Silhouette (8 page)

Inside the shower block only one door is shut. Paige leans against it, tapping a nail on the wood.

‘Izzy? What happened? Open the door.’

Anyone else we’d leave in peace until she was ready to come out, but after six years together we know not to do that with Izzy. I mouth,
What happened?
at Paige who makes a face.
No idea.

‘Izzy? It’s us. We’re not going anywhere …’

Still no answer. A sniff maybe? Too quiet to be sure.

I’m considering how to get up over the door when it swings open. Izzy is sitting on the bench, head in hands. ‘I messed up. Omigosh, I can’t believe I did that.’ She raises her eyes and moans at the ceiling. ‘Mum’s going to kill me.’

Paige is already beside her, hand on her back. ‘It can’t have been that bad, surely –’

‘No! It
was
that bad. Even worse than you think.’ Izzy’s face is full of desperation. ‘I froze. Completely. And then tried to cover by picking up again where I thought I should be. Except … it was the wrong place in the music and it finished, the music
finished
while I was in the middle of a step!’

In the pause that follows it’s as if Izzy only now accepts what happened. Saying it out loud makes the nightmare become a reality, and she sobs.

‘It’s just the one audition, Izzy.’ I kneel in front of her, ignoring wet tiles against my shins. ‘It happens to everyone.’

Tears fall freely now, shoulders shaking. ‘The audition for the
grad performance
? Of all the times to mess up.’

I glance at Paige. Her look of helplessness says it all. She’s searching for words that will make it better.

‘Oh, Izzy.’ Paige shuff les closer in the seat, one hand on Izzy’s knee.

‘It’s okay. I know there’s nothing you can say.’ Izzy sniffs before wiping a cheek with her palm. ‘It’s my own stupid fault.’ There’s a wet gasp as Izzy looks at me. ‘What time is it?’

My audition.

Paige is the only one with a watch. She grabs my shoulders, spinning me around and pushing me out of the cubicle. ‘It’s five past eleven! You have to go!’

I only just managed to stay upright through all that. I look back at Izzy. ‘Sorry, I have to …’

‘Go!’ they both scream.

The bond is released and I bolt out of the shower block, catapulted down the corridor. Five minutes late, and I still have to change. I’m not even thinking clearly now, sprinting down the hall with only the theatre in mind, then skidding to a stop, spinning around and bolting down a side corridor to grab my gear from my locker.

Doors slam in the theatre change rooms. Don’t care if they can hear me. My tights are wet but I keep them on, praying that wet black won’t stand out next to dry. It’s only luck that makes my leotard go on the right way. Jazz shoes laced in record time.

It feels like only a few minutes have passed since I was in the shower block but I have no way of knowing the exact time. I pause for a moment outside the main theatre door, sucking in air and letting it escape while I try to reconnect with my headspace after rehearsing last night.

Now, it’s my turn.

EIGHT

The stage is lit and empty, somehow lost without its performer. Halfway up the centre tier of seats, two reading lamps have been tilted with faces down so that they illuminate four sitting figures. Their heads are beyond the circles of light but I know already who I’ve left to wait. Mr Winchester, Miss Penelope, Jack, and the only one who I haven’t annoyed at one point or another, Mr Ingleby. Don’t have much to do with the careers counsellor.

Quickly I move to centre stage, making sure I remain composed. From now on, my body has to say more than my words. I turn to the front and there’s a silence as I wait for them to acknowledge me. I know they can see me.

I clear my throat. ‘Sorry I’m late. My friend was upset and I lost track of time.’

More seconds pass and I fight against a need to fidget.

‘I thought that you of all people, Scarlett, would have made a point of being on time.’ It’s Mr Winchester. The tone of his voice is like a warning, and the words he last spoke to me come back:
Best behaviour from now on.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ But that sounds weak. I clear my throat again. ‘I just want to explain. If I’d been on time, it would have meant leaving my friend upset.’

There’s still no response, just a cluck from the seats as someone knocks a lamp and readjusts.

‘And which role will you be auditioning for today?’ It’s Mr Winchester again.

‘The lead,’ I say clearly. Of course. Everyone is.

‘If we decide to consider you for the lead, Scarlett, what confidence can we have that you will arrive at rehearsals on time? Take direction? Do
as you’re told
?’

‘I understand your concerns, Mr Winchester. But everything I do,
everything
, is about becoming a dancer. I’m impatient, I know, but you really don’t need to worry that you’ll get anything but total dedication from me.’ Again, silence. I’ve almost had enough of this. ‘Please, just watch me dance. Judge my performance. None of the other things should matter.’

The hiss of whispering comes through the speakers, muffled as if the microphone has been covered by a hand. I hear another clunk and Jack’s voice: ‘Okay, Scarlett. Thank you. Take your position please.’

At last, a friendly voice. Friendly-ish. I run to position, flushed, but confident. Now is the time to show them what I can do.

Electronic violins fill the air and I start into my piece. As I work my way deeper into the performance I focus on finishing each step exactly, reaching each extension at just the right time.

When the music ends I’m breathing hard. There’s a silence but it’s a good silence, and I know I’ve done well. I’ve taken them somewhere. I’m not sure how I know, but I do.

I curtsey. Then wait.

‘Okay, Scarlett.’ Again, it’s Mr Winchester. ‘We’ll let everyone know at assembly.’ Do I detect a note of disappointment?

I count that as a good sign.

As soon as Mr Winchester announces my name, all faces turn my way. I can feel their emotions bursting like bubbles around me – envy, disappointment, even resentment and anger. Tadpole’s is the only face not showing any tension. He beams up at me, both arms in the air, celebrating his role as the male lead. How does he get away with that? If I let myself look that pleased, they’d all hate me.

I smile and flick my hair back in response but that clearly isn’t enough for Tadpole. He does a standing leap over a chair and begins to climb the rows, feet on backrests.

His stunt takes the focus for a while and the reality of what just happened sinks in. I did it. Female lead. All I can feel is relief.

After a rocking big hug from Tadpole, Izzy is next in line. I pull away from her squeeze, tilting my head apologetically in an attempt to hide any sense of joy that’s beginning to creep in.

‘No! Be happy, Scarlett!’ She grabs my cheeks with both hands and squeezes until I laugh. ‘Really, we knew you’d get it.’

‘Thanks, Izz.’ But I can’t shake the sense that I need to hold something back, especially when my success means the opposite for her.

Paige is next. Normally we would have been sitting next to each other for an announcement like this, and I can’t help wondering if she found a seat away from me on purpose. Maybe.

‘You okay?’ I ask once I’ve shimmied past bodies and hurdled more than a few seats. She’s landed a solo, a good part, but not as good as the lead.

For a moment she just considers me, bites a lip. Then her expression relaxes into a small smile. ‘Sure, I’m okay. Plus, I’m your understudy …’

‘Do you mind?’

‘Nuh-uh.’ Paige shrugs slightly. ‘Guess I can handle being next in line.’

Most people in our year level wander away in various states of celebration and commiseration, and our group is free to debrief. It’s only now that I see Grant, standing to one side in the aisle, hands sunk in pockets.

He flicks his fringe when I look over. ‘Hey, well done, O’Hara.’

‘Thanks.’ I reach up for a hug, more for him than me. He’s only dancing in the chorus. ‘You okay?’

‘Sure, yeah. No surprises, if you ask me.’

‘Coming to the Complex?’

A shrug. ‘Of course.’

There’s caution in the air as we collect our gear, quieter voices and more pauses than normal. Then we head into the wind outside and walk the three blocks to the Complex, Paige and Tadpole walking ahead. He has a hand resting on her shoulder. Both heads are tilted together as they talk.

‘Cute, hey?’ says Izzy and jerks her chin.

‘Definitely,’ agrees Grant.

I clear my throat against the noise of the wind. ‘So what do you guys have planned for the weekend?’

‘What?’ asks Izzy. ‘As if we actually have lives from now on. First rehearsal is tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ I haven’t forgotten about rehearsal. But I haven’t forgotten about Moss playing at the Dixie Bar either.

Grant’s quiet, hands still in pockets, shoulders lifted against the wind.

I turn to look at him. ‘What about you?’ When he just shrugs I keep going. ‘Do you feel like maybe … catching a band?’

Still Grant shrugs. ‘Nah, I’m seeing my dad.’ He breathes in slowly. ‘Which unfortunately means football and pizza.’

‘Football and
pizza
?’ Izzy immediately reacts.

‘Well … at least he’s trying,’ I say quietly.

‘Trying to turn me into something that I’m not,’ mumbles Grant.

There’s no point pushing, and no reason why I should try to sneak out to the Dixie Bar. So I put it to the back of my mind, as with all things that clash with dancing: chocolate, late nights, keeping up with non-Academy friends … and pizza.

First rehearsal starts with us all sitting around while Jack talks us through the storyline. He’s barely begun when I realise that it’s a complete rip-off of
A Christmas Carol
, except instead of Scrooge, the main character is a prima ballerina who has lost her love of performing. As Jack says that part, I see a pained look in Izzy’s eyes as she tries to hold back a smirk. So I wait until she glances my way and then do a snobby ballerina flick of my hand. Perfectly executed, if you ask me. It sends her over the edge, snorting out loud and making Jack glare at me.

She’s right, it is corny, but I can see why they did it. Tadpole is the spirit who takes the ballerina back to past performances, trying to help her find the passion she lost, which gives us the freedom to throw in a whole array of styles and dance numbers. There’s a piece from
Swan Lake
, I’m happy to hear, as well as modern and contemporary pieces, and a scene from
Cats
. Any strength or talent among our year level has been given its time in the spotlight.

Paige’s solo sounds haunting and beautiful, a lone figure dancing in a studio, unaware that she’s being watched through a window by the lead character. It’s still a bit corny but somehow I think it will work.

We’re all itching to get moving, starting with one of the three numbers involving the whole year level. But then Jack hands out a list of all the dance companies and agents who have been tagged for invitations.

A hopeful silence settles over us. Eyes skim down hungrily. Mine move straight to the National Ballet Company.

‘We’ve found in past years,’ calls Jack from the front, ‘that they’re more likely to show interest if their invitation is accompanied by a personalised letter from students.’ He stops and slowly scans the rows of seats. ‘This may well be the most important piece of writing you do all year. I want you all to choose someone on the list …’

Whispering from Anka and the others at the front makes Jack pause. ‘I know a lot of you already have very clear ideas about who to approach and won’t need to do any research. But either way you will need to show them that you know their work and explain why you want to be part of their company, or what you could bring to their agency. Make it clear that they’re your first choice.’

Paige is holding her sheet in both hands, knees together and body still. I know her eyes were caught by the same name as mine.

‘Of course, a reference from someone in the industry wouldn’t go astray either,’ calls Jack, raising his eyebrows at me.

I catch his meaning and nod slightly. Natasha.

It’s late by the time I make it home from rehearsal. I flip through my wallet for Natasha’s business card and find it tucked behind my bus pass. Immediately I pull out my phone and begin to dial. I’m almost at the last digit when I pause, thumb hovering. Is it rude to call at this time on a Saturday? Sunday wouldn’t be any more polite, and I’ll have classes until Monday afternoon.

Don’t want to leave it that long. I decide to try her anyway.

‘Hello?’ Natasha answers quickly.

Can’t hear anything in the background. ‘Yes … hello. It’s Scarlett Stirling here.’ For some reason, my heart quickens. There’s something about Natasha that makes me want to fidget. ‘Sorry to call on a Saturday.’

‘I was expecting your mother to call.’

‘Sorry, yeah, she’s … busy.’ No point pushing that one. ‘I’m calling to ask if you’d mind writing me a reference. We’re inviting companies to our graduation performance and it would be great to have a letter from someone with your reputation.’

‘Of course,’ says Natasha. ‘Which company have you decided to approach?’

‘Well …’ I can’t help checking over my shoulder, even though Mum’s downstairs. ‘I still want to try for the National Ballet.’

There’s a moment of silence before a small sigh. ‘All right, I’m very happy to write you a reference, but I’d like to speak to your mother about it first, particularly if you’re intending to apply for the NBC. Perhaps I could arrange to call her?’

‘Ah …’ For a moment I imagine the response if Natasha called Mum. ‘I’m not sure …’

‘I know it’s hard,’ says Natasha. ‘But considering the – circumstances of your father’s death, I think it’s important for her to speak to me.’

What is she talking about? ‘What do you mean
circumstances
?’ I blurt. ‘What does the crash have to do with any of this?’

Silence at the other end. ‘Crash?’

What’s wrong with this woman? ‘Yes, he died in a car crash.’