“There’s a festival at Discovery Green Saturday. Could we go there?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“We don’t have to stay long. There’s a dance group performing and I’d like to watch them.”
“Ballet? Don’t you get enough of that here?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s hip-hop.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Hip-hop, huh? Is this some sort of ballerinas-gone-wild thing?”
“No,” I snickered. “They’re from a studio over on Montrose, and I’ve never seen them perform. It’s free, open to the public.”
“I’m cool with it. We can eat at the Mexican Cantina around the corner from the Towers then walk to Discovery Green.”
“Great.”
Movement at the door caught my eye. Mrs. Hahn had entered the room.
“Christine. What are you still doing here?” Supporting herself with the cane, she hobbled into the room.
“I’m staying late to rehearse with Ms. Z.”
“Is that right?” She moved to the refrigerator to get a sport drink. “So Lena is tutoring you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I suppose she knows what she’s doing.” She directed her attention to Raoul then. “And you are?”
“This is Raoul Chaney. He’s one of the football players taking classes. His uncle is a Rousseau board member.”
“Douglas Chaney’s nephew?”
I glanced at Raoul and he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I suppose that’s the cost of doing business,” she said. Then she exited the room, leaving her insult to do its job.
“Who was that?” Raoul asked.
“Mrs. Hahn. She’s not keen on football players taking lessons at the Academy.”
“No kidding.”
I looked at my watch. “I better go before Ms. Z. comes looking for me.”
We stood at the same time, and I took one last drink of water, tossed the bottle in a nearby trashcan, and started to walk away. Raoul caught my hand and gently tugged me to a halt.
“Saturday,” he said. Then he leaned in and brushed his lips across my temple. My heart dropped to my knees, as he released my hand and strolled out of the room. Barely breathing, I raised a shaky hand to the warm place his lips had touched. Then my knees buckled and I flopped into the chair I’d just vacated. How I was supposed to dance after that?
Chapter Nineteen
For the next hour, Ms. Zaborov drove me beyond reason. I danced until my legs cramped and I couldn’t go on anymore.
“This was good,” she contemplated aloud.
I took a towel from my bag, collapsed to the floor in an exhausted heap, and thought good for whom?
“You do not have to rise,” she said, meaning I didn’t have to get to my feet to curtsy and thank her. “Class is over. You have done well today. Now, go home and get some rest. We will work again tomorrow.”
When I’d cooled down and caught my breath, I hauled myself to my feet and slipped into my sweats and shrug. It was getting late, and since the homeless man in the alley now had my taxi money, I would be walking home.
Outside the school, I’d paused on the stoop to fish my iPod from my bag when I noticed Van walking briskly across the plaza toward the Wakefield Center, lashing his head about conspicuously as though making sure no one followed.
“That little stinker,” I mumbled and charged after him.
At the building’s back entry, I swiped my key card and swung the door open. Once inside, my eyes had to adjust to the partially lit hallway before I could go on, so I stood and listened for Van. It was quiet. Eerily quiet.
“Van!” I whispered into the barren hallway. “Evander!” But there was no response.
Ambling through the dim corridor, passing dressing room doors and walls lined with theater posters, Van’s dead dancer story popped into my mind. I had to admit, the theater was a good setting for it. The place made a person feel like a spook could be lurking around every turn. A shiver ran down my spine, and I laughed at myself for being so silly. There was no ghost. It was a cleverly concocted scheme for Van to get attention, but the enormous, empty building was creepy nonetheless.
I took the path leading to the Griffith Theater’s backstage entrance, making my way to the wings. If he intended to plant more evidence, he might already be on the catwalk.
“You are so busted,” I shouted and leaped from behind the heavy velvet curtains. But there was no one there. Stepping farther out, I craned my neck upward to the single truss light that illuminated a small spot on the stage. “Van? You up there?” I made a few turns around, peering into the inky recesses of the theater. “Van?” My phone rang then and startled me. “Crap!”
I dropped my bag onto the floor and fumbled the ringing phone out of it.
“Hello?”
“Where are you? I called your house and there was no answer,” Jenna said.
“I’m at the Wakefield.”
“What? Why? Are you still with Ms. Zaborov?”
“No. I thought I saw Van sneaking in. I’d intended to bust him, but he’s not here. What’s up?”
“I wanted to know how it went with Raoul. I saw you leave together.”
“We went to the kitchen to take a break. And it went great. He kissed me.”
“Shut up!”
“Just on the brow. But still, I think he really likes me.’
“Aww, my little duckling is turning into a swan.”
“I don’t think a baby swan is called a duckling.”
“Don’t ruin my moment here with a science lesson, Christine. You know I suck at science.”
“There’s something different about him,” I said, crossing my legs and folding them beneath me to sit down on the stage floor. “I don’t get as nervous around him as I do most guys. I mean—I get nervous, but in a good way.”
“Ooooh! This sounds serious.”
“C’mon, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.” She turned sober then. “And I think it’s cool.”
I reclined and lay flat on the floor, too exhausted to care how dirty it was. Sprawled there like an octopus, I rested, even after Jenna had hung up. The gloomy quiet wasn’t so unnerving anymore. It was strangely peaceful, tranquil. Outside was a city of millions trying to get home to their evening meal, yet there was solitude here in the theater that was comforting.
Closing my eyes, I pictured the hundreds of dancers who’d graced this floor. I imagined what it would be like to perform here in a real troupe, not merely as a student or in a junior company, but as one of the main company.
Suddenly, I found my second wind and I scrambled to my feet. “Okay, Mrs. Hahn. Let’s see if we can feel it in here.”
Without any music, I started to dance. I wanted the music to be inside me, or at least for it to appear that way. I imagined myself the lead with an audience here to see me perform in a famous ballet. In my fantasy, there was no panic attack. I was free to dance. Free to be me.
I pirouetted around the stage, leaping and twirling, Ms. Zaborov’s directions echoing in my mind. Then I saw movement behind the curtain and froze mid-rotation when I heard, “You really shouldn’t check your formation in your shadow like you do. It reveals your lack of confidence.”
Startled, I stumbled back a couple of steps and a bird-like shriek slipped from my lips. I was not alone.
Chapter Twenty
My shrill chirp bounced off the walls of the empty theater, and the building went stone cold silent once more. Gasping for air, my breathing roared in my ears and my heart beat heavily.
“Who’s there?” I demanded and squinted into the darkness.
On the verge of calling out again, the words jammed in my throat as Jenna’s statement came flooding back to me; ‘They take girls up there to get a little action’, and I realized I may have stumbled upon someone’s make-out session.
Glued to the floor, I didn’t know what to do. I would die of humiliation if a couple were on the catwalk h
ooking up. Tentatively, I lifted my gaze to peer overhead ready to bolt if I saw any bare skin. To my relief, the catwalk was empty.
Then I heard, “If you continually check your form in your shadow, you’ll never be free to move.”
I cast about. Was he behind me?
“Van, are you messing with me?”
“Your technique is flawless, but you stifle your gift with it.”
To my left. He was behind the curtain to my left.
“Who’s there?” The voice had a gravelly edge to it. There was no way it was Van’s high-pitched, juvenile speech.
Rather than answer me, the guy continued his critique. “You worry too much about your form. You should trust your body to do what it’s trained to do.”
I trod over and yanked back a curtain. “Who’s there? Are you one of the Diamondbacks?” That of course was ludicrous, because the only formation they knew was on a football field.
Then it dawned on me. “Oh, you’re a security guard. Well, I was about to leave,” I explained to him. “I was looking for Evander Woodruff, and I—”
“I’m a dancer.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m a dancer.”
“Oh. A member of the company?”
“Not this company.”
“What company are you with?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not making sense. And where are you?” I twisted my head like an owl.
“Behind the curtains.”
“Yeah, I got that.” It sounded like he’d moved so I did a one-eighty to follow his path. “But why?”
He hesitated. “It’s what works for me.”
“What?”
“Let’s just say I have my reasons.” His tone was superior and sounded strangely familiar. “But I saw your dancing,” he said. “And your technique really is outstanding, but you’re uptight and it shows.”
“Excuse me.” I sputtered.
“Don’t be offended.” He chuckled. “I just think some of your steps were stiff and it needed to be pointed out.”
“And you think you’re the one to do that.”
“Well, yeah. It doesn’t seem anyone at this ridiculous school knows how to help you.”
“Wow,” I scoffed. “What are you eighteen? Nineteen? And you think you can instruct me better than the professionals at the Rousseau Academy can. Arrogant much?”
He laughed again and I picked up my bag.
“I get enough critiquing, thank you. I don’t need it from a poser hiding behind a curtain.”
When I’d reached the rear of the stage, he said, “It’s your loss.” And I paused.
“If you’re so brilliant,” I replied, my pride having been vexed, “then step out and show me.” He didn’t respond, so I went on. “Let me tell you what I think. I think you came here to meet up with a girl, a student probably, and she stood you up. Or maybe you’re a perv who gets his kicks ogling ballerinas?”
“A perv? You mean because of the way I’m lunging out to grab you and drag you away.”
I ignored him and continued, “But I don’t see any reason why I should let a groupie evaluate my performance?”
“I told you I’m a dancer. I could give you a rundown of my training, list my instructors both in the states and in Paris, but it would be easier for me to show you?”
“You’ve danced in Paris?” I didn’t bother masking my skepticism.
“You don’t believe me.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Then let me show you.”
I waited for him to come out then, but he didn’t. Instead, he commanded, “Développé.”
Surely, he didn’t mean for me to follow his command. Seconds ticked by and it became clear that that was exactly what he meant.
“But there’s no barre, no—”
“Just do it,” he said. “Développé.”
Rolling my eyes doubtfully, I pulled up straight and moved into fifth position. Slowly bringing my right foot up to passé, I unfolded it out behind me to angle my body at ninety-degrees.
“Hold,” he commanded.
I did, which wasn’t easy on my already fatigued legs.
“Shift your weight and lean to the left. There. It’s modern. To make it contemporary, curve your neck, tilt your head, and wrap your arm around close to your neck.
“Now see yourself in a peasant girl’s dress, performing Giselle to contemporary choreography.”
“I can’t.” I dropped out of position to rest my leg. “Mrs. Hahn would never allow me to perform anything with a contemporary expression.”
“Mrs. Hahn? Are you going to let that has-been dictate your future?”
“I don’t have much choice. She and Ms. Zaborov hold all the cards.”
He was quiet so long I wondered if he’d left. Then he spoke again and his tone was more solemn. “I could help you.”
I wiped the sweat from my neck. “You?—could help me?”
“Of course you’d have to stop trying so hard to be a ballerina and learn to concentrate on character. You could probably benefit from sense memory exercises, too.”
“Wait. What? Are you saying you want to tutor me? No thanks. I have a tutor proficient in torture. I don’t need another.”
“You’re right. You don’t need tutoring. You need transforming.” He said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Shaking my head, I took up my bag again and backed toward the exit. “You know what I think? I think you’re a wannabe dancer—maybe a stagehand hoping to get lucky—but I have enough instructors to keep me busy. I don’t need one whose method includes hiding behind a curtain.”
Chapter Twenty One
I walked home in the dark, but hardly noticed. Replaying the conversation with the guy behind the curtain, I’d completely forgotten about Van. The man had said he was a dancer, but he never said with what company. And he never said how he knew Mrs. Hahn or Ms. Zaborov.
His comments gnawed at me, mostly because they hit home. For as long as I could remember, all I’d wanted was to become a principal dancer. It had never occurred to me that I was trying too hard. Was that what Mrs. Hahn had been getting at?
Arriving at Templeton Towers, I upbraided myself for letting what was most likely a stagehand’s flippant comments bother me so. Although, I didn’t totally dismiss the notion that I needed to concentrate on characterization more, I pushed the incident aside.
It was close to eight o’clock. Mom would surely be mad, possibly furious, that I hadn’t called or texted, but to my surprise, she wasn’t home either. When I checked my phone, I saw I had text messages, one from her and several from Jenna.
Mom’s text said she was working late and that there were leftovers in the refrigerator. Jenna’s were all small talk. I was exhausted, too tired to care, so I ignored her texts. All I wanted was to soak in a hot tub and go to bed. I didn’t even care about food. It wasn’t until I was falling asleep that the truth penetrated my foggy brain. If Mom was working late, so was Cooper Nance.
The next morning, Mom buzzed around, humming and smiling, as she prepared for work.
“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” I said, placing my cereal bowl on the island.
She smiled. “Am I? I don’t know that I feel chipper. I had trouble falling asleep last night.”
A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” I asked
She shrugged a shoulder and opened the refrigerator to remove a bagel. “Work, I suppose.”
“Mom, how long has Mr. Nance been your assistant?”
Her brow furrowed as she popped the bagel into the toaster.
“Hmm, I don’t know. Several months now. Originally, he was a temp, filling in for Britta while she went on maternity leave. Then when Britta decided to stay home with the baby, we hired him full time. Why?”
“No reason,” I replied, trying to do the math in my head. But I couldn’t recall how long it had been since she’d tol
d us about Britta quitting, whether or not it was before Dad left for Norway?
When she dropped me off at school, I saw Van approach the entry, and I called out to him. He stopped and waited for me to catch up to him.
“Princess,” he said as I approached.
“What were you doing at the Wakefield last night?” I demanded.
His lips curled into a smug, satisfied grin. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Van, you need to stay out of the Wakefield after hours. It’s wiggin’ out Mr. Sims.”
“Sims is an old woman. He worries too much.”
“Evander,” I enunciated. “You need to let this go. He’s right. It can be dangerous in there when it’s dark.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going for—mystery and danger in a haunted theater. Did you see this week’s episode of Paranormal Response Team?”
I shook my head.
“They were at an old drive-in theater looking for the ghost of a kid who’d been run over there. Car backed over him and crushed him.”
“Eww, Van, that’s horrible.”
“I know, right. So can you imagine how cool it would be for them to come here?”
He opened the door and hesitated there. “Don’t worry so much. I know what I’m doing.” Then he walked into the building, letting the door slam behind him.
Chapter Twenty Two
My concerns about Mom and Mr. Nance filled my thoughts all day, and I forgot to tell Jenna about my encounter with the guy in the theater. It wasn’t until the end of the day that I thought about him again. I wondered who he was and almost mentioned it to her, but if it turned out he was a security guard analyzing my performance I’d be embarrassed. I mean how crummy a dancer would I be if a rent-a-cop could see my flaws. Or worse, what if he had been there to meet a girl and I’d interrupted.
Mom picked me up that afternoon and we went to the Galleria to shop. We were there for several hours when I finally chose a shimmery, champagne-colored dress with spaghetti straps and a ruffle trimmed V-neck. I accessorized with aqua-colored earrings, a pearl cuff bracelet, and a pair of stacked wedge sandals. I thought Mom was going to cry when I stepped out of the dressing room.
“Oh, Chris, baby, you look beautiful.”
I spun around in front of the tri-fold mirror and the dress swirled about my legs. “You think so?”
“I wish your dad were here to see you.”
Happy to hear her expressing kind thoughts toward Dad, I tried to perpetuate it. “Here.” I pulled my phone from my bag. “Get a picture and we’ll send it to him.”