No One's Watching (16 page)

We sat and pulled on our socks and
ghillies
. The other girls trickled in and finally Mr. Sean, in his white shirt and black pants, carrying a stiff, black folder. His face was a mask of disbelief.

“Come close.” He motioned from the front of the room. “I have an announcement to make.”

Thunk.
My heart crashed to the floor. No, it didn't. Lindy had bent to pick up her dance bag she dropped, stuffing a magazine back into it.

I stood and brushed off my shorts. Megan sat with her back to Mr. Sean, watching the door.

Once we'd shuffled close to Mr. Sean, he opened his folder. “Okay. There have been some changes in our performance. I can hardly believe what I'm about to say.”

My breakfast hardened into rock. Blake wasn't in the cafeteria this morning either. I missed admiring his hotness. But I couldn't blame him for trading the Irish dance for the ballet. I would've done the same thing.
Yup.

Footsteps slapped in the hall, and Mr. Sean snapped his head up. “Good. You're just in time.”

“Sorry I'm late.” Blake rushed in. “Overslept.”

Megan's mouth hung open. Lindy squealed. My heart leapt. I'd overslept enough this summer. Why hadn't the same excuse for him ever crossed my mind?

Mr. Sean waved his hand over the open folder, his face shining. “I e-mailed some musician friends of mine, and they've agreed to play live for your performance.”

Lindy squealed again and Megan's mouth dropped another inch. I couldn't take my eyes off Blake. He high-fived a little girl next to him who gasped.

Some of the other girls broke into a spontaneous jig.

Blake strode over to me. “Cool news about the musicians.”

“It is.” I flexed my feet. “What made you decide to stay?”

He rubbed his chin. “What you said. This was the piece I really, really wanted to dance in.”

I plucked at my T-shirt to hide my fluttering heart, in case my shirt was trembling. “Did you tell Shelly?”

“Oh, yeah. I told her last night.”

“How'd she take it?” I fingered my towel.

“You're not the only one she's mad at.” He laughed.

I slung my towel on the
barre
. “It won't last long in your case.”

He shrugged. “No big deal.”

Right.
“You didn't think too long about your decision.”

“I knew what I wanted to do from the start.”

I squinted. Then why did he ask me last night what he should do? Was it some kind of test? Was returning my flute an excuse to ask how I'd feel if he dropped me as a partner? Not literally. Maybe he would have saved that stunt for Shelly.

Mr. Sean clapped his hands. “Ready to rock and roll? Or in our case, jig and reel?”

The little girls giggled as they hurried into place at the
barre
. Blake stepped behind me. Lindy stood in front of me. She leaned back and cupped her hand by her mouth. “I knew everything would work out.”

Did you, Lindy?
I pinched her freckly nose, and she laughed. What if I'd been offered a ballet role and asked to switch? Would you know what I'd do? My heart tugged toward Blake's reflection in the mirror. Would I know for sure which role I'd choose and for what reason?

Candace was happy about Blake's news and even happier about us going out in the evening with Dira and Nicki. I avoided Shelly at lunch. It was harder to miss her in repertory class later that afternoon where we continued to perfect Swanilda's Variation from
Coppélia
.

“Hope you're satisfied.” Shelly tossed her shoes in her dance bag.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Her big eyes blazed. “Blake would be much happier partnering me in a ballet
pas de deux
. Are you trying to ruin him?”

“Blake makes his own decisions.”

She puckered her lips. Not in a kissy way. More like having a bitter taste in her mouth. “You'll be sorry.” She pranced out.

Great.

I blindly hurried to my room. Not even bothering to change out of my dance clothes and shorts, I pulled out a tablet of thin, blue-lined paper from the desk drawer.

“Dear Mom and Grandma,”

I wiped my face with my towel.
Think. Think.
Who knew what Shelly planned to do to make me sorry? She was probably going to blab about my lack of a ballet solo. I had to get this letter in the mail before she found another cell phone, which would be too late. Or wrote to her mom.

“I'm so, so excited about the end of camp performance. It's not going to be a big surprise because it's the solo from
Les Sylphides!
The costume is beautiful, all snowy white and fluffy. Shelly might be a little jealous, but we just laugh about it. LOL.”

Then I translated the slang for them.
Ha! Ha!
Besides, I could still get the solo. It wouldn't be a total lie. I wiggled in the chair and chewed the pen.

Change the subject. I wrote about my wonderful roomie, Candace, which wasn't a lie, and the solo we were learning in repertory class — Swanilda trying to get Coppélia's attention while sitting on the balcony and not paying attention to anyone. Of course, she didn't notice anyone. She was a mechanical doll, but only her creator, Dr. Coppélia, knew that. I shared what we had learned in Labanotation and closed with a few geometric symbols we had to decipher for homework.

I sighed. Why didn't I throw away the pen and get a shovel so I could dig an even deeper hole? I had to tell them something first. What if somehow Shelly already told her about my Irish dance gig? Mom would have to believe me before Shelly.

Candace came in the door. “There you are. I wondered where you got to after class. Have you picked out what you're going to wear when we go out with Dira and Nicki tonight?”

“Not yet. I wanted to get to the room so I could write my mom.” I had folded my letter and stuffed it in the envelope. “Where do we mail our letters?”

Candace kicked her sandals into her closet. “The security desk on the first floor. You know, near the front door in the lobby.” She studied her hanging clothes.

“Great.” After I wrote my address on the front of the envelope, I pressed a stamp on the upper right corner. “I'll be right back.” I got up from the desk.

“Wait.”

I opened the door. “Do you want something from the college store?”

She motioned to her clock with its red neon numbers: Four fifty-eight. “You have to have it downstairs by five for them to take it to the post office.”

“Oh. I guess it'll go out tomorrow morning then.”

Candace shook her head. “They don't take mail to the post office on the weekends. Mail won't go out again until Monday.”

Why don't I know any of these rules?
I dashed out of our room, not even closing the door. I'm a class A rule follower. Except, so far, for the part about going to the off-limits hot tub, lying about my performance dance to my mother, conniving to get Shelly's phone away from her and, oh yeah, planning on leaving the college tonight without a chaperone. Other than that…

The elevator shushed to a stop down the hall. While some kids exited, I called for the rest to hold the elevator. No one listened.

I picked up speed, clipping someone on the shoulder. I had to get this letter in the mail. I thrust my hand between the doors like other people did to stop them from closing. Instead of sensing my human flesh and opening, the doors pinched the letter out of my hand. The letter dropped inside the elevator. I yanked my hand back, studying my empty fingers in disbelief. No time to go back and write another one, I tapped the down button a hundred times. My letter headed downstairs without me as the second elevator opened on my floor.

I jumped inside and pressed the lobby button as the doors closed.

“We're going up.” The bored voice belonged to Tiffany, the new girl, who stood near Danilo.

Too late to abandon this elevator. I was stuck. Why had I tried to beat my letter downstairs? I should've waited for the car that stole my letter to pick me up again.

“What floor are you going to?”

“Twenty-three.”

Why was the dance camp spread all over this building? I slumped against the wall. Should I give up and go back to my room?

Danilo stood with his back in the corner, staring at the floor. It was hard not to notice Tiffany and her seriously huge nose. Wow. I kept my mouth shut in case I said something about bananas by mistake.

The doors opened, and they got out. Danilo blasted down the hall. I hit the lobby button as well as the one with the inward facing triangles 
, which meant close the doors in elevator-speak and cross your feet like you had to go to the bathroom in Labanotation.

The elevator shot to the lobby without anyone getting on for twenty-three floors. I hopped out and scoured the shiny lobby floor for my letter, in case someone had kicked it out. When the elevator finally showed up, the letter was gone.

Instead, two pairs of legs walked out.

“Looking for this?” Shelly drew the envelope across her cheek like a flower petal.

As I reached to snatch it, Amy caught my wrist. “Sometimes people need to watch what they eat.”

I lowered my hand, confused. We both were. Amy let go of my wrist, dressed in a bad imitation of a Muppet in her green bucket hat, off shoulder T-shirt, and fringed shorts. Someone the other Sesame Street characters would have hidden from in Oscar's trash can.

Shelly thrust the letter at me. “Don't forget to tell your mom hello for me. Never mind, I already did.” She pivoted and left.

Had she? When?

Maybe Shelly was lying. I tucked the letter in the back pocket of my shorts and dashed to the front desk.

“Is it too late to leave mail?” I asked a college guy with a thin beard squinting at a paper cup.

“Yeah.”

I glanced out the windows and the revolving door. “Where's the nearest post office?”

“Umm. Grant Avenue.”

“Where's that?” Sweat stung my face.

“Out the door and right on Main Street. At the corner, go left on Grant. It's a couple of blocks on the left.” He gestured to the doors.

“Thanks.” I walked toward the windows.

He reached for me. “You're not going there alone, are you?”

I tapped the envelope in my back pocket. “Of course not.”

“Good, 'cause you're not allowed out by yourself.”

“I know.” I waved and backed up toward the elevators.

He went back to work, flipping paper clips into the empty coffee cup.

I hid behind the freestanding elevators, searching the lobby for an alternate exit. Forget the basement studio level. No way out down there.

A clump of computer science campers and their instructors, some of whom were actually kind of cute, emerged from the college store and headed for the revolving doors. I fell into step with them, staying on the far side of the security desk.

One kid, who wore cargo shorts and a Chester Park University T-shirt with the cheetah logo, did a double take. “I know you.”

“Yeah?” I peeked through the crowd of guys (where were the girls?) to the beard at the front desk. He had switched to shooting rubber bands at the telephone.

“You're that girl who changed her shirt in the elevator.” He snagged another guy's arm, pointing to me with his free hand.

We stuffed ourselves in the revolving doors, and I broke away as we rolled outside. The humid air hit me in the face like a soaking, wet towel.

“See you later,” the computer whiz yelled as his group left the building.

I took off down the street to the right, suffocating in the heavy, hot air and honking horns. I couldn't inhale. My legs pumped until I reached the corner of Main and Grant. A small group of people waited to cross. I hid on the far side of a lady's open sun umbrella, blocking me from the dorm. The tall buildings arched over the street, their shadows crushing me. I hoped no one watched me from the hundreds of windows in my building. If I were caught, I'd be in so much trouble.

The light changed. A bus zoomed down the street, creating the first breeze of the week since I got to Chester Park University. It burned my legs and scorched my throat. I hurried to the other side of the street and continued down the sidewalk, tripping on a broken piece of concrete.

My big toe bled through my pink tights. I hurried along, limping across the next intersection. As long as lightning didn't rake the sky and burst into a thunderstorm, I'd be okay. I'd been terrified of storms ever since kindergarten when I walked home alone. My tiny fingers had caught in the spokes of my umbrella, which then flipped inside out, pinching them. I was soaked when I got home. Drenched, horrified, and traumatized.

I winced from the pain in my toe and headed for blue mailboxes stationed in front of a building. Cigarette smoke scented the air. I glanced down an alley where a couple of people squished butts on the ground. My heart raced faster than my feet, so I tried to keep up with it, leaping onto the concrete steps to the post office. Sweat trickled down my back.