: no longer than two minutes, with a tempo contrast and three different directional changes.

After seeing the problems Sam had, there’s no way I’m going classical. I choose an old Clash song, sketch the first eight beats in my head and then move to the middle of my room. Last winter, Jacy came up with the brilliant idea of pushing my dresser into the closet so I’d have wall-to-wall floor space in which to practice.

The sequence created in my mind, however, doesn’t feel right when actually danced. I hit Replay, only this time I decide to improvise.