Phantom's Dance, Page 7

  “Oh, don’t cry.” Jenna took me in her arms. “People divorce all the time. It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  A few dancers entered the room and she released me, and I twisted away to hide my face from the others.

  “Go to the bathroom,” she suggested. “I’ll tell Ms. Zaborov you started your period.”

  Without hesitation, I obeyed.

  I spent some time in the restroom, splashing water on my face, trying to wrap my head around the truth that had been right in front of me. I was relieved Jenna was the only one aware of how clueless I’d been. Then I wondered if Marisol had guessed it. She knew my parents better than Jenna did. Had she seen it, too?

  When I could no longer hide in the bathroom, I joined the class, but my bout of crying left me tired and distracted, and it was evident in my work the remainder of the day.

  “Christine!” Mrs. Hahn bellowed and slapped her hand on top of the piano to halt the music during repertory. Then she walked toward me, the thud of her cane audibly marking every step she took. “There is no feeling. Where is the anguish, the agony? Has your heart never been broken?”

  I stared at the dance floor and felt the eyes of my classmates on me.

  “In spite of Duke Albrecht’s betrayal,” she continued, “Giselle loves this man. Yet you dance like you are going to the local Wal-Mart. Where is the drama? Where is the grief and shame? You must act, not merely flit about! This—” she waved a hand in the air around me—“this is mediocre, and if you can’t improve, we may have to rethink your audition for the second company.”

  From across the studio, Deirdre snickered as a few soft gasps issued from the other dancers. Mrs. Hahn let the word mediocre float around the room like an ominous specter settling eventually on me. “Perhaps you should take some time and reexamine your goals here, Christine—if you are to get beyond this plateau.”

  Mediocre and plateau—words that have the ability to flay a dancer alive. If only Mrs. Hahn knew, my heart really was broken. I kept seeing Dad, thousands of miles away, forlorn and alone. That should qualify as grief and anguish. Yet I couldn’t translate it into my dancing.

  “I’ll get it, Mrs. Hahn. I promise.”

  “I hope so, Christine. I really hope so.”

  Since I’d already auditioned and failed, I wasn’t sure what might happen if denied another opportunity. Would they keep me on as a level eight? If so, I would be the oldest in the class. I was already older than most of them now.

  She dismissed the class and everyone left the room, except Jenna. She waited until Mrs. Hahn had departed and said, “Don’t let her get to you. She’s an old hag past her prime who gets her kicks dogging dancers.”

  “Jenna!” someone exclaimed, and we whirled about to see Ms. Zaborov standing inside the door. It was obvious she’d overheard Jenna’s acerbic insult.

  Beside me, Jenna swallowed loudly and I wondered if this could get her kicked out of school.

  For a long moment, Ms. Zaborov stared at us. Finally, she said, “You may go, Jenna. I would speak to Christine.”

  Jenna glanced at me, unsure, and then curtsied to Ms. Zaborov before hurrying out the door.

  I readied myself for whatever Ms. Zaborov was about to dish out. No doubt, it would be a reiteration of Mrs. Hahn’s harsh critique.

  Then she did something strange. Casually, she walked a circle around me, her eyes roving up and down. At last, she spoke, “I believe I should work with you for the audition.”

  “What? I mean, ma’am?” This wasn’t what I’d expected, and I thought I’d misunderstood.

  “You need my assistance,” she said pointedly.

  “Yes, ma’am. But Mrs. Hahn—” I indicated the door the woman had exited.

  “Eh, I shall speak to Elaina, but first, I must know if you wish to work with me.”

  “Yes,” I replied without hesitation. “Of course. I would be honored to work with you.”

  Ms. Zaborov is the best—the best. In addition, this would get Mrs. Hahn off my case, and that was my main concern right then.

  “I will talk to Elaina. But consider it done.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, and like that, she was gone.

  Both stunned and elated, I ran to catch Jenna in the dressing room. When I threw myself into a chair next to her dressing table, she asked, “Did she say anything about what I said? Shit, I thought she was going to kick me out right then and there. Is she kicking me out?”

  “No, no. She didn’t say anything about that. She wants to tutor me.”

  “What? Like private lessons?”

  “Yeah, can you believe it?”

  “I told you so,” Jenna said, a satisfied glint in her eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a lot better than you give yourself credit for. Ms. Z. wouldn’t give you the time of day much less offer to personally mentor you if she didn’t think you were good. This should help you get past the panic attacks.”

  I hoped Jenna was right. I didn’t know what Mrs. Hahn wanted, so I didn’t know how to please her. I felt with Ms. Z. I had a better chance. At least maybe I wouldn’t be excluded from the audition.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It wasn’t until we’d left for the day and Jenna climbed into her mother’s car, that I remembered I didn’t have a ride home. I decided not to call Mom or a taxi and walked instead.

  The warm, late summer air was soothing and made me slightly lethargic. I’d been on an emotional roller coaster all day, and I didn’t care much for roller coasters. They threw off my equilibrium.

  As I strolled down the sidewalk, my mind was all over the place, jumping form one issue to another. With Ms. Zaborov in my corner, I’d have a buffer between Mrs. Hahn and me. Then there was my conversation with Jenna. I couldn’t believe how blind I’d been about my parents. The image of Cooper Nance and Mom cozied up to the sink together still nagged me. Had she been cheating on Dad all along? Was that why he went to Norway in the first place? Thinking about it caused my stomach to hurt, and I ground my fist into my midriff.

  “Oh, no, please don’t let me have a panic attack here on the street.”

  Weaving through pedestrians, I concentrated on my breathing, trying not to let my inside take over my outside.

  “I will not have a panic attack. I will not have a panic attack.”

  The familiar cold sweat oozed from my pores, and I paused there, willing it to go away. I needed a diversion to get my mind off the anxiety rising in my chest. Glancing around, I worked to get my bearings and realized I was at the alley where I’d seen the street dancers. Hesitating for a brief moment, I found myself walking down the passageway alongside the office building. When I rounded its corner, I saw the alley was empty. Disappointed, I circled about to leave.

  “Hey,” someone yelled. “Hey, girlie!” I’d been so distracted I hadn’t noticed the snaggletooth, homeless man seated at his camp. For a moment, I considered running, especially when he said, “Hey, come ‘ere. I got somethin’ for ya.” He must have seen the hesitation on my face because he explained, “Magdalena left ya somethin’.”

  At the mention of Magdalena’s name, I gave in and walked to where he perched on a milk crate. “What are you talking about?

  “I got it here somewhere.” He pilfered through tattered coat pockets, patting down his chest until he found what he looked for. “Here it is!” He pulled a folded piece of paper free from his jacket and held it out to me. “Magdalena said if you came back to give this to ya.”

  Cautiously, I took the paper from him and unfolded it. It was an advertising flyer for an event at Discovery Green, a park downtown only a few blocks from our apartment. It read,

  Dance-Off

  Saturday, August 27th 6 p.m.

  Hosted by Urban Honesty

  From Street Feet Studios

  A photo inset at the bottom showed a group of dancers performing at a similar venue. It was the crew I’d seen in the alley.

  “Magdalena wanted you
to give me this?”

  “Yep,” the man replied, flicking a mosquito away from his face.

  Magdalena was inviting me to the event. I glanced at the day and time again. Saturday, the day of my date with Raoul. He hadn’t mentioned where we were going, and I wondered if it would be inappropriate to ask if we could attend.

  Refolding the paper, I unzipped my dance bag to put it away. Shoving the flyer inside, I saw the twenty-dollar bill Mom had given me for a taxi the day before. I pulled it out and handed it to the man.

  “Thanks,” I said, and then I headed home.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When I arrived at the apartment, I went straight to my room and my laptop to do a search on the dance troupe. Turned out they have a studio in the Montrose area. I was impressed with their repertoire of multicultural, modern, and even traditional offerings and I was embarrassed to admit I thought they were a street gang. I’d never stopped to consider they might be professional dancers. And I’d accused Mom of being a snob.

  After viewing the Street Feet Studios website, I thought of calling Marisol to talk to her about Mom and Dad but changed my mind. I’d had enough of the roller coaster for one day. So I logged on to the correspondence school site to complete a math assignment.

  Not long after, Mom arrived home. I could hear her in the foyer. Then she appeared at my door. “I’m home. How was your day?”

  I looked at her. “Fine.”

  “That’s it? Just fine?”

  She sagged against the doorframe and yawned. I thought of confronting her about Cooper again, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. It was one thing to think my parents were having trouble in their marriage, but the idea that Mom may have cheated, which consequently led to Dad’s move to Norway, was more than I was ready to face.

  “Yeah, just fine,” I said.

  “Well, dinner will be ready in about an hour.” She shoved off the doorframe and rolled her head, massaging the back of her neck with her fingertips. “That is if I don’t fall asleep making it.”

  I finished the math by the time she called me to eat. This meal was no less awkward than the one with Cooper Nance the night before. We both picked at our food, and for the most part, sat silently pretending to have a meal together. After a few failed attempts to engage me, she finally gave up, and I went to my room, where I stayed the remainder of the evening.

  It was much the same the next day, as she was on her cell the whole morning, even on the drive to the school. When I stepped out of the car, I told her the same thing I had the day before. “I’ll be late.”

  Her only response was a hurried wave as she continued her phone conversation and drove away.

  Several times throughout the day, Jenna asked me if I was okay. “I shouldn’t have said anything about your parents,” she lamented at the lunch table.

  “Forget it. It’s not your fault my family is screwed up.”

  “I know what will make you feel better.” She wiggled her eyebrows and took a draw off a bottle of water then plopped it onto the table. “Raoul Chaney.”

  Immediately, I smiled.

  “Thought so.”

  “Are you nervous about this afternoon?” I asked.

  She shook her head and nibbled a carrot. “Nah, I figure it has to be better than dancing with the stuck-up boys around here.”

  As the time approached four, Ms. Zaborov came for us during repertory again. She and Mrs. Hahn barely acknowledged each other, and I wondered if the competition between ballerinas ever went away. It obviously hadn’t weakened between these two.

  We waited a few minutes and gradually, two and three at a time, the football team trickled into the room. As they’d promised, they were in workout clothes not too different from what male dancers wear, sans the tights. The logo on their T-shirts was like Coach Howell’s, only on closer inspection I noticed the D in Davis High School was fashioned from a snake, its head forming the top of the letter, mouth open and fangs bared. These people were serious about their football.

  I’d never been one to chew my nails. In ballet, hands were as instrumental as feet and were to be kept clean and manicured, but now, watching the super-sized, testosterone machines enter the studio, I had to resist the urge to gnaw off a couple of fingernails.

  “Don’t look so scared,” Jenna teased. “They won’t bite.”

  Oddly, when Raoul walked in, I realized I was no longer nervous. Quite the opposite. I wanted to impress him with my art, to show him who I was and of what I was capable.

  Unfortunately, an awkward, invisible line appeared in the room, separating Jenna and me from the boys. We stood on our side, and they on theirs. Eventually, Ms. Zaborov entered and broke some of the tension.

  “Ah, and here we are, ready to work, no?” A couple of the boys murmured a response, but Jenna and I remained silent.

  Without pause, Ms. Zaborov stationed herself before the group and proceeded to lecture them on the importance of proper training for any physical sport or activity. She was a pixie among giants, but I knew she could snap one like a twig if need be.

  Her discourse complete, Ms. Z. moved across the floor to the barre and commanded, “Christine, if you would please,” and I joined her.

  “First, we will start with turnout. Christine will demonstrate.”

  Placing a hand on the barre, I stood tall in sixth position. I felt exposed—in my leotard and tights, since Ms. Z. wouldn’t allow us to wear a dance skirt because it concealed hip alignment.

  “You see,”—she waved a hand for me to move—“notice how the hip is turned out.” I opened my knees, and keeping my heels close, I gradually adjusted my toes outward. “This allows for greater extension of the leg. Christine has excellent turnout.”

  From somewhere in the crowd, a boy said, “Give me a few minutes with her and I bet I can make her hips turn out.”

  Sniggering and high fives bounced around the room, as heat shot up my neck and traveled all the way to my hairline. I tried not to look at them, and in averting my gaze, caught sight of Raoul in the mirror. He elbowed the guy beside him and gave him a dirty look. Then he mouthed something I couldn’t make out, but the guy grimaced and threw his hands in the air in mock offense. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Raoul Chaney had defended me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ms. Zaborov didn’t acknowledge the outburst. I was the only one who saw the tick at the corner of her eye that revealed her irritation. She remained professional and in control.

  “We will try these on the floor first.”

  Then she had Jenna and I execute the moves, lying on our backs, soles of the feet together to allow gravity to pull our knees toward the floor. Though this was the more provocative pose, no one made a lewd remark this time. Satisfied the boys were at last serious, Ms. Zaborov dispersed the team across the floor and put them to work.

  It was slightly comical to watch the boys follow Ms. Zaborov’s commands. Their massive bulk didn’t respond so well to the unfamiliar movements. There was an occasional grunt, and someone complained, “Whose idea was this?” By the time class was over, the Davis High Diamondbacks realized they had greatly underestimated Lena Zaborov’s ability to inflict pain, and I felt sure they’d gained a new respect for ballet in general.

  As the team left, Jenna and I toweled off and Raoul sauntered over to us.

  “We still on for Saturday?”

  A cool shiver trickled down my back, and it was hard to tell if it was the droplet of sweat that ran the length of my spine, or the sound of his satin-smooth voice that caused it.

  “Yeah,” I said, “we’re still on for Saturday.”

  Jenna wrapped her towel around her waist and tied it. “What does it take to get that guy Troy to make a move?”

  Raoul glanced across the room where Troy was down on one knee, tying his shoe. “Troy’s kind of shy.”

  “Good thing I’m not,” Jenna stated and left us to walk purposely toward him.

  “So, you need a ride home?” Rao
ul asked when we were alone.

  “Yeah—no. I mean, yes, but I can’t leave now. I have to stay for some one-on-one with Ms. Zaborov.”

  “Let me get this straight.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “You’ve been here for eight hours and now you’re staying for more torture?”

  “I know—masochistic, isn’t it? But Ms. Zaborov is helping with my weaknesses because I’m planning to audition for the Rousseau Ballet’s junior company.’

  “Weaknesses! If you have weaknesses, I sure don’t see them.”

  His compliment was flattering, but I didn’t know how to respond. So I raked a slippered toe across the floor to have something to focus on, while I tried not to do or say the wrong thing.

  “I have a few minutes before we start, though—if you want to get some water and talk,” I said.

  “I could use some water.”

  Guiding Raoul from the studio to the kitchenette, we passed several dancers along the way, including Deirdre. Unable to conceal her curiosity, she ogled us. And with an unexpected burst of confidence, I looked down my nose at her in the same manner she had me the day before.

  Inside the kitchen, I removed two bottles of water from the refrigerator and we sat at one of the tables. Raoul chugged down half of his before taking a breath to ask, “So what do you want to do this weekend? We can grab something to eat, maybe at the Aquarium.”

  “I’ve never been to the Aquarium.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “You’ve never been to the Aquarium? But it’s only two blocks from here.”

  “I guess we never took the time. Mom works a lot, and between my online classes and my dancing, I stay busy.”

  He probably thought me a loser with no more personal life than I had.

  “Your parents are divorced, too? How long?”

  The mention of my parents sent a pinching sensation through my stomach.

  “Mine have been divorced since I was ten. My father remarried, and now I have two stepsisters.”

  “My parents aren’t divorced.” I shook my head. “My dad is out of the country on business. He’ll be home soon.”

  “Oh, I thought it was just you and your mother.”

  Not wanting to discuss my fractured family, I scrambled for a different topic and remembered Magdalena’s invitation.