Allegra (4 page)

“How's your new school?' he asks, pulling away but letting his hands rest on my shoulders. I notice his sleep-mussed hair and the stubble on his skin.

“Well, it's not what I expected. They have stupid rules, just like at Maple Creek, and the dance teacher,”— I pause, wondering how to describe her—“she's kinda high-strung.”

“Aren't all dance teachers high-strung?” He laughs. “You know what they say: those who can, do; those who can't, teach.” His hands drop to his sides.

“Jerry!” Mom says sternly. She loves teaching.

He shrugs, still grinning. “I'm just repeating what I've heard.”

Mom crosses her arms. “Those who can think for themselves do, and those who can't repeat ignorant things that other ignorant people say,” she says, flushing. I look from one to the other, wondering what's really going on here.

“It's just a joke, Cindy,” Dad says, crossing the room and settling back into the couch, facing Mom. “Relax.”

“Not a funny one,” Mom answers.

There's a long, awkward silence, and then Mom stands up. “I'll get dinner started. I have to leave early for the theater.”

She leaves the room and Dad and I sit across from one another. I'm acutely aware of the silence.

“How was the road trip?” I ask.

Dad stretches, a full-body one. “It was good.”

“How good?” I ask, repeating something he often asks me.

“Pretty good,” he answers, now parroting my usual response. He grins.

“Better than the last one?”

“I can't honestly say.” He looks thoughtful. “I don't remember anything about the last one.” He hesitates, then adds, “They're all starting to run together in my head.”

We sit quietly for another minute, but this time it's a comfortable silence. Dad's probably thinking about past road trips, trying to remember the details, and I'm wondering how I might get to know him better, how I might get him to talk about his experiences. He stretches again. “I guess I'd better shower,” he says. “Before your mom sends me back on the road. We'll talk later.”

I nod, and as I watch him leave the room I notice the slight stoop to his shoulders. He's finally starting to show his age.

I set the table while my mom tosses the salad and then spoons sauce over the pasta. I find a couple of candles in a drawer, place them in the center of the table and rummage around in another drawer, looking for matches.

“Special occasion?” Mom asks, putting the food on the table.

“Yeah. Dad's home.” I strike the match.

After cleaning up the dinner dishes, I get changed and grab the car keys from the hook beside the door. A couple of months ago, when I first got my driver's license, Mom began riding to work with another musician so that I could use the car to get myself to dance classes. It was a huge relief, as the bus late at night is sketchy. Besides, I hate getting on the bus when I'm all sweaty from class.

I've just climbed into our Mazda when a little red sports car pulls into the driveway behind me. Looking in the rearview mirror, I'm surprised to see that the driver is a man. For some reason, I've assumed Mom's been getting rides from one of the other women. I've never thought to ask, and I haven't noticed the driver until now.

Mom must have been watching for him, because she steps right out of the house, wearing her black floor-length performance dress, and the driver steps out of the car to open the passenger door for her. He's wearing a black tux. They look more like a couple going to a fancy charity event than two musicians heading to work. She waves at me and flashes a smile. The driver waves too, and then they're off. That's when I notice Dad standing at the living-room window, mug in hand, watching. He's changed into clean clothes for dinner, but they're his comfy clothes, baggy sweatpants and an old T-shirt. His hair is tousled from the shower and not yet combed. His face is thoughtful as he watches them drive away. “See ya tonight, Dad,” I say to myself, waving. I just like the sound of it.

I can see lights on in the house when I pull into the driveway. This cheers me up considerably after a painfully tough jazz-tech class at Turning Pointe. Then, as I step into the hallway, I hear music floating up from the studio in the basement. Live music. Dad's band is already rehearsing. I'm surprised they haven't taken at least a night off. It can only mean one thing: they aren't staying in town for long.

My damp dance leotard sticks to my skin, but it's so nice to hear Dad's music that instead of heading straight to the shower, I pour myself a bowl of cereal and plunk myself down at the kitchen table. The Loose Ends have a Celtic sound with a rock beat. It appeals to a wide variety of people, young and old. I'm still amazed at the reaction I get from people when I tell them that my dad plays with the Loose Ends. I'm proud of him, but I'd still rather he had a job where I'd get to see him more often.

The band is practicing something new. It's catchy. I can hear Dad on the sax, really jazzing it up. He calls himself the bass player, but he actually plays a whole range of instruments. As I cross the room to the sink, I find myself responding to the music. My hips swing back and forth as I bend down to put my dishes in the dishwasher, and by the time I've straightened up, my whole body is moving. Warmed up from three hours in the dance studio, I get right into it, my hips leading the way. A solo turns into a duet as I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the dark window. We whirl around the kitchen, arms stretched overhead, leaping, spinning. I throw everything I know into the mix: drag step, chaîné, axel turn, kick layout to the ground, roll and stand-up. The pulsating beat, the complicated rhythms, the wail of the singer—it all energizes me, and I feel free and safe enough to simply let go. I dance faster, harder, in total abandon.

When the music slows, my movement follows: chassé, attitude turn, fondu into arabesque, brushing through into a pirouette. I'm left gazing at my own reflection. I curtsey, and my reflection curtsies back, the perfect dance partner.

A sudden clapping of hands startles me, and I spin around. The band's manager, Steve, steps out from the shadows near the top of the basement stairs.

“You were watching me?”

“I didn't mean to,” he says apologetically. “I just came up to grab some beer, and there you were. You were so… so into it.” His face takes on a different expression, one I can't quite read but that makes me a little uncomfortable. “Anyway, I didn't want to disturb you,” he says.

How stupid had I looked? Steve stays put, staring at me, and I stare back, not knowing what to do next. I struggle to catch my breath.

And then we hear footsteps coming up the stairs. “Where's that beer, Steve?” Dad's voice breaks the spell of our strange standoff seconds before he appears in the doorway. He glances at Steve, puzzled, and then steps around him and into the kitchen. That's when he sees me standing there, zombie-like. “Legs, you're home!” he says. He looks me over, a crease deepening between his brows. “Looks like you should be hitting the shower.” He glances behind him at Steve, who's still glued to his spot in the shadows. “What are you staring at?” Dad asks, his eyes narrowing. “Never seen a girl in ballet tights before?” He looks back at me; I'm standing equally still. “Go on, Allegra,” he says, using my full name. He must be serious.

Steve steps back so I can slide past him into the hall. I shut my bedroom door and pull off my leotard. This is the first time in ages that my dad has actually behaved like a father, acting all protective. I slip into my housecoat. It's too late, really; I'm practically a grown-up myself. But my heart expands in my chest. I like Dad telling me what to do.

I poke my head into the hallway and check to see that the coast is clear before I scurry across to the bathroom. I shut and lock the door behind me.

As I turn on the shower, I remember the expression on Steve's face when I caught him watching me dance. At first he looked guilty, like he'd been caught doing something wrong. But then his expression changed. He looked almost smug, as if he'd liked what he'd seen and didn't mind that I knew it.

My housecoat drops to the floor and I step into the warm stream of water. As I let it pummel my sore muscles, I think again of Steve's expression. With a slow wave of understanding, I realize that I liked that he liked it.

F
our

The warm summer weather has stretched into fall, so I spend my lunch hour walking around the school's neighborhood, listening to music on my phone. It's better than eating my lunch alone in the cafeteria. I'm a little concerned about what I'll do when winter sets in, but for now this is the perfect way to pass the time.

English class follows lunch today, and I go to the classroom early and flip through my music-theory textbook. It's just as I expected: I've already studied all the material they're going to cover this year. But I want to review it before I take the exam, just to brush up. I turn to the unit on harmony. It's been a long time since I've studied that.

Thump
. A textbook lands on the desk beside mine, and the girl with the cornrows slides into the seat. She places a can of diet cola on the corner of the desk and flips open the English textbook. “You're early,” she says.

“You too.”

“Yeah. Thought I'd get ahead on some reading. I'm Talia, by the way.”

I look at her and nod. “Allegra.”

Today all her braids are pulled into a ponytail. It accentuates her flawless skin, her perfectly chiseled features. We both turn to our respective textbooks, but I'm distracted, too aware of her presence. The classroom is empty except for the two of us, and we're sitting side by side, as if we're old friends or something.

“Is Ms. Dekker always so anal?” I ask suddenly.

She turns to look at me. “Ballet's kinda anal, don't you think? Do it right, or don't do it at all.”

I think about that, then nod. I don't mind ballet, but the truth is, I only take it because it's a prerequisite for all the other dance classes. I was confident with my form, though, until my first class with Ms. Dekker. Now I'm wondering if she'll find fault with all my technique.

“How long have you been at this school?” I ask.

“I transferred in last winter. A spot came open and I didn't want to lose my place on the waiting list so I took it, but it was hard, coming in the middle of a term.”

I haven't noticed that it's particularly easy at the start of a term either, but I don't say so. “I was on the waiting list for almost two years,” I tell her.

“Yeah, that's about average.”

“Do you dance outside of this school?”

“No,” she says. “I'm here for visual arts: painting, sculpting, stuff like that. But you know how they like you to balance out your schedule here. I like the precision of ballet. I took dance classes when I was younger, so luckily I got put in the senior class here.”

“What music classes are you taking?” I ask.

“Chamber choir.”

“Who teaches it?”

“Mr. Rocchelli,” she says, and then she smiles. “Rocky.”

“What do you think of him?”

Her perfectly arched eyebrows pop up. “You ask a lot of questions, Allegra. What do I think of Mr. Rocchelli?” She considers. “I think he's kinda cute.”

“You do?” I glance at her, wondering if she's kidding. “I think he's a goof.”

She studies me for a moment. “I'm willing to overlook a little goofiness.” She grins.

Other students are trickling into the classroom, taking their seats. Talia returns to reading. I close my book, knowing I won't absorb anything with all the chatter around me. Talia glances over at me and does the same. “We should hang out sometime,” she says, picking up her pen, her thumb repeatedly popping the button at the end.

“Sure,” I say. Stay calm, I tell myself. I study my nails. Was it just two days ago I wrote her off as being too smug? I turn my attention to the teacher who has just entered the room and vow not to blow it this time.