No One's Watching (9 page)

I stepped into the hall and searched for Mrs. Ricardo.

“Where are you going?” Candace dabbed her face with a towel.

I frowned.
Nowhere if I don't get a ballet number.

She waved her hand in front of my face as if trying to wake me up. “We're fixing to have repertory class here, remember?”

Mrs. Ricardo lugged a CD player with detached speakers down the crowded hall. I glanced back at Candace. “Yeah. Water. I need something to drink.”

I bolted to Mrs. Ricardo. “Can I help you with that?”

“Thank you.” She gave me both speakers, halving her weight load. “Studio B's CD player is broken, and I need to set up this one before the next class.”

“No problem.” I mentally tallied my extra karma points and hoped they'd help change her mind about the performance classes.

With a speaker on each hip, I waddled into the studio after her and set the speakers down as she removed the old CD player.

“Thanks so much.” Mrs. Ricardo squinted at my ever-present nametag. “Kitri.” She hunched over the equipment.

“Umm, did you have a chance to see if I could change to a character performance class? Or modern.” Even though this morning she'd said the contemporary performance class was full. This morning? An eternity ago. Time flew when you were desperate.

Mrs. Ricardo straightened and clapped her hand on her lower back. She blinked at me in a vague way. Clearly, this lady was overworked.

“Could I switch from the Irish dance performance class?” I adjusted the speakers on the floor.

“Right. I recall we spoke about it this morning.” Her lips tightened across her face like a satin shoe ribbon cutting into the flesh of a foot.

I nodded.

She frowned. “I consulted briefly with Mrs. Sykes at lunch.”

Great. Dragon Lady. Her silvery blouse and steam-emitting ears formed a medieval picture.

Mrs. Ricardo scanned the low part of the wall behind me. “You're a lovely dancer. I'm afraid it won't work out this year. How old are you?”

I gulped. “Almost fifteen.” In six months or so.

“There's always next year and even the next. You young dancers are in such a hurry.”

It was called being competitive. The walls crashed down around me. No. Those were my dreams. “Okay.” I curtsied. Curtsied? Like at the end of a ballet class. Or a ballet concert. I fled the room.

There had to be a way to change my performance class, and I was going to find it. I hurried to my repertory class as a vision lifted in my mind. Hazy. Getting clearer. Music streamed from the other studios into the hall and sharpened the illusion.

Why hadn't I thought of that before?

Adrenaline shot through my veins and lifted my feet as I sped down the hall.

This was it. I would impress my repertory teacher so much she'd insist on adding whatever solo she'd taught us to the performance schedule. And I would dance the piece. I would totally immerse myself in it. Not only dance it, I would breathe it. I would “be” it. No matter if it were a woodland nymph, a character in a fairy tale or a mythological creature. Definitely worth a chance. I'd even dance the Irish duet, too. As long as I could get a ballet solo.

I skidded the last few feet to the studio where I'd had ballet class to find the repertory class in session. The small crowd of dancers faced away from the door as I sneaked in. Candace stood with her hands clasped behind her back. Shelly lounged against the
barre
, admiring her stubby fingers. She'd pinned a cluster of pink flowers at the nape of her neck under her low bun, all ready for her solo. A rumbling male voice droned. With blood rushing in my excited ears, I was sure it was the grandfatherly pianist from last year reminding us not to sit on the baby grand piano. Or in my case, fling myself across it.

I moved closer and peeked around Candace's thick, blond bun. Mr. Jarenko gestured as he explained something to the class.

Apparently, I wasn't going to impress anyone today.

Mr. Jarenko waved to the sides of the room, scattering the dancers. “Follow me in a short
barre
and then we start.”

Determined to do my best, I scooted behind Candace at the
barre
, my left hand seizing the well-worn wood. Mrs. Chin, the pianist in the piano loft, glanced at Mr. Jarenko from behind the music stand. Mr. Jarenko nodded. My plan could work with Mr. Jarenko. I'd make it work.

My knuckles bulged from clenching the
barre
and blisters rubbed on my palms. Mr. Jarenko led us thorough
pliés
,
tendue
s and
degagé
s. We skipped
petit battements
and went straight for
grand battements
.

What if we were going to learn a weird, modern ballet solo Mr. Jarenko dreamed up? Would that be good or bad?

Our feet were pressed in fifth position with our free arm held in second position, straight out to the side. Mr. Jarenko held his hand up to Mrs. Chin, and she stopped playing.

“Don't move.” He squeezed in front of me. Me. Again. I stared at Candace's bun through his head.

“You're tense for someone so young.” Mr. Jarenko pressed my shoulder down, the one attached to the hand strangling the
barre
. I relaxed my grip, and my shoulder dropped to an acceptable non-tensed position.

He clucked. “There. You cannot be anxious when dancing.”

Okay. I'll be anxious for the other twenty percent of the time when I wasn't dancing.
I took a deep breath for good measure.

We followed Mr. Jarenko at the
barre
for another fifteen minutes, as most of us had come from some sort of dance class and were already warmed up. He clapped his hands, and we moved to the center of the room. Although Mr. Jarenko didn't tell us where he wanted us to stand, Shelly took front and center. The rest of us clumped toward the back.

“You cannot be anxious when dancing.” It was kind of a catchy mantra. “Especially when learning one of the great romantic ballets.”

Oh.
I relaxed some more. Mom taught us loads of ballet solos. Head start. Except, Shelly was in class too and had learned all the same pieces. I paced in the back of the room like a tiger.

“The first solo we'll learn is Swanilda's variation from
Coppélia
.” Mr. Jarenko dipped his head in a bow. The class oohed.

Including me. I learned it as a little girl of about nine and danced it — only in soft ballet slippers but a real tutu — when Mom took some of us to local elementary schools for ballet demonstrations. Which is where we met Shelly. A scrawny little girl, a little older than me, with huge brown eyes and black hair to her waist. She darted up to Mom after our performance, wrapped her arms around Mom's waist and wouldn't let go until she'd promised to call Shelly's mother and get her signed up for class.

That was six years ago. Now Shelly was getting the solos I deserved.

“
Coppélia
is one of the first ballets about a doll coming to life. I'll teach you my variation. Has anyone danced any other variation of the solo?” Mr. Jarenko scanned the room.

My hand shot in the air so fast I would have impaled a bird if it were flying over my head. This would be my chance to show off and redeem myself.

“Pssst. Kit. Kit,” a little voice said from the open door behind me.

Mr. Jarenko pointed at us. “I see three hands. Good. Please come forward.”

The voice whisper-yelled again, “Kit.”

As I glanced around, my arm folded to my side. Lindy and Megan crowded the doorway.

“What?”

“Now I see two hands. You're not quite sure?” Mr. Jarenko asked. Me, I presumed.

I swung around. “I know the variation.”

“Good.” Mr. Jarenko cleared the floor with a sweep of his hand. “Please, Kitty, Shelly and Amy. Show us your versions at the same time so the class can get an idea of the piece and hear the music.”

Mrs. Chin played the intro to Delibes' music for the variation. Shelly and Amy scurried to pose in opposite corners of the cleared space. I headed for the upper left-hand corner of the room by the upright piano with Shelly because we knew the same version.

“Kit.” The voice stopped me.

“What?”

“Hi.” Lindy waved and blushed.

“See you and Blake tonight.” Megan nodded. She held up seven fingers, then three and made an “O” with her thumb and forefinger.

“Huh?” I squinted at her.

The intro ended, signaling the start of the dance. I whirled away from the door and rushed to the corner, slamming into Shelly as she stepped backward on her left leg posing in
attitude
, her right leg bent in the air behind her. We both landed on our butts. Or
derrières
, as the French liked to say.

I bounced twice on my way to making another great impression.

After class, Candace herded the two Irish dance munchkins and me to the elevator before Shelly could unleash her review of my spectacular performance when I collided with her at the beginning of class. The falling part was a bonus.

Megan slid her soft, green eyes toward me. “At Irish dance competitions, we dance two or three on stage at the same time. Everyone does their own choreography.”

Lindy nodded. “It gets confusing.”

“And dangerous.” Megan squeezed my elbow. “Everyone's trying to get the judges' attention.”

“Sometimes there are accidents.” Lindy blinked.

Megan cleared her throat. “You might run into another dancer.”

“Kind of like you did.” Lindy twisted the strap of her dance bag.

I sighed and hung my head. Candace patted my back.

When Candace and I got to our room, I fell flat on my bed and buried my face in my pillow.

“Once y'all started your dance again, you did real well.”

The pillow muffled my groans. I came up for air and flipped on my back.

“I liked your version better than Amy's. Hers was all kicks and pantomime.” Candace pulled a bazillion bobby pins from her hair. “The class clapped for you.”

No, they'd clapped for Shelly and Amy, the high-kicking pantomimer with the huge
derrière
. I'm surprised I didn't fling myself into her, too.

“What was with Amy's choreography anyway? Was she auditioning for the Rockettes?” I lay on my back and alternated kicking my legs. “She almost got me a few times.”

“That's a switch.” Candace giggled.

I joined her, and we fell all over the place laughing.

Candace sighed. “You know, she's at the same dance studio as Blake.”

Eww.
“Oh, yeah.”
Lucky Amy. Will she have something to do with getting Blake to the hot tub party tonight?

Candace grabbed her towel and slung it over her shoulders. “I'm taking my shower. If we hurry and beat Nicki and Dira, we can take ours before we go to supper.“

Candace left. I stared at the closed door to the bathroom. I hated being alone. Self-doubt wiggled up and wormed its way into my brain.

Must stay busy. I pulled out underwear, a pair of white-cuffed shorts and a blue and white striped top from the drawer. My bathing suit lay in a tangle on some PJs. I'd almost forgotten my plan for tonight. I needed a break. Breaking up Shelly and Blake's little exclusive party would have to do. I was plain sick of Shelly. Maybe Mom would rather have had her for a daughter.

That was dumb. Mom and Shelly weren't alike at all. Mom was blonde. Actually, Mom and I didn't resemble each other either. I must look like “the father,” as Grandma called him when Mom wasn't around. I was sure he was a dancer but died before or shortly after I made my debut. I didn't even think Grandma knew who he was. Maybe my dad was like Mr. Jarenko.
No way.
I couldn't help sizing up every male ballet teacher for dad material.

Candace emerged from the bathroom, her head turbaned in her towel, dressed in navy blue shorts and a white cami.

Not wanting to be the second half of the blue and white twins, I shoved my striped top in a drawer and traded it for a gray “Dancers Turn Out Better” T-shirt.

Candace unwrapped the towel from her head. Her hair fell down her back in thick, wavy strands. “Can you believe my hair was still wet from last night?” She flicked a comb through the ends and tilted her head toward the bathroom door. “You'd better hurry.”

“Right.”

The shower was free, and I slipped into the stall. The warm water rinsed away the embarrassments (plural) of the day. My stomach rumbled. Maybe I was too fat. Why hadn't I been picked for a ballet number? Or maybe Mrs. Sykes didn't like me.

Mango coconut shampoo streaked down my face.
Yum.
I smelled like I was standing in a fruit bowl. Not my usual shampoo, but the other girls wouldn't mind if I borrowed some of theirs.

Dira banged on the door connecting the bathroom to Nicki's and her room. “Are you almost finished?”

“In a minute.” I rinsed my hair and squeezed the faucets off. No time for conditioner or my favorite sweet pea body lotion. I vigorously dried myself. When I got to our room, my hair was a frizzy swirl of cotton candy from rubbing it.

Candace frowned. “Did you try to polish your head?”

My hand drifted up to my stiff hair. “Um, no. What happened? Can you help?”

She whipped out an orange bottle, poured some liquid into her palm and rubbed her hands together. “Sit.” She nodded at her desk chair.

I slithered into it like my derrière was on fire. Actually, it did kind of hurt from falling on it earlier. Candace attacked my hair, massaging the ends and dragging her fingers through it.

The water pipes in the shower banged on and off. Must have been Dira.

“The knots are almost gone.” Candace picked at my hair. “Do you usually use conditioner?”