“Elaina,” Ms. Zaborov said, “I do not think now is the time for this.”
“Now is the perfect time,” Mrs. Hahn snapped. “They’re all here.”
Jenna looked at me as if to say what is she up to now?
Mrs. Hahn paced in front of us, taking time to let her gaze linger on several different students. She came so close to a few I feared she might come down on a foot with her cane.
“My office has been broken into again,” she said. “And some of my personal property has been taken. In light of what has happened to Evander Woodruff I can’t help think someone here knows about this. All these robberies—you people are bound to be aware of what’s going on.” She raised her cane and pounded the air with it, punctuating her accusations.
Murmuring broke out around us, and Jenna was about to speak when I gave a slight shake of my head to discourage her. Even if we needed to share what we knew about Van, this was not the time to do it.
Mrs. Crane spoke up then. “If anyone knows anything about this, you may come directly to me. But for now, I believe you should get to class.”
“But I…” Mrs. Hahn sputtered.
“That’s enough for now, Elaina,” Mrs. Crane said.
For several seconds, Mrs. Hahn glared at some of us and then angrily slammed the cane back down and stomped her way out of the room.
Mrs. Crane and Ms. Zaborov shared a look. Then Mrs. Crane led the youngest group of students back to class, while Ms. Zaborov stoically released the others, one class at a time. Only the level eight dancers remained, and when Ms. Zaborov stepped into the hall for a moment, Deidre made her opinion known.
“I don’t see why they don’t have security investigate the lockers and dressing rooms right now.” She shot a meaningful expression at Jenna. “No doubt they’d find the missing items.”
Gasps rippled through the studio.
“Wow, Deirdre,” Jenna snarled, “how original; blame the dancer here on scholarship. Sounds like the plot to a B movie gone straight to DVD to me.”
I’d forgotten Jenna was at the Rousseau Academy on a grant. Leave it to Deirdre to remind everyone.
A couple of girls snickered and Deirdre spun and flounced out of the room. Then Jenna postured in a manner that dared anyone else to comment; most either turned their backs to whisper among themselves, or scurried to the other side of the room.
Jenna snorted out a cha sound and gave her back to them, as well. “Should we have told them about Van’s phony phantom? Do you think tht that had anything to do with this?” she asked in a low voice.
“No, of course not. Why would it?”
“Maybe he and Liam didn’t tell us everything.”
“Surely they wouldn’t have stolen from Mrs. Hahn, though. To what purpose? Not to mention, Liam is afraid of his own shadow. I don’t think either of them are the type to steal.”
Jenna shrugged. “Who knows what they’ve been up to. I could choke him. He may be a narcissistic pain in the ass, but a person can’t help but love him.”
“I know,” I replied.
Jenna chewed her lip and shook her head. “I have an idea. Why don’t we go see him tomorrow?”
“At the hospital?”
“Sure, why not. I’ll see if I can get the car.”
“I suppose we could.”
“We’ll take him something—balloons or flowers—cheer the little guy up. What do you think?”
“Sounds like a great idea.”
As soon as her mother arrived to pick her up that afternoon, Jenna asked to use the car for the visit. So before we’d left school, we’d arranged a trip to the hospital the next day to see Van.
Chapter Forty Nine
I was super relieved to receive a reply to the text I sent Erik that night. It had been three days since Mr. Sims had told me Erik was ill. Since then, I’d sent him two texts expressing my well wishes, but he hadn’t responded to either of them. Now that he had, it was simple and short.
I’ll be there.
Anxious to learn how he was, I could hardly wait until Mom went to bed that night, so I could rush out of the apartment and hurry to the theater.
“Erik? Are you here?” I called the moment I stepped on stage.
“Yes, I am.” The curtain stirred. “I apologize for the other night. I’m sorry I was unable to be here.”
“Well, of course—you were sick.”
“So let’s get started then,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about Giselle’s entry in Act II. I think we should…”
“Erik.” I stopped him, surprised he would just pick up where we’d left off. Especially, since I felt his illness was my fault “Maybe we should postpone my lessons for a while. Until you feel better.”
“I’m fine. It was only a cold. No need to delay your lessons.”
“Mr. Sims said you were very sick. He said—” I faltered. “He said you’re living in the building’s boiler room and the atmosphere down there is bad for your lungs.”
His response was slow to come, and when he spoke his voice quavered. “So you know. Sims told you everything. Now you know what a total loser I am—living in the theater’s basement. How pathetic I must seem to you.”
“No, of course not. I understand you’ve had a hard time lately. But I feel responsible for you getting sick. You shouldn’t have danced with me like that.”
Another silent pause before he murmured, “It was worth it.”
I couldn’t help smiling because his reply held a playful lilt.
“That may be, but I don’t understand why you haven’t seen a doctor. They might be able to help you. There could be medications or treatments. They may even be able to help with your face.” I regretted that last statement the moment it was out.
“Ah, I see. Your concern—your pity—is for my appearance. Well, don’t bother. My face is what it is. But if you find it to be too much for you then we can consider this our last encounter.”
“No!” Embarrassment flooded me. “That’s not what I meant. Not at all. I only wanted to help. I’m concerned for your health. That’s why I thought you should see a doctor. Not because of your appearance.”
A hush fell between us then, and I listened intently to determine if he was walking away. All I heard was the swishing of my tights as I shifted my legs nervously.
At last, a low murmur drew my attention to where he was on the right side of the stage now. “You really do care,” he said. Then the curtain fluttered, and like the night we’d danced together, I saw him grip the velvety edge.
“Yes.” I sighed with relief. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. If you’re unwell, we can skip the lessons. I’ll get by without them. Your health is more important.”
His fingers worked the curtain then he pulled it aside and loomed out of the darkness. He wore jeans and a tee tonight, and the captivating mask and headpiece concealed his face and head as before.
“I think you’re really sincere,” he said.
“Of course, I’m sincere.”
“I promise you, I’m well enough to put you through your paces, so don’t think I’ll go easier on you because you’re being kind.”
I laughed. “Oh, no, I’m well aware what a taskmaster you are.”
“But maybe you’re right,” he said. “We should take it easy tonight.”
In four smooth strides, he’d made it to me, but he kept walking until he got to the edge of the stage where he sat down, tossing his legs over the side as I had.
“Let’s have a different sort of lesson tonight.” He tilted his head upward, the mask covering any emotion he might be expressing, and patted the floor for me to join him.
Smiling, I moved to sit down beside him, and we spent the remainder of our time talking about all things ballet. We discussed choreographers Jorma Elo and Christopher Wheeldon and their methods. I was surprised to learn he’d even danced at the Bolshoi. I was envious and told him so.
“No need for jealousy, you’ll get there. You’re learning
what it takes to make a role believable. Facial gymnastics just aren't enough. The body has to act. And I’ve seen you do it.”
Though he said some of the same things Ms. Zaborov had, coming from him it hit me differently. It was so easy to talk to him. There was no judgment in his assessment of my skills. There was no ulterior motive. He wasn’t being paid so he owed no one anything, not the school, not my parents, not even me. And maybe it was wishful thinking on my part, but it seemed like I was helping him, too. We were helping each other.
Chapter Fifty
On Tuesday, Raoul drove me home after the Diamondbacks’ lesson. I knew we’d gotten a tad carried away with the goodbye kiss when a car passing by honked its horn and the driver stuck his head out to whoop.
When I’d peeled myself away from him with the promise of letting him drive me home again after Thursday’s lesson, I went upstairs and showered for the trip to the hospital. I was apprehensive about it, unsure what to expect upon seeing Van for the first time. Injury was a constant threat to a dancer. Prevention was always in the back of the mind, but a broken leg was everyone’s worst nightmare.
Jenna, appeared on edge, too, because we talked little as she navigated the traffic on the drive over, and she was silent on the ride up in the elevator, except to curse at the enormous bundle of balloons she struggled to control.
When the elevator stopped on Van’s floor, we located his room and knocked gently on the door.
“Come in,” someone said.
Jenna pushed the heavy door aside and we walked in, the balloons trailing behind us. A woman in jeans and a green blouse sat in a chair near Van’s bed, and I recognized her as his mother. They had the same creamy brown skin and bright, sparkling eyes.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“We’re here to see Van,” I said.
“We go to the Rousseau Academy with him,” Jenna added.
“Oh, of course, I’ve seen you. Please, sit down.” Getting to her feet, she motioned for one of us to take the chair, but we both declined.
I noticed Van hadn’t moved. He had his back to us, which wasn’t easy with a cast holding his right leg stiff, so I wondered if he was asleep.
“Is this a bad time?” I asked. “Is he sleeping?”
“No,” Mrs. Woodruff replied. “He’s a little down this afternoon, though. You’ve come at a good time. He could use cheering up.”
Jenna slipped to the foot of the bed, swinging the balloons out for Van to see. “Hey, dude, if you’re up for an escape we can tie these around your waist and slip you out the window. The landing might be a little rough, though.”
When he didn’t respond, Jenna’s brow tightened, and we both looked at his mother.
She moved close to his bed, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going downstairs for a while. Since the girls are here, maybe they can stay while I grab a bite.”
“Sure, Mrs. Woodruff,” I replied. “We’ll hang out.”
When she’d gone, I moved around the bed to see Van’s face. He didn't acknowledge me, only stared absently at the wall.
“C’mon, Van, it’s not that bad,” I said lightly. “Your little level five girls will drool over you even more. There won’t be room enough on your cast to hold the signatures.”
“I can’t dance,” he muttered under his breath.
“It’s not forever, Van,” Jenna said. “You’ll dance again. You’ll be back to torture us in no time.”
He continued to stare.
“Mrs. Crane told us your doctor says it won’t hinder your dancing in any way,” I reiterated.
Jenna fumbled with the balloons, tying them to his bed table, and the Mylar squeaked and screeched so I couldn’t hear his response.
“What’d you say?” I asked.
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“Of course it was. You shouldn’t have been up there, but it was an accident nonetheless.”
“No it wasn’t,” he said emphatically. “I was pushed.”
Jenna’s head snapped back as if he’d spit on her. “What are they putting in your IV, dude, because you’re delusional.”
“It’s not funny,” Van grumbled and swerved to look at us. “Someone pushed me off the catwalk stairs. And I saw him.”
Jenna’s eyes were huge. I was sure mine were, too.
“It was dark,” Van explained, “and he came up behind me and shoved me.”
Jenna’s voice went up in alarm. “Did you tell your mother?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t believe me.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“She thinks it was my imagination because of the pain medication. She thinks I dreamed it.”
“Oh, well, she’s probably right. Pain killers can make a person hallucinate,” I said, knowing firsthand what high fevers, pain meds, and hospitals can do to the imagination.
“I wasn’t hallucinating. I saw him plain as day!”
In a flash, Van’s hand shot to his face and he flattened his palm over his cheek and eye. “It was like a Halloween mask—mangled up like Leatherface. It was a phantom, Jenna. A phantom!”
Chapter Fifty One
The ride home was dismal. Neither of us could find anything to say. Although Jenna and I recovered enough from Van’s outburst to tease him into a better mood, I couldn’t stop thinking about his rant now.
His comments rattled around in my head. He’d been adamant about seeing a deformed phantom and that the phantom had pushed him down the stairs. It couldn’t be Erik. It couldn’t. I suppose it was possible that when Van fell he saw Erik in the shadows and it had all run together in the aftermath, but surely Erik wasn't responsible.
The car idled at a red light and Jenna broke the silence. “Well, that was weird.”
“I know. He’s really shook up.”
“What do you think of the phantom pushing him story?” she asked.
I flicked my gaze toward her.
“You don’t think he’s started to believe his own lies, do you?” she said.
“No. I think his mother was right. The pain killers caused him to imagine it.”
Glancing out the window, I watched the streets go by as Jenna navigated toward the apartment. I had to talk to Erik. He would have an explanation, I was sure of it. Restless, I couldn’t wait until I got home to contact him, so I pulled out my phone and texted him to meet me later that night, and I added that it was important.
“Who’s that?” Jenna asked.
“Just Raoul,” I replied and shoved the phone back into my pocket.
By the time we arrived at Templeton Towers, I was glad to climb out of the car. Saying a quick good-bye, I hurried upstairs. Mom wanted to know about Van, and after I’d given her an update, I went straight to my room. Apprehension coursed through me like static electricity, and I paced my bedroom floor. Every minute that ticked by I worried Erik could be in trouble. There was no way I could rest until I’d spoken to him. I refused to believe he would do anything to hurt Van, but he needed to know what Van was saying. When Mom finally turned in, I left and practically ran to the Wakefield Center.
Throwing the curtains aside, I bound onto the stage where I found Erik sitting and hurried over to him. Smoothly, he boosted himself up and under the stage lighting the gold on the mask glowed like smoldering embers.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” he asked.
I was still in sandals and the clothes I’d worn to the hospital earlier that day.
“I’m not here to dance. I told you, we need to talk.”
“Is there a problem with your family again?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s about Van.”
“Who?”
“Evander Woodruff. He’s a student at the academy.”
He lowered his head a moment then said, “Go on.”
“He’s a level seven dancer. Do you know him?”
“You mean the little nuisance who runs around causing trouble?”
His response flustered me. “He’s not a nui
sance. He’s a nice kid, and he’s in the hospital with a broken leg.”
“If you’re not here to dance then why are you here?”
“Erik? Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you. But I don’t see what it has to do with you and me.”
Mouth open, I stared at him.
“Erik, Van is telling people he was pushed down the catwalk stairs. I’m afraid you might be blamed if anyone finds out you’re living here.”
He pulled his hands from the pockets of the hoodie he wore and took a step away from me. “So that’s why you’re here? Because you’re worried for me?”
“Well, yes. He says a man with a leather-face shoved him down the stairs.” Immediately, I regretted my choice of words. It was what Van had said, but the term leather-face conjured pictures of gory horror movies with psychopathic killers who never died.
I noticed his hands at his sides clenching into fists, and he reeled back around. “So, that’s what you think. I’m a leather-face?”
“No, of course not. I’m trying to tell you Van thinks you pushed him down the stairs and broke his leg.” Again, a poor choice of words. Everything I was trying to say had jumbled together and come out wrong.
“He should have known better than to creep around here after hours. If I’m not mistaken, Sims warned him.”
I sucked in a breath. “What are you saying?”
“Does it matter what I say? You already think me a monster, a leather-faced phantom.”
“Stop it!” I cried. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair!” he bellowed. “Don’t talk to me about fair. You and your friends come and go; you play at being ballerinas like children playing Barbie dolls.”
I inhaled sharply at the scathing insult.
“Why don’t you just go,” he demanded, not giving me a chance to counter. “We’re done.”
For several seconds, I paused there as anger festered inside me.
“How dare you accuse me of playing!” I cried. “I have worked my tail off for you. I came here because I care for you—and Van!”
“Just go,” he said again. “And you will pay révérence.”
My eyes widened and my mouth dropped at not only his command that I treat him like a teacher and bow before him, but the superior tone in which he’d said it.
“You want me to pay you reverence?”
He dipped his head in affirmation and the mask raked over the hoodie collar.
I’ve never been so hurt, so angry. Only years of keeping my mouth shut while an instructor berated me kept me in control of my tongue now. Defiantly, I took a couple of deep breaths. Then in my most condescending manner, I dipped into a deep, pompous curtsy, but I refused to lower my head. I kept my gaze on the mask’s almond shaped eyes. When I was certain I’d made my point, I stood and stomped off the stage.