No One's Watching

NO ONE'S WATCHING

Copyright © 2014 SANDY GREEN

ISBN 978-1-62135-258-7

Cover Art Designed by FOR THE MUSE DESIGN

For Gary, Olivia and Andy

I was Giselle, struggling against my grave as it sucked me into its airless, black hole.

Forever.

That was kinda how I felt. But I wasn't performing the romantic ballet when it was first presented in the eighteen hundreds. This was the twenty-first century as I waited for my first class of summer dance camp at Chester Park University. The narrow hallway outside the ballet studio pulsed with dancers bending, stretching, and gossiping. I fidgeted, bracing myself against the wall.

My roommate, Candace, leaned toward me and asked in a soft, Southern drawl, “You okay, Kit?”

I nodded, my lips trembled. Since coming to this camp four years ago when I was ten, I'd dreamed of being in Mr. Jarenko's advanced ballet class.

“You'll be fine.” Her grin dimpled her cheeks. “He's not as bad as his reputation.”

Blake, my crush from last year, wandered down the hall to fill his water bottle, and drink from the fountain. I relaxed as I concentrated on breathing and counting the sips he took.

The final piano notes from the class before us evaporated. After the Intermediate Ballet I students clapped for their teacher, the door opened, and they rushed out. The advanced ballet girls — I hardly believed that included me — filed into the studio in our regulation black leotards and pink or taupe tights.

The room was warm and humid, like the previous class had used up all the oxygen. Candace and I stowed our dance bags under the wooden
barre
against the wall in the back of the studio. Blake stood close to the corner with his friends. He seemed to have no idea I'd returned or was alive.

Shelly, the only other dancer from my home studio, paused as she passed. “We're finally in the advanced class. I hope you make the most of it.” She playfully squeezed Blake's arm before claiming the head of the
barre
on the short wall by the mirror in the front of the studio.

I frowned and dropped my gaze. Couldn't I catch a break from Shelly's attitude at least for the summer?

Candace sat in a straddle, stretching from side to side. When I tried to sink into a split, my tights resisted. Had Mom thrown them in the dryer by mistake and shrunk them?

Mr. Jarenko, the ballet master, strode in and the room hushed. Without him telling us what to do, our class of twenty-four dancers lined up with our left hands on the
barre
s. Except for me. I stood and yanked the waistband higher, wiggling in a little marching dance while my roommate and everyone else posed in silence.

Mr. Jarenko rested one hand on the baby grand piano and stood with his heels together and toes pointing outward. In his black slacks and white shirt, he resembled a flattened penguin. That was where the similarity to any cuddly creature stopped. “We start now.
Pliés
. Everyone, first position.” His oiled, brown hair swept over his forehead in a wave.

I plucked my tights from the knees up, hoping to give my long legs extra room. The tights had fit fine a month ago when I wore them at the end of the year recital for our studio — The Othersen Ballet School. Now I was struggling with a pair of kiddie tights. Could I have outgrown them in four weeks?

Mr. Jarenko zoomed close to me and squinted at my nametag. “Kitty? This is your name?”

I stopped squirming and fingered the plastic rectangle pinned to the shoulder of my black leotard, shuddering at the nickname. “Kitri. I was named after the girl in the
Don Quixote
ballet.”

Mr. Jarenko frowned. “Too much talking. First position.” He zipped back to the piano.

I snapped still, the tips of my ears burning. Somebody giggled. I flushed, inching back so Candace would have more room in front of me.

While the pianist played Schubert, Mr. Jarenko demonstrated the first exercise, counting it out in his Slavic accent. I took a deep breath and pushed aside the awkward moment. This was going to be a wonderful class. Professional ballet dancers took classes from him all the time.

Mom had practically ordered me to take a break from a grueling year's worth of twice-daily dance classes, weekly rehearsals, and performances. I was relaxed, refreshed, and focused. A teensy smile tugged at my mouth.

“Ready?” Mr. Jarenko nodded at the pianist, and the music started again. “Begin.”

I tightened my stomach, lengthened my spine and bent my knees. My dream of becoming a member of the Pennsylvania Ballet Company was one step closer.

Until the crotch in my tights ripped.

It wasn't the kind of split that came from tearing a seam, producing an unmistakable announcement you'd grown out of the seat of your pants. It was a split where the threads in my tights held on for dear life and gave up with a pop. Of course, it occurred at the quietest part of the music so everyone heard. The run shot down my inner thigh like a little ladder.

I dove into my dance bag under the
barre
, distracted by a crinkled picture of Grandma as a young soloist with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo in her
Les Sylphides
costume. The same solo I'd dance in the end of camp performance. “This will be you, Kit,” she had signed. I nibbled my lip, wishing she felt better, and tucked the photo safely in the side pocket. I slipped my foot into the leg of a pair of black stirrup tights.

Mr. Jarenko lifted his glasses and peered at me, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You, Kitty. No black tights.”

“Umm, Kitri.” I pulled the black leg over my ruined tights.

He frowned.

I tapped my nametag and frowned. “Kitri. Not Kitty.”

His stare burned holes in my retinas. He gestured around the room. “Everybody same. All girls pink or taupe tights and black leotard. Unless you're a boy?”

Giggles from the class.

“If you're a boy, then you wear black tights.”

Shelly raised her penciled eyebrows over her giant brown eyes and smirked. Candace sneaked a peek at me. Her chubby cheeks barely hid her mouth pulled down at the corners.

Mr. Jarenko nodded at the boys in our class, with their white T-shirts tucked into black tights with black soft shoes, and turned to the rest of the class. “
Tendue
to second position.”

I peeled off the tights, throwing them back into my dance bag. I searched for my long, pink leg warmers to hide the ripped tights. Heat rose from my neck and baked the bun on my head as I dug around. Would anybody notice my ruined tights? I didn't have a pink, filmy skirt, like some of the dancers. One leg warmer lay in a side pocket, and I pulled it on. Where was my head when I packed my dance bag last night?

As I bent my legs in the wider stance, the ladders shot down my calves like falling dominoes. I straightened my knees in time to the music, staring above Candace's big, blonde hair bun to a tiny nail hole in the wall. Someone had moved a picture. I blinked away tears, focusing on what could've been the picture in order to take my mind away from crying. Edgar Dégas maybe? He was always one to paint pictures of dancers. In class, in rehearsal, on stage…

Mr. Jarenko barked at each of us as he dashed around the room. “Kitty. Arms,” he snapped at me.

I jumped and lifted my drooping elbow, holding my arm straight out to the side.

He halted, blinked, and rushed off to lift Nicki's sagging chin. She shared the suite with Candace and me.

Someone snorted. Sweat trickled down my neck.

We practiced
tendue
s,
petit battements,
and
grand battements
. I mopped my face with a small towel I'd hung on the
barre
. In the center of the room,
au milieu
, we practiced slow
adagio
s and small jumps.

Toward the end of class, Mr. Jarenko told us to put on our toe shoes. “Hurry, hurry, girls.” He smacked his hands together several times.

My heart sank. Big jumps and leaps were my favorite part of class but we were doing
pointe
work instead. I pulled my new, unused toe shoes from my dance bag, all satiny and pink. I rubbed one against my cheek inhaling a lovely fresh smell of leather and stiffener. It was a mistake to bring new
pointe
shoes without breaking them in first, but I didn't think we'd need them on the first day. Forgetting to pack my old, worn out ones just in case was stupid. Plus, I hadn't wrapped my toes with first aid tape in order to protect them from chafing. I crammed some lamb's wool in the toe. I flexed the soles and bit my lip as I squeezed them on, crushing my toes into one lump.

I stood in the small wooden rosin box on the floor near the piano, grinding the amber rocks into the slippery soles and tips of my shoes. I hoped the powder would help me not slip once I got out onto the wood floor.

“Are you going to let anyone else use the rosin?” Shelly rested her hand on her tiny waist. Her hipbone stuck out from her leotard like the angle of a shovel. She tilted her head back and stared down her nose. Which was hard to do considering I was taller than her by a mile.

“Sorry.” I shrank and clunked out of the box.

“What's with the new
pointe
shoes?”

“I needed them. My old ones were shot.” Especially after the performance schedule Mom had us on.

She shook her head. “Didn't your mom make sure you wore them for a couple of classes before bringing them here? Especially for the advanced class.”

Not directly. Had Mom made a point of reminding Shelly? Pang.

Shelly tapped at the rosin with her toe shoes, clean yet perfectly flexible. An ankle brace was barely visible under her pink tights as she hurried away to flex her shoes at the
barre
. She was on a full ride to the ballet camp and had a full scholarship at Mom's ballet studio. She plucked at the leg openings of her leotard, one of my old ones from two years ago still in good shape. She loved Mom. Why couldn't she be at least a little nice to me?

I leaned against the
barre
near cute Blake with his wavy dark hair, who didn't even notice me last summer, and Jupiter, his redheaded friend. My pinkie toes pinched as I wriggled them in the boxy, stiff part of my
pointe
shoes. My attention toggled from my aching feet to Blake. What was different about him? He flipped his long bangs out of his eyes. His calm gaze settled on me. Was he happy to see me? Or bored? I frowned.

Mr. Jarenko assigned us to places in three lines in the center of the room. Standing in the back line, I hid from his flashing eyeglasses. He showed us a turn combination. “Double
pirouettes
, girls. You must do doubles.”

The music ended, and we got ready to reverse the exercise.

Mr. Jarenko rested his hand on Shelly's shoulder. “This little girl has bandage on foot and does double
pirouettes
. Even triples.”

Shelly raised her brown eyes to him as if he were a god.

He tipped his head at me. “All must do doubles to stay in this class.”

My eyes flicked to the mirror. A cold shadow flitted through me. I sucked in my breath. I could do this, even with these shoes. When I stooped to tighten the satin ribbons on my left shoe, they snapped off. What next? Wasn't there a limit as to how much embarrassment a person could endure?

While the first group danced, I frantically rummaged through my bag, yet again, for pins to attach the ribbons to the side of my shoe. My useless worn shoes, fluffs of lamb's wool to cushion my toes, and old hairnets lay in a pile next to my bag. The music ended for the first group. I jabbed my foot with the safety pins — great name — until pricks of blood stained the pink satin. I laced them across my foot and around my ankle, hiding the knot in the hollow between my bone and tendon, in time to take my place with my group.

Mr. Jarenko came up behind me, watching me over my shoulder as I danced. When we finished, I stood in fifth position. In the mirror, I had two heads. His and mine. “Can you do two turns, Kitty?”