No One's Watching (31 page)

“Where's Mrs. Ricardo?” I whispered.

Blake nodded at a shadowy figure rushing toward us.

“Do you have news of my grandmother?”

“Sorry, not yet.”

I dropped my gaze.

“I'll let you know as soon as your mother calls.” Mrs. Ricardo told everyone in my group to take our places, except for me. She told me when she got the signal, she'd pull the edge of the curtain out, and I was to slip out in front of the house and play the prelude. She'd pull the curtain back and take the flute so I could get into position for the rest of the prelude to be played by Mr. Sean's friends in the orchestra pit.

“Are we ready, Mrs. Ricardo?” Mrs. Sykes called from the front of the house.

Mrs. Ricardo peeked around the curtain. “Yes.”

She nodded at me and pinched the curtain with both hands and pulled it back just enough for me to go out.

Mr. Sean beamed from the orchestra pit, which made me forget everything except the lights, music, and dancing. He held his hands up in expectation. I drew a breath and raised my flute. He nodded, and I played the prelude. My lonely flute filled the hall with light, clear notes. After I repeated the measures, the Irish band took up where I had left off and played the remainder of the introduction.

I melted into the darkness as Mrs. Ricardo opened a slit in the curtain. I passed my flute to her and hurried to Blake's side. He squeezed me as the curtain dramatically rose to the music from the pit.

After we ran through the piece once, Mr. Sean directed the lighting technicians in adjustments while we milled around the stage practicing bits of the dance. Mr. Sean hopped up and gave us corrected stage directions. “Places everyone. The flute solo was good, but I want you to draw the notes from here.” He pressed his fist into his middle. “Irish music is full of emotion. It has to bloom from within.”

Too bad we didn't have a microphone so Mrs. Sykes could hear him.

I nodded. “Okay.” I had practiced the notes enough. I could do blooming.

Mr. Sean clapped his hands. “Places, everyone.”

As Mrs. Ricardo handed me my flute, Mrs. Sykes bellowed from the audience, “That's all the time we have for your piece. Please clear the stage.”

I'd never fully understood the expression to get your Irish up until then. Mr. Sean faced the shadowy audience and stepped to the edge of the stage. He was about as down stage as you could get without dropping into the musicians' laps. They stopped tuning up.

I was pretty sure he'd gritted his teeth because I'd never heard him speak to us in such a strained way. “Thank you for your update, but our scheduled rehearsal isn't over.”

A hollow, deep silence fell in the theater. I was afraid it would swallow us. Megan slouched on one hip. Blake crossed his arms, and I hid behind him. I might have conquered my fear of death from thunderstorms, but Mrs. Sykes was a whole other thing. Kind of like Mom.

“Very well.” Her voice cut through the darkness. “But please be considerate of the other dancers' time.” As the fiddle and concertina plucked and wheezed to life, she didn't bother to hide her thought in whispers. “Why bother? No one will be watching them anyway.”

As he faced us, his pink face deepened to red, and the curtain fell. He took a breath. “Let's do it again. This time, use all the space on the stage. We're looking for clean feet and controlled movement.” He left the stage. His footsteps tapped on the steps leading to the orchestra pit. “Ready.”

It was more of a command than a question. Was I ready to perform? Yes. I couldn't wait. Was I ready to face Mom? The question of the summer. I'd know the answer tomorrow.

After eating brunch and packing most of our stuff, all the performers headed to the studios for warm-up. The other dancers, who were part of the audience, met with their parents, but we had to sustain the illusion of magic. Or something like that, according to Mr. Jarenko. He told us, “The theater is an enchanted place, and you have to maintain the fantasy you are fairies or peasants or…” He nodded to Danilo who'd perform a modern dance. “…the embodiment of an emotion. You must wait to see your parents. You may not appear to the audience before the performance in your mortal forms.”
Shivers.

The performance was scheduled for one o'clock. Was Mom wandering around the city or visiting the conference room where Ms. Jen had displayed photos of us in class and at Chester Park before the storm? Was Mom even here? Where was Grandma — at the hospital or in her bed at home?

The performers met in the lobby so we could walk over together. I clasped Blake's hand as Shelly glided over on her crutches.

“You're getting pretty good on those things.” I studied her feet. “Can you do a
pas de chat
?”

She balanced herself between the crutches while lifting her feet in a quick sideways gallop like a little cat. She laughed. “Almost. Do you know if your mom is here, or will you be coming home with me?”

I shook my head. “You haven't seen your mom?”

“Not yet. I'm technically a performer, although I'm going to help the stage manager get the acts on and off stage. They have a stool for me in the wings.”

“Cool.”

“They let me sit in the sound booth at rehearsal yesterday. It was pretty interesting.”

“Are you going to be okay? With your foot and all?” Blake asked.

“I have to take it slow, but I'll be back better than ever. Don't think you can count me out.” She toddled off.

Mrs. Sykes clapped her hands. “Follow me, and please, no talking.”

Blake leaned over and whispered. “It's more of a death march than a performance.”

I squeezed his hand. Would I ever see him again? Would he visit me? We crossed the street to the cool theater.

Blake dipped his hand in his bag and gave me Chester the Cheetah, a small stuffed Chester Park University mascot. “You can hold on to him between visits from me.”

He drew me close, I fainted, and we kissed. When we went to our separate dressing rooms, I was surprised I hadn't wandered onto the stage and fallen in the orchestra pit. Now the question was, would Mom let Blake visit me? She had to. I buried my nose in the soft fur of the cheetah and set him on the dressing table.

I set to work on my makeup, stroking the damp sponge on my forehead, cheeks, and neck.

Candace tapped me on the shoulder. “Have you seen the program?” She folded back the cream-colored paper and pointed to my name. “You
are
Irish. At least, according to this.”

Whoever printed the program spelled my last name, Othersen, wrong. Under the Irish dance version of
Les Sylphides
, the lead dancers were Kitri O'Thersen and Blake Rasmussen. “Ha. They made my Danish name Irish.”

I handed it back to her, but Candace gave me a pen instead. “I'm getting everyone to autograph it. When you're all famous, I'll have you give master classes at the college dance department where I'll be teaching.”

I pointed to a scrawl. “You got Blake to sign it.”

“You know, Rasmussen is Danish.” Her mouth opened in mock surprise.

“It is? How do you know?”

“I asked Blake when I got his signature. He's Irish on his mom's side.”

“Weird and cool at the same time.” I shivered.

“Here's an extra copy.” Lindy propped it in Chester the Cheetah's paws.

She had a huge smile as she and the rest of the munchkins signed Candace's copy next to my “Best roomie ever! Thanks and hugs. Together forever. Love, Kit O'T.”

Everyone wandered away. I twirled the excess black liquid from the tip of the eyeliner brush against the inside of the bottle. My hand shook as I drew a crooked line on my upper lid. I dabbed at it with a tissue and tried again.
What's wrong with me?

Megan stood by my elbow. “I was going to ask you to help me with my makeup, but I think I'll do it myself.” She edged away.

I used the corner of a foam pad to erase my second attempt and took a deep breath. The program Lindy had given me fell from Chester's paws and opened. On one side was the statement all performers were to be given DVDs — Mom's wish had been granted, and the other side read “Irish Dance Version of
Les Sylphides
” with all of our names. Was Mom in the audience? What would she think of her daughter performing a form of dance she loathed?

I cupped my hands over my ears, not only to keep out the roar of the music and squeal of voices, but to focus. Had I been selfish by picking Irish dance over the ballet solo? Were we all like the swanning swans or the poet in
Les Sylphides
, wandering aimlessly and chasing something not quite real?

I adjusted the white band on my head and hummed the prelude I was to play on my flute. I concentrated on the yearning notes, but the whole piece wasn't like that — all achy. There was plenty of fun and happiness, too. I had to show Mom and Grandma that part. If Mom ever let Grandma see the Irish dance piece on DVD. A big if. And if she'd ever speak to me again.

The lights blinded me as I stepped from behind the curtain onto the stage. My back brushed the velvety curtain, so I edged out further, although I was afraid I'd fall into the pit. Mr. Sean lifted his hands in expectation. One good thing about the spotlight. I couldn't see the people in the house. Except for the first two rows. And there was Mom, her face a muddle of confusion and disapproval.

Mr. Sean nodded, and I took a breath, blowing across the mouthpiece and playing the soft notes. I dipped and swayed as the music trickled from my flute, setting the mood.

As the last notes floated over the audience, there was applause. Not from Mom. I stepped behind the curtain, handed the flute to Mrs. Ricardo and hurried to my place. Was this all a big mistake? My hands were cold, and I struggled to keep my bottom lip from quivering.

The audience gasped as the curtain rose. Mr. Sean had set a fog machine behind the curtains in the wings. Mist rolled lazily onto the stage, snagging our feet and curling into the air. The musicians finished the prelude, and I left the stage as the little girls danced.

Blake danced his solo with bold leaps and quick footwork before drawing me out of the wings so we could dance together. I had forgotten about everything except what was happening at that moment. I couldn't wait to get back onstage.

Blake circled the stage, and I joined him. Irish dance had taught me to control my arms. My ballet teachers had commented on my relaxed arm movements, and I showed them off here.

Dancing my solo, I traveled across the stage with sweeping kicks and leaps. When Blake and I danced together, it was as if we had practiced together for years. All the awkwardness and pain at camp fell away. Shelly beamed at me from the wings.

At the end of the piece, Blake held my waist as we spun. I wasn't afraid to look at him this time. Round and round we twirled as the music built and then paused. The notes spun off like mist, and the dancers settled in our same positions as at the beginning of the piece.

The musicians played the finale as the curtain swept down. We formed a line holding hands before the curtain rose again. As we stepped forward to bow, my heart lifted as the audience rose to their feet in a standing ovation.
A real standing ovation!
The musicians and Mr. Sean bowed, too. The curtain closed again, and we filed off stage in a breathless line. The only problem was I couldn't see if Mom had stood.

After hugs from Dira, Nicki, Candace, and especially Blake, we changed, and removed our makeup. Then all the dancers crossed the street to the conference room where there was a reception for the performers.

Blake pulled me back from the door before we went in. “You sure you're ready for this? I mean your mom.”

I shook my head no. “Yes.”

We laughed and went in. The room was packed with parents, teachers, and dancers milling around, munching cookies and drinking punch.

“Blake.” A teenage girl with wavy, dark hair flung herself at him. “You were great. The best. Everybody loved your dance.”

“Thanks.” He peeled her from his neck. “This is my sister, Sophia.”

She shook my hand. “Hi. You were both so awesome. It was the best piece ever.”

I smiled. “Thanks.” I wished Mom could hear her.

She babbled on to him as I scanned the room. Mr. Sean talked to Mom as she pressed against the far wall like he was robbing her with a
bodhrán
.

“I'll catch up with you guys later.” I crossed the room.

Megan and Lindy, their mouths full of cookie crumbs, hugged me. “Great job.”

“You, too. Thanks for all your extra help. We couldn't have done it without you.” I moved through the crowd.

“Kit?” A girl with super long hair reached out and touched my shoulder. She stood next to a tall girl with jet-black hair.

I frowned.

“Remember us from the psychology lab? Hilary and Carey.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Sorry. I didn't recognize you.”

“You're not a college student.” Carey crossed her arms.

“Sorry. I'm only fourteen. I was just trying to get back to my dorm here at the dance camp.”

“We saw flyers around campus about the dance performance.” Hilary clutched her program. “It was great. You were wonderful.”

“Thanks. Sorry if I hurt you.”

She shook her head. “It wasn't real. I was in on it. It's called the Milberg experiment to see how far you'd keep shocking me at the command of an authority figure.”

Carey raised her hand. “That would be me, but we're both grad students.”

Random thought. How far would Mrs. Sykes go if she were told to keep hurting people by an authority figure?

“We determined you have a strong sense of right and wrong and don't bend easily to absolute authority.” Hilary beamed.