Phantom's Dance

Phantom's Dance

  LESA HOWARD

  Published by Boot in the Door Publications

  Copyright 2014 Lesa Howard

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  work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty One

  Chapter Forty Two

  Chapter Forty Three

  Chapter Forty Four

  Chapter Forty Five

  Chapter Forty Six

  Chapter Forty Seven

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Chapter Forty Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty One

  Chapter Fifty Two

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Chapter Fifty Five

  Chapter Fifty Six

  Chapter Fifty Seven

  Chapter Fifty Eight

  Chapter Fifty Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty One

  Chapter Sixty Two

  Chapter Sixty Three

  Chapter Sixty Four

  Chapter Sixty Five

  Chapter Sixty Six

  Chapter Sixty Seven

  Chapter Sixty Eight

  Chapter Sixty Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy One

  Chapter Seventy Two

  Chapter Seventy Three

  Chapter Seventy Four

  Chapter Seventy Five

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  “Mom, you can’t seriously be thinking of injecting poison into your face.” Seated in the brocade wingback chair outside my mother’s walk-in closet, I tried to process the revelation that she wanted to add Botox to her beauty regimen.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Christine. It isn’t poison. If it was, the government wouldn’t allow it on the market.” She emerged from the closet with a hanger in each hand. “Which one looks best?” Casually, she held out the dress in her right hand and then proffered the one in her left.

  I pointed to the olive green belted sheath in her left hand and continued, “I don’t get it. You’re only thirty-eight, and you want plastic surgery?”

  “I’m almost thirty-nine, and it’s not plastic surgery. Only a couple of injections.”

  “Have you talked to Dad about this?”

  To avoid my question she retreated into the closet, but I wasn’t letting it go that easily. I stood and walked to the door, folded my arms across my chest, and leaned against the doorframe to wait for her reply.

  Surveying the closet, my gaze landed on the row of Dad’s clothes still hanging there. It had been months since he’d stepped foot inside to retrieve any, yet his scent remained, clinging to the slacks and shirts as if the fragrance itself waited for his return.

  “Mom, have you discussed this with Dad?”

  “You talk to your father more than I do. You tell me what he thinks.”

  Her biting retort made my stomach churn.

  “We have a video chat scheduled Saturday," I said. "You could talk to him then.”

  Having slipped into the dress, she stepped closer and turned around for me to zip it up. The dress was a good choice. The fabric spread smoothly down her slender hips and accentuated her long back. Dad had always told me I should be grateful I had Mom’s figure and not his thick thighs and broad shoulders.

  “Benjamin knows how to call me,” she said. “If he wanted to talk to me, he would. I’m not having a video chat.”

  I could remember almost to the day when my mother stopped calling my father Ben and started calling him Benjamin. The summer before my sixteenth birthday, Mom and I had come to Houston for a couple of months so I could attend a summer intensive hosted by the Rousseau Academy of Dance. The Rousseau Ballet Company had one of North America’s premier ballet schools, and they only offered a few coveted spots every year. At the end of that summer session, I auditioned and made it into the academy. My parents had known it would mean a move from El Paso to Houston.

  As far as their jobs were concerned, the change wasn’t a problem. Dad could work anywhere there was internet, and Mom had transferred to the Houston office of the finance company for which she worked. Not long after we’d moved, though, the arguing started. Then they’d stopped talking altogether. Before long, Dad relocated to Norway. He claimed the demands of the job required him to go. But I knew differently. From then on, Mom called him Benjamin.

  “Mom, could you at least try?” I asked.

  Sliding a silver hoop into her earlobe, she ended the conversation. “Get your things, Christine, and I’ll meet you at the door.”

  I walked to my room to gather my dance bag and met her in the foyer.

  Taking her keys from the table by the door, she looked at me and picked a piece of lint from my warm-up shrug. “Really, Christine, you couldn’t have put a little more effort into your makeup this morning?”

  “What’s wrong with my makeup?” I raised a hand to my cheek.

  “It’s a bit dull, honey,” she said and opened the door to walk out. “You know that looking the part is a significant aspect of your training.”

  “Yes, but they don’t expect us to wear glitter eye shadow to class.”

  “There’s no need to get snarky. I simply think you could do better.”

  Neither of us spoke after that, not on the elevator down to the parking garage nor on the ride to the school—which gave me time to stare at my reflection in the car window and ponder if she was right. With my hair swept back in the prerequisite bun, it exposed my unusually small ears, but no amount of makeup would fix that. Plus, I probably toweled the sweat from my face a dozen times a day, so what was the point? The makeup I do wear is off by midmorning anyway.

  It wasn’t until Mom eased the car to the curb in front of the school building that she broke the silence. “I have a meeting this afternoon, but I’ll be here around five to get you.”

  “Okay,” I replied, dragging my bag from the seat and stepping out o
f the car. “But I don’t see why I can’t walk home.” I lowered my head to look in at her. “It would only take about ten-minutes. In fact, with traffic, it probably takes longer to drive it than it does to walk it.”

  “How would that look, though, honey?” she said. “What if one of your instructors saw you walking home? Or worse, what if Mr. Darby spotted you?”

  Stifling a groan, I hoisted my bag high on my shoulder. “I don’t think the school’s artistic director cares much about how I get home.”

  “I don’t have time to argue this now. Just wait for me this afternoon. Now close the door. I have to go.”

  Biting my lip to hold back the curse on the tip of my tongue, I slammed the door a split second before she hit the gas and the car pulled away. Then I heard someone call my name and I spun around to see Jenna down the block, wrestling with her dance bag and loose hair bun as she hurried to catch me.

  “What was that about?” she asked giving up on the bun to raise the bag over her head and anchor it across her chest.

  I glanced back at Mom’s car, now stopped at a red light, and I couldn’t help wonder why she worried so much about what other people thought. She hadn’t always been that way. But then, I knew why she was in such a foul mood today. It was because I pressed her to talk to Dad.

  Dropping my bag onto the pavement, I put my hands on Jenna’s shoulders to wheel her around and redo her unraveling bun. “That was Sharon Dadey having the last word,” I said, twisting, knotting, and refastening Jenna’s thick, amber hair in place.

  “My mother’s been gone this week,” she said, patting the bun for good measure as she pivoted to face me. “Dad actually let me bring chocolate ice cream home last night.”

  “I’m coming to your place,” I declared.

  “Eh, party’s over. She’ll be home this evening.”

  As we strode across the sizable courtyard that separated the Wakefield Center for the Performing Arts from the Rousseau Academy of Dance, Jenna changed the subject. “Hey, I heard Zaborov will be out today.”

  We went through the school’s side entry and paused inside the hallway. “Yeah? One could only hope.”

  Lena Zaborov was the toughest instructor at the Rousseau Academy of Dance. Although she’d been instrumental in my acceptance into the school, I’d not had her as an instructor during my first year as a level seven, but now, as a level eight, there was no escaping her. An accomplished dancer and teacher, the woman was a drill sergeant, and it wouldn’t bother me to have a day off from her.

  Jenna was about to elaborate when behind us the door opened and in stepped Evander Woodruff.

  “Be still my heart. If it isn’t the girl of my dreams,” he crooned in his squeaky adolescent voice.

  “Hey, Van,” I greeted as he strutted up to us.

  “Enchanté.” He bowed low, his black curls glinting under the fluorescent lights.

  “So which one of us is it today?” Jenna asked.

  Cocky and self-assured, the boy straightened to his full height, which only brought him to Jenna’s shoulders, and he took her by the hand.

  “It’s you, baby. It’s always been you.” Then drawing her fingers close, he puckered his lips.

  “Get over yourself, Woodruff,” Jenna grunted and extracted her hand before his mouth could make contact.

  Van merely shrugged and smiled impishly as he swept a rounded arm gracefully before his unitard-clad chest. “It’s a mystery why you would deny yourself all this.”

  Jenna rolled her eyes. “Yeah, it’s a mystery.”

  At thirteen, Evander Woodruff was the youngest in the level seven class. Other students his age were still level five or six, but Van danced beyond his years, and consequently, had an ego to match. He was half our size, but that didn’t stop him from hitting on us every opportunity he got. And though we’d shot him down repeatedly, he seemed impervious to the rejections and insisted we’d change our minds when he hit his growth spurt.

  Suddenly, Van’s phone went off, halting the conversation. Jenna made a shushing sound as she glanced over her shoulder down the hall at a couple of students standing outside a classroom. “You’d better turn that off before you get busted. We’re not supposed to use phones anywhere near a classroom.”

  Van made a whistling sound through his teeth, and ignoring her warning, withdrew the phone from the pocket of the sweat pants he wore over his unitard.

  “Oooh, check it,” he sputtered and tapped at the screen to reply to the text he’d received. Then a smile spread across his brown, baby face and he held up the phone for us to read the message. "It's from Liam. The theater ghost is back."

  Chapter Two

  When Van bolted for the door, Jenna and I rushed out after him. Sprinting across the plaza, away from the school building, we raced toward the Wakefield Center. My dance bag slapped my hip as I ran, and I laughed as I peered at Jenna behind me.

  “I hope Zaborov is gone today,” I yelled. “She’ll crush us if we’re late.”

  The idea of a theater ghost is utterly absurd. Still, as we approached the Wakefield, the hulking edifice that housed the opera and the ballet theaters, the excitement got the better of me and I grew breathless with anticipation.

  Wheezing and giggling, we reached the Center’s backdoor and found Van’s friend Liam waiting inside.

  “C’mon,” Liam instructed and motioned for us to follow.

  On each other’s heels, we took the hall leading to the Griffith Theater and hurried to the backstage entry. When we’d made it through the curtains and onto the stage, we almost collided with a crowd of dance students gathered around a security guard standing in the middle of the stage. The man held a notepad, and when he wasn’t looking upward, he was doodling on the pad.

  Jenna adjusted the bulk of her dance bag, hiked her chin toward Liam, and asked, “So, what’s the deal?”

  “Look there—beyond the guard.” Liam pointed to an area of the stage a couple of feet from the crowd. The floor there was peppered with shattered glass, and it was obvious the security guard was keeping the group of onlookers away from it. Naturally, the four of us lifted our eyes to the overhead lighting to see a busted stage light.

  “Everybody’s saying the ghost was on the catwalk last night,” Liam said.

  “Cooool,” Van crooned. “This is awesome.”

  “Get out,” Jenna muttered, as we moved closer.

  Static energy sparked around the stage as everyone talked at the same time. The clatter of voices echoed through empty theater, making it sound like ten times more people than were actually there, as rumor and speculation filtered through the throng. I’ve attended many ballets, and almost every theater had its ghost story. There was always someone, or something, haunting the halls and plaguing the dancers. There was no reason why the Wakefield Center with its two theaters would be any different.

  Movement overhead caught my attention. There was another security guard on the catwalk above us. I nudged Jenna to look as the man made a show of examining the damaged fixture. With an air of self-importance, he stooped forward to inspect the light’s framework and the crowd around us seemed to hold its breath.

  Playfully, Jenna coughed into her hand and murmured, “Rent-a-cop,” breaking the silence and annoying some of the spectators.

  I elbowed her and several kids around us shushed her.

  “Oh, c’mon. That was funny,” she whined and touched her ribs where my elbow had connected.

  We continued to watch as the guard fiddled with the light a few seconds more before scooping something off the grated flooring and straightening. He studied whatever it was in his hand a moment then clenched it in his fist, grabbed the railing, and made his way carefully down the wobbly stairs. When he reached the other security guard, he opened his palm to display its contents. Collectively, we scurried over to see what he held.

  “A necklace!” Jenna blurted. “The ghost wore a necklace?”

  A silver chain lay draped across the guard’s callused fingers
. He lifted it for the other man to see and a pendant swung free and dangled in the air. I strained for a closer look, but one of the instructors noticed how many students had gathered and barked out a command, “All of you get to class. There’s nothing to see here.” Then she brushed aside an onslaught of complaints and shooed us off.

  Deflated and disappointed, the lower level dancers grumbled as they departed. I tagged along with the stream of people, snatching a couple of backward glances. The guards had put their heads together and were speaking in low tones. I was curious about the necklace. Obviously, there was no ghost, but someone had been up there.

  Leaving the same way we’d come, we stepped out of the building into the morning sun and I shielded my eyes from its blinding light. We’d made it a few steps before I realized Van and Liam weren’t with us. Taking hold of Jenna’s arm, I tugged her aside as the last of the students passed us by. Then I caught sight of Van and Liam. They’d paused outside the door.

  “Hey, let’s go—before we’re late,” Jenna shouted at them. But the boys ignored her and she knotted her brow.

  We backtracked to join them and as we neared, it sounded like they were arguing. Well, maybe not arguing, but they were clearly worked up over something.

  “I didn’t do it,” Liam bristled, his cheeks blooming red.

  Van thumped him smartly on the chest, dismissing his declaration, and growled, “You’re gonna get us cau…” but he stopped abruptly when he sensed our presence.

  Liam, however, had the last word and added under his breath, “I’m telling you I didn’t do it.”

  Jenna placed a hand on her hip and let her gaze flit from Liam to Van and back again. “What are y’all up to?” she asked suspiciously.

  Van shifted his weight casually from one leg to the other, his face a mask of sugary innocence, and said, “Nothing.” Then he pinned Liam with an expression that made Liam drop his eyes and look away to avoid his scowl.

  When Liam finally lifted his head, tiny beads of sweat dotted the peach fuzz above his lip, and his hands twitched at his side like a nervous gunslinger. “Nothin’,” he said, echoing Van’s response. “We ain’t up to nothin’.”

  The two sneaks were definitely up to something.

  After an extended silence, Van spoke up. “I bet that necklace belonged to that dead dancer. Right, Liam?”

  Liam’s mouth pinched to one side, and what followed seemed more like reluctant capitulation than agreement. “Yeah, it probably belonged to that dead dancer.”

  “What dead dancer?” I asked, surprised. There’d been nothing around the school about anyone dying. I wasn’t aware of anyone having passed away.