Silhouette (5 page)

I raise my eyebrows hopefully but he just looks at me, clenching that jaw. I think through my list of arguments.

Not many left. ‘The choreographer? Natasha Stojmenov … she’s danced with the Royal Ballet, toured all over the world –’

‘I’m well aware of the choreographer.’

He’s going somewhere with this. I keep my mouth shut, and wait. He takes his time, standing and moving to the window.

‘I’ll be honest with you, Scarlett.’ Mr Winchester turns to me, crossing his arms. ‘Every few years, this problem comes up. I shouldn’t be surprised, what with all this burning ambition, talent. Egos. Sometimes I’ve found it’s helpful to make an example of a student who breaks the rules.’

I’m on my feet before I can stop myself. ‘Please –’

Mr Winchester smiles. ‘It’s good to see that you care about your position with the Academy.’ I can’t tell if he’s playing with me or not. He moves back to stand behind his desk, fingertips resting on my file. ‘Sit down, Scarlett.’

Mr Winchester takes his seat at the same time as me. ‘I have decided to grant your request on two conditions,’ he says. My shoulders relax. ‘Firstly? As far as everyone is concerned, this form was submitted last week and permission was only granted after extensive discussion. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, yes, of course! Thank you.’

‘Secondly, your participation in this music video will only continue as long as you maintain your grades at school, dance
and
academic. Is that clear? Jack has agreed to keep an eye on all this for me. You’re lucky that he was willing to vouch for you.’

I’m nodding like I’ve turned into one of those bouncy dolls people put on the dashboard of their car. ‘Yes, yes, I promise … thank you,
really
.’

‘You can go now, Scarlett.’

I keep nodding, walking backwards like a servant retreating from the king. Overkill? Not with the Head of Dance.

My hand has just closed around the doorknob when he says, ‘And one more thing, Scarlett. When you’re working, don’t forget that you will also be representing the National Academy of Performing Arts. Do I make myself clear? You are to be on your best behaviour from now on. Our reputation is paramount.’

More nodding. ‘Of course, yes, thanks, Mr Winchester.’

Best behaviour. No problem.

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

At lunchtime, four pairs of eyes look at me in varying degrees of betrayal. Paige is the only one not waiting for my answer. She has her arms tucked beneath the table and her eyes on a steaming mug of soup.

My eyes travel over the faces turned my way – Izzy, Grant, Tadpole and Anton, the most kick-arse music student in our year. ‘When they approved my application, they said I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. You know what Mr Winchester is like …’

I’m aware of Paige listening beside me, knowing that I’m stretching the truth. I barely had time to give her a quick update, only a sentence or two. Then Mrs Wearne, fresh out of the staffroom, congratulated me at the start of English and it spread like wildfire from there.

‘But you could have said
something
.’ This comes from Tadpole, which makes it even worse. He’s usually so easygoing. ‘You came out with us on Saturday night.’

‘I’m really sorry …’ I glance at the side of Paige’s face. What’s she thinking? I bite my lips as all eyes turn to her.

‘Paige? You knew?’ Tadpole asks.

‘Yeah. I was there too.’ She keeps her hands tucked under the table, and shrugs slightly. ‘Don’t worry. I didn’t even make it past first base. Too tall.’ Her eyes rise slowly and a look passes between her and Tadpole.

Everyone’s quiet.

‘Anyway, congratulations.’ Izzy leans past Paige to give me a hug. The mug of soup almost gets knocked before Paige grabs it with both hands.

‘Yeah, it’s awesome.’

‘Good stuff, O’Hara,’ says Grant.

Tadpole raises one eyebrow and nods. I’ve been forgiven.

‘So, hang on,’ says Izzy. ‘Does that mean you’re not auditioning for the grad performance?’

‘No way. I’m still doing it.’

She breathes out and rolls her eyes. ‘I wish, hey?’

Up the other end of the table, Anton catches my eye. ‘So, what was he like anyway, Moss Young?’

Not sure how to answer that. There’s some discussion about Moss’s age and we decide he must be twenty-two or twenty-three. Then everyone looks at me again, so I just start talking. About his clothes, and the way he stepped in.

The whole time I’m more aware of what I’m not saying. His voice. The way he moved. The way I felt when he looked at me.

As we talk, Anton leans over to a bunch of musicians on the next table. Eyebrows are raised and faces turn my way, which prompts people on other tables to listen in. Like a ripple in slow motion, news spreads outwards until soon the whole cafeteria is focused on a centre point. Me.

Sweat moistens my hairline. Both shoulders ache. But I push these distractions to the edge of my mind. I concentrate on the steps with military precision. Dancing
en pointe
is more muscle than anything else, all hold and control with a flourish at the end of each position.

I’m aware of Miss Penelope watching me. Waiting to pounce. She reminds me of a cat poised at the entrance to a mouse hole. The minute I put even one foot out of place I’ll get my head bitten off.

Every so often she calls out commands. ‘
Show
me the steps.’

‘I want to
feel
the expression in your lines.’

‘Movement is your language, ladies!’

When I come to the end, I glance over at Miss Penelope. I’m holding my breath.

‘Okay, class, thank you. That’s all for now.’

Victory. No comment is as good as a pat on the back from Miss P.

Can’t wait to take these pointe shoes off, I’m still breaking them in. In silence we head into the change rooms, delicate limbs with blobs on the ends of our toes. We’re always quiet at the end of Miss Penelope’s class, just the girls in this one, last period on a Monday.

‘My god, I’m going to pass out.’ Anka gulps at her water bottle.

I find a bench, sink into it and hook a foot on my knee. My pointe shoe slides off to reveal sweat soaked into my toe pads and tights. I twirl my ankle, crunch my toes. Feels like freedom.

‘Bye everyone,’ calls Paige from the door, prompting grunts and various farewells around the room. I stand on one foot to give her a hug but she’s already gone.

When I get home, I go straight to the laundry, peeling off damp, sweaty everything and walking naked to the bathroom. It takes a while for the steam to start rising. I step into the shower, washing away a thin film of salt left behind by dried sweat. Somehow it also washes away the aches.

Mum’s still with a student, a good one. Judging from the time of day and the standard, I decide it must be extra practice before an exam.

Back in my room, I flick through the paperwork for the music video. There’s a costume fitting this weekend, before a day-long rehearsal the following Thursday and the shoot starting early the next morning. None of that matters if I don’t get the contract signed.

Holding it in both hands, I head downstairs and position it in front of Mum’s spot at the table.

No, she’ll be hungry. I move it to the side bench, pull open the pantry door and get busy with ingredients until the air is so thick with the smell of spice that it makes me cough. I sip at water as I chop and stir. At one point the piano stops and I hear talking, laughter.

‘Scarlett! How did you know?’ asks Mum when she comes into the kitchen. She stirs the soup, finds a spoon to taste.

‘I think the lentils are a bit undercooked,’ I say.

She fans her mouth. ‘No, I like it that way. Ready to go?’

Cupboards are opened and drawers are slammed. A glass is half-filled with wine. I make enough toast for both of us, four pieces altogether, then cut one in half to dip.

Soon I’m scraping the bottom of my bowl. Three pieces of toast lie cold on the plate after Mum took the other half of mine.

‘Here, I have something to show you.’ I slide the contract off the bench and place it in front of her bowl before sitting back down.

‘What’s this?’ She’s still scooping and sipping.

I can’t help grinning. ‘I’ve been offered a place in a Moss Young music video. Have you heard of him? It’s for his new single, “Everywhere”.’

Mum places her spoon in the bowl before pushing it to one side. ‘This is through the Academy?’

‘Sort of. Jack Martin’s the artistic director.’

‘And why am I only hearing about this now?’

‘Well, it was just meant to be a practice audition. No-one expected me to actually get in.’ I concentrate on keeping the hope out of my voice. Stick to the necessary facts, no need to confuse any of this.

‘Really.’

I ignore the creases on her forehead. ‘Pretty good, hey?’

Mum raises her hands. ‘I don’t know, Scarlett. I can hardly see how you have the time.’

Time? ‘Mum, this is my big break. The start of my career –’

Her hands come up again in frustration. ‘It’s just a one-off gig. I don’t really see the point of this sort of thing during year twelve. What about our agreement? You only stay at the Academy as long as you keep up your marks.’

I can’t help glaring at her. ‘Mum, I’m almost ready to graduate! I’ve worked my guts out to get here, and now I have a chance at
real
work. This isn’t some game where I can just play on the weekend and expect to win. If I’m going to get anywhere then I have to give everything.’

‘
Everything,
Scarlett? You’re really prepared to do that?’

She stands slowly, carrying her bowl to the sink, taking her time with her back pointedly turned to me. She’s shutting me out and I can’t help myself. ‘Look, what happened to Dad’s shoulder, I know that was bad –’

‘Bad? He had nothing to fall back on.’

‘But that’s not going to happen to me! And even if it does, I still have to try. You want me to give up before I’ve even had a chance?’

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying.’ She turns to face me again, leaning against the sink. ‘I
hope
that it all works out …’

Gee, thanks
. Her confidence is so reassuring.

‘… but what if it doesn’t? What if something goes wrong? One day you might be glad to have a backup. Life’s not just about dancing, Scarlett.’

‘No!’ I stand up. ‘I’m a
dancer
, and if I can’t dance then I’ll teach. You’ve done the same thing with your music. You should understand.’

‘Yes.’ She breathes in slowly, and her focus shifts so that she’s staring over my shoulder. ‘But life doesn’t always turn out, sweetheart. It’s hard for you to see that now. You’re young.’

‘I’m seventeen! And you won’t be able to stop me forever. Next year I won’t need your permission to audition
anywhere
. I’ll make my own choices.’ I don’t hold back. She’s pulled me into this. ‘I’ll be old enough to try for the NBC.’

Mum’s body stiffens and her face goes hard. ‘No, you can’t do that, Scarlett. I’ve told you already.’

I just look at her, enjoying the satisfaction of being able to play her like this. It’s followed by a twinge of guilt.

Her eyes move over the table, focusing on nothing. The tightness of her lips makes her seem fragile somehow. She looks up and swallows. ‘Okay. Look, I’ll sign the form. I want you to succeed, Scarlett. Just don’t …
not
the NBC.’

‘Okay.’ Before she changes her mind, I scrounge around for a pen.

‘Do you understand, Scarlett?’

Here’s one, and it works. ‘Yes, yes, okay.’ Anything but the NBC.

At least, for now.

SIX

It feels strange being back at MPG Studios, missing two days of classes to be here and on my own this time, no longer an impostor. As I make my way through its busy streets, I enjoy the quiet glow from knowing I’m here because I’m meant to be: a dancer who’s here to work.

With rigid patience, Natasha takes us through the piece, breaking it down for finetuning – the position of a foot, the angle of an arm. It’s like working through the lens of a camera, starting out with a wide pan, zooming in closer and closer until soon we’re working frame by frame.

In time with Natasha’s count, we work through the moves. Even before she’s halfway through, I can tell she’s not happy.

‘You! You’re rushing!’ snaps Natasha, looking directly at me.

The music goes off and I fan my cheeks with flat palms.

‘You’re not
using
the music,’ says Natasha, floating forwards. How can someone so graceful also be so intimidating?

‘Yes, I am.’ I shake my head, arms up. ‘It’s just that I … I don’t know what you want?’ My voice is pleading apology.

For a moment Natasha considers us. ‘Okay. Watch.’ Natasha points at me, then herself. ‘This is you.’

Delicately, Natasha steps forwards. She’s wearing loose pants and a wraparound top, not exactly dancing gear. Her moves are strong, precise and almost jolting. Soon she stops. ‘And I want …’ This time Natasha reaches the moves at all the same points, but she’s smoother this time, much more fluid. She’s stiff from age, but it’s clear that we’re in the presence of a legend.

As I watch Natasha dance, an image flashes in my mind of a ballerina pulling out of a pirouette to reach for Dad’s outstretched hand …

‘Now you,’ says Natasha.

I take a short breath and then I’m moving. Stepping into the piece with the image of Natasha in my mind. Immediately the difference is with me. Somehow I’m able to find more space within the moves, and there’s time to make them my own.

When I stop, I turn to her and wait.

‘Better,’ Natasha says. ‘Again.’

So I do it again.

‘Thank you, ladies. See you six o’clock tomorrow for make-up.’

It’s after four by the time Natasha calls it quits. We immediately collapse to the floor like string puppets. I slide my heels off, rubbing a tender place on the side of my foot and checking Natasha in the corner. She’s frowning at her mobile, one hand at the back of her slender neck.

Pania, the dancer with the amazing afro, leans back on her hands, legs splayed. ‘Whoever invented these things sure wasn’t a dancer, eh?’ She motions at the heels she’s kicked off beside her and the rest of us laugh in agreement.