Step Up and Dance (13 page)

‘Over them!' Summer buttoned up her jacket. Even when she was cold, she still looked good. ‘That's what he wants you to think!' She leaned in close to me, eyes shining. ‘It's his turn now. After the prank you pulled at the game, you might say the ball is in his court. He's probably planning his trick right now . . .'

I thought back over the stuff that Jay had pulled so far. The letter – awful, horrible, beetroot-making. Signing me up for basketball – kind of fun, definitely educational.

Summer put her arm around my shoulder and whispered in my ear. ‘All I'm saying is watch your back, girl!'

‘Thanks, Sum.'

Summer cupped my cheeks in her cold hands. ‘And text me the minute you suspect anything.'

I nodded, moving her hands up and down as I did. ‘Don't worry, I can take care of myself.'

‘I
sure
hope so, girrrrrl!' Summer's bad accent was back.

I put my gloved hands over Summer's cold ones. I sure hoped so too.

I could hear Abe before I'd even pushed on the main studio doors.

‘I can hardly move, let alone dance!'

Other muffled voices talked beneath Abe's whine.

Inside the studio, I stopped and stared.

Abe stood on a chair in the middle of the room, with a dressmaker fussing around her. To one side stood Lesley, hands on hips, jaw clenched tight. I'd seen that look in her eye enough times to know to keep my distance.

Abe was wearing the girls' new costume – a backless halter neck in black velvet. She looked elegant and classy. That was, until she tried to move.

‘Hi, Saph,' called Abe, throwing up one arm. As she did, she popped out of the costume, one nipple peeking up to say hi. ‘What do you think of the new look?' she said with a wry smile.

Omigod! Imagine if that happened on court!

I made a freak-out face, biting back a giggle.

‘I'm so sorry, I must have written the measurements wrong,' mumbled the dressmaker, frowning at her notepad.

‘We need them right,' Lesley pushed her words out between stiff lips, ‘by Saturday.'

‘Yes, yes, of course. The
others
should be fine,' she said quickly.

Abe snorted. ‘I'm getting changed.' She jumped down from the chair, not worrying about what was flopping out or who could see.

‘Saph, isn't it?' The dressmaker held out a costume for me to try on.

‘Thanks,' I said, and shot her a sympathetic smile. Ten minutes with pouting Abe and angry Lesley: she must be in the middle of a crappy day.

The new costume felt glorious – soft and silky, like a ball gown for the modern girl. Mine fitted perfectly, hugging my curves, and stretching me tall. (And I wasn't about to fall out of it!) It had Magic colours sprinkled over one breast and down onto the skirt, contrasting beautifully with the black.

‘It suits the new opener, don't you think?' said Lesley beside me, watching me closely in the mirror.

I ran both hands down the length of the velvet – over my ribs, in at my waist, and out over the curve of my hips. ‘It's perfect,' I said, almost in a whisper.

By now the rest of the girls – everyone except Abe – were in costume, turning and peering in the mirrors.

Lesley smiled at my reflection. ‘We're ready, don't you think?' She kept her eyes on me, watching every curve and move. ‘The new opener – do you feel ready?'

I nodded and took a deep breath, savouring the feel of the velvet moving with me. ‘Yeah, it's feeling good, Lesley.'

She frowned and rubbed her cheek. ‘I'm sitting with the Sportscraft manager on Saturday. It would be perfect . . .'

I eased into a hip roll and raised my eyebrows at Lesley's reflection.

She nodded. ‘Okay then. Let's do it.'

One last head flick, arm out, arch back for the end.

Two hours later the Madonna opener was perfect, or as near to perfect as Lesley could squeeze out of the troupe. Each element had been drilled to perfection: the angle of our arms, the height of our kicks, even the size of each step.

‘All right, people, good work,' Lesley called, with a slow clap.

I sucked in a tired breath and rested one hand on the ache in my lower back.
That damn, rotten arabesque!
After twenty run-throughs it had become my own private nightmare. Torture on one leg. But at least I hadn't wobbled.

Stiffly, I turned to Megan beside me. ‘Remind me again why we do this?' I asked with a small smile.

Megan shut her eyes, then opened them. ‘It's in our blood, Saph.'

I snorted. Right now my blood just felt tired.

‘Oh! I almost forgot!' In a rush of flowing fabric, Lesley darted out from behind the stereo. ‘Our first fan letter!' She shook a piece of paper in the air.

My eyes darted to the paper and narrowed. A letter? I had an uneasy history with those things. Suddenly I wasn't tired anymore.

‘Listen to this.' Lesley's voice was bright and clear, even though she'd been yelling at us all night. ‘
To the Majic Charms
. . .' Lesley giggled. ‘Look, she spelt Magic wrong.' She cleared her throat. ‘
My name is Celeste and I am eight years old. You are all really good dancers. When I grow up, I want to be a cheerleader, just like you. Please, please, please write back to me! From Celeste
.'

‘Can I see?' Megan took the page and smiled.

Already I was peering over her shoulder, checking for that telltale handwriting.

‘Aw, so cute.' Megan handed me the letter and headed out to the changerooms.

Frowning, I skimmed over the words. Purple pen. Love hearts for dots on each ‘i'. My forehead relaxed and I let myself smile. This wasn't Jay's style at all.

‘I think her dad's one of the team managers, so she's at every game,' said Lesley, clicking off switches on the sound system. ‘Poor thing.'

Andrew was reaching under the barre for his top. Abe and the others were already heading out the door.

‘Does anyone . . .' I held up the letter. ‘We should reply to this.'

Andrew shrugged, but no one else even looked back at me.

‘Looks like you're it, Saph,' said Lesley on the way past.

I was still holding the letter when Dad picked me up.

‘You look tired,' he said before I'd even reached for my seatbelt.

So do you, Dad
, I thought. But I just shrugged. ‘Lesley's working us really hard. The quarterfinal and all.'

Dad nodded. I didn't have to see his face to know he was frowning.

I folded the fan letter carefully and slid it into the side pocket of my dancing bag. There was already another scrap of paper in there.

‘Dad, you remember Jay Wilson? You met him on Saturday night?'

‘I remember him, Saph.'

‘Well, his parents want you to call them. They keep offering to give me a lift . . .' I trailed off, resting my head against the seat.
So tired
. . . I didn't have any energy for a fight. ‘I just thought, they're parents, you know? And Jay, well, he's a lot like me, really.' I thought back to his German essay.

For a few seconds, the only sounds in the car were the rumble of the engine and the click-clock, click-clock of the indicator. Dad turned the corner, straightened the wheel and glanced at me.

‘Okay then,
koukla
,' he said, his voice growling and warm. ‘I'll think about it.'

‘Thanks, Dad.' I let my body settle into the familiar seat. Considering Dad belonged in the middle of last century, I gave his answer an eight out of ten.

I sipped my steaming hot chocolate, enjoying the silky feel of it sliding down my throat.
Come on sugar, do your stuff. Hit me with a shot of energy.
I switched on my laptop, positioning it carefully, and peered at my page of scribbles – the start-stop plan for my German essay.

My head felt thick and my eyes were dry. My back was tight and sore. But I couldn't go to bed yet. Not when I was so behind with my essay.

I shifted in my chair, trying to find a position that soothed my back. (A girl can't start work until she's comfy!)

Then I cupped my mug in two hands and blew over the top, before taking another sip. ‘
Echtes Glück
.' Real happiness.
Okay then
. . .

Another sweet sip. And another . . .

Before I knew it, I was tipping the mug upside down and licking the inside for the last thick chocolate bits.

No more hot chocolate, and no further into my German essay.

Did the essay really matter anyway?
I rested my elbows on the desk and held my head in my hands. How much German would I need when I was dancing full time? All this was a total waste of energy.

I slid off my desk chair and kneeled on my rug next to my dancing bag. From the side pocket I pulled out the purple fan letter and opened it carefully. It was pretty cool – the Charms getting our first piece of fan mail. Like we were movie stars, or fairytale princesses – living a life that others can only dream of. My life was Celeste's dream.

Before I knew it, I was back at my desk opening a fresh document with a head full of things to say. If only my German essay was this easy . . .

Dear Celeste,

Thank you so much for your letter. All the Magic Charms were thrilled to read it! We are so glad that you like watching us. If you work hard and keep practising, I'm sure you will be a cheerleader one day.

It's an amazing feeling, dancing in the bright lights with so many people watching. We try to make it look easy. But it's really hard work. We have to be very careful not to make any mistakes.

I stopped typing and read over my letter. Could I say that to a little girl? About the hard work and the pressure. Should I tell her what it was really like?
Dancing's not as glamorous as it seems
. . .

The curser blinked at me from the screen.

Quickly I selected the last sentence and hit delete. Telling Celeste that stuff would be like telling her Santa wasn't real. I signed off as if life as a dancer was a breeze.
Sweet dreams, Celeste.

Then I pushed back my desk chair and lay along the length of my soft wool rug as images flashed through my mind: Dad's eyebrows in a frown, Lesley demonstrating an arm move, a goofy smile from Jay.

It was such a relief to close my eyes. Right now I just wanted to be eight years old again, when dancing was still a perfect dream.

CHAPTER
9

On Saturday morning, before the Magic quarterfinal, I had a long bonding session with my German dictionary. It was yellow, with a soft waterproof cover and smelt like plastic.
Aahh
. . .

Somehow I had managed to finish the English version of my essay. In Mr Kissinger's words, it was ‘not my best work'. But then again, it was a miracle that I'd managed to get this far.

Because I was so behind, Mr K had told me to start the translation on my own.
Jeez, thanks, Sir
. . .