No One's Watching (3 page)

“Where are you going?” Candace pressed the button for the fifteenth floor.

My head spun from Mrs. Ricardo's news about the audition time. “I need to buy something from the dance store. I'll meet you in the room in a few minutes.”

I couldn't wait to rip off my shrunken, shredded tights and throw them away. I rushed to the college bookshop on the first floor. Since the college had a dance department, they stocked basic dance supplies. The back of the package of tights had a graph of weight and height. My new height was on the cusp between medium and large. Since my legs were so long, I bought three packages of bigger tights.

Blake and Jupiter hung out by the T-shirts trying on baseball caps with the Chester Park University cheetah logo. Blake's hair curled over the rim of his cap, while Jupiter's red hair splayed like fire from under his two caps. They laughed as they tried them on backward, sideways, front ways with a little lift on the right side. I tore my stare away, paid for the tights, and scurried out, my mind a jumble of worries.

After lunch, which I didn't remember eating, but must have since I had a ketchup stain on my shirt, Candace and I went to our character dance class. I was so happy to have Ms. Jen again. Music blared out of the studios where the teachers for hip-hop, Irish, jazz, and character dance waited for their next classes. We stopped at the last room on the right.

Ms. Jen, her auburn hair tucked into a peasant-style scarf, welcomed us into the small studio with its piano on a loft near the ceiling, in the corner of the room. Her yellow and red flowered skirt matched her bandana.

We slipped our knee-length black skirts over our leotards. A little woman with wavy black hair climbed up the spiral staircase to the suspended piano.

“Everything okay, Mrs. Chin?” Ms. Jen craned her head upward.

Mrs. Chin waved. “Just fine.” She kneaded the keys through Liszt's
Hungarian Rhapsody
.

The audition loomed less than twenty hours away. Music helped push it to the back of my mind. It was fun pretending to be Hungarian, stamping and hopping in black pumps to the folk music. My arms, acting like helicopter propellers in ballet class, didn't bother me or anyone else. In most peasant-style dances, hands were pretty much glued to waists. Out of the way.

After an hour, Ms. Jen waved to the pianist to end the class. “Thank you, Mrs. Chin.”

Mrs. Chin bowed and gripped the handrail, making her way down the spiral steps.

Ms. Jen picked up a paper and a pair of glasses lying on her dance bag. “I have a notice from Mrs. Sykes, the camp administrator. You need to arrive at least fifteen minutes before your audition time, which is at 9:15 a.m. Ballet classes for some of you might change after the auditions tomorrow because of scheduling conflicts with rehearsals. Just be aware of that change.” She took off her glasses. “See you tonight for the dance film.”

Change?
A chill zipped down my back. I didn't want to change my ballet class. I worked hard to get into the advanced class. I was going to learn everything I could so I'd be ready to audition for the Pennsylvania Ballet in four years when I graduated from high school.

Mr. Jarenko was one of the best. Mom insisted taking classes from different teachers would only benefit me. That was my goal. Improve. Dance in a ballet company and take over The Othersen Ballet School. The Plan with a capital P. I wasn't budging. Mom and Grandma struggled for too long making the studio a success for me to disappoint them.

After our afternoon ballet class, this time with a lady, we rode the elevator up to our suite. In an effort to forget the audition, I hummed and fingered a jazz piece on my crossed arms that I had tried to memorize on my flute.
Calm down.

“You okay?” Candace's face clouded with concern.

No.
“Sure. Are they going to cram everybody over the age of thirteen in the same studio for the audition?”

“Looks like it.” She adjusted the strap of her dance bag on her shoulder. “They'll probably have eliminations all through the class, though.”

Eliminations? And take the walk of shame in front of all the other dancers? No way. Not happening.

I had less than twenty hours to whip myself into shape. Tomorrow, I'd get up early and go to the dance studio, and practice before the audition.

I gripped the railing in the elevator. It was going up, but I was spiraling downward.

As the elevator whooshed to a stop, I was weightless for a second. Every dancer's dream. I clung to the handrail so I wouldn't fall on my face when we came to a stop.

After I got back to our room, I showered in the bathroom we shared with Nicki and Dira, and dressed in white shorts with a bright blue tank top. I twisted in front of the mirror and frowned, reaching in a drawer for a ribbed T-shirt.

“Why'd you change?” asked Candace.

“I never liked sleeveless shirts. I feel like a monkey.” I swung my arms ape-style.

Candace laughed and plopped on her bed, throwing a pink, furry pillow at me.

“My arms are too long.” I plucked at my shirt.

Candace scooped up her pillow and arranged it on her bed. “No, they're not. They reach your shoulders, don't they?”

“What?” I screwed up my face.

“If they were too long, they'd attach at your ears.” She laughed and flung a hoodie over her shoulder. “You have lovely long arms and legs. A perfect dancer's body. I'd love to be taller.”

I put my hands on my hips. “And I'd love to be the girl everyone would love to be.”

Candace mock punched me in the arm. When she wasn't looking, I yanked at the sleeves of my T-shirt over my shoulders to cover more of my gangly arms. I followed her out the door for an informal class on music theory, which consisted mainly of hanging around the lounge listening to different types of music. When could I sneak in extra practice time?

After a pizza and salad supper, the campers filed into a long room set movie-style with chairs. Even the teachers were there. I hardly recognized them in street clothes. Shelly sat with her roommate, Amy, who had bleached blond hair poking all over her head. They were in the front row, like they always managed to be in dance class.

Before she started the film, Mrs. Sykes, one of the camp leaders, offered us cupcakes and punch. She was dressed in a fancy pantsuit and a flowered blouse. “Don't forget you're forbidden to leave the building without an adult chaperone. Chester Park University is in the middle of a city and in order to remain safe, you must stay inside. Being caught outside the buildings is grounds for immediate dismissal.” Her eyes roamed over us. “And I mean immediate.”

Good thing I wasn't a city girl.

Nicki smirked and whispered to Dira, “Stay inside? Like that's going to happen.”

“It didn't last year.” Dira giggled.

My ears perked up.

Candace patted Dira's knee. “You guys behave.”

Behave?
Where was I last year while everyone was running around the torrid city streets? Probably sleeping. I yawned.

“You'll have a chance to get out this weekend when we take a bus trip to Chester Park. We'll have a picnic lunch, and you can swim in the pool beside the river. We expect you all to be on your best behavior.” Mrs. Sykes went on to introduce the movie about Anna Pavlova. The documentary about ballet's most famous ballerina included an old film of Pavlova dancing
The Dying Swan
.

My droopy eyelids scratched my eyeballs like sandpaper. I'd been so excited for the first day of dance classes I hardly slept the previous night. I was zombiefied. The hands on the wall clock pointed to 7:30 p.m. It felt more like midnight.

“I have to go to bed, Candace.” I stood and squeezed past Dira and Nicki, making plans to meet them in the morning.

Somehow, I found the elevator and managed to push the right button for my floor. After I staggered to my room, I pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms and a cami and set my flute case on my bedside table. Once all this audition stuff was over, I'd relax and play it.

My shorts and T-shirt were piled on the floor as if I had evaporated. I flopped in bed, setting my small travel alarm to three and stuffed it under my pillow. I didn't want to take a chance on waking up Candace super early. My plan was to go to the ballet studio and work out. Maybe I could make up for lost time when I should've been practicing.

I woke up a bunch of times in the night, stiff from muscle pain. All the day's tiredness sucked me back into the dark. I dreamed about riding a roller coaster. It ratcheted up and up, pulling me into the sky and out of dreamland.

Candace's alarm clock was jangling. It was nine.

My throbbing heart stuck in my throat, growing bigger with every beat. I gurgled. What happened to my alarm clock? I shoved it in my face and blinked. I'd set it for 3:00 p.m.

Candace flipped her sheet back and jumped from her bed. “I forgot to reset the time. I'm off by an hour. We should be at the audition by now.” She dashed to the bathroom.

What had I done to myself? I was supposed to practice early this morning. My feet twisted in my sheets as I fell out of bed. I moaned and flexed all my muscles. Everything was sore from class the day before. Even my fingernails.

I kicked off the sheets, dragged myself to the end of the bed so I could stand, and took baby steps to the closet where the pail with my toothbrush and stuff sat. My back screamed as I bent to pick everything up.

After I left the bathroom, I groaned as I pulled on my new longer pink tights and black leotard. I scraped my hair into a ponytail and clipped it in a flat bun to my head.

Candace was dressed and slipping bobby pins into her thick hair. She had tucked a flower in the side of her large bun. “Ready?”

I nodded, wincing as I slung my dance bag on my shoulder. With five minutes to spare, I tripped out the door and followed Candace down the hall to Nicki and Dira's room on the other side of the bathroom we shared. Was everyone as sore as I was?

We rushed down the hall.

“I can't believe we all overslept. This is like high school every morning.” Nicki had parted her auburn hair in the middle, drawn it into a low ponytail and clipped it several times on her head.

Dira clamped her hand on the strap of her dance bag, ready for the prom, with her black hair sleeked in a bun. Mascara thickened her curly lashes. Nicki's cheeks were pink. How had they had time to apply makeup? Maybe Nicki's flushed cheeks were nerves. Mine burned.

We hurried to the elevator, tapping the down button every two seconds. The elevator hissed as it settled on our floor. It dropped us seventeen stories to the basement studio level, stopping at every floor for college students taking summer classes. Sweat moistened my upper lip, and I swiped at it with the back of my hand.

We tumbled out of the elevator and checked in at a long table.

“You're lucky they're running late setting up the judges' table.” An assistant dance teacher ticked our names off. “You won't have time to warm up.”

I pinned the white card with number fifty-nine to my leotard, right below the scoop neck. We squeezed through the crowded hallway to a small space by the water fountain, slipping off shorts and pulling on our ballet slippers. The assistant teacher called us back to the main studio.

Dancers from the advanced and intermediate ballet classes flooded into the room and clung to the
barre
s. The four of us stood in a row. An extremely close row. Shelly had planted herself at the head of the
barre
, facing the mirror. How was everyone going to fit?

My muscles were too short for my bones. I faced the
barre
at an angle and flung my right ankle on it, staring at my bent leg as I bid my forehead to rest on my knee in a pitiful attempt to stretch. Shelly stood on her left leg, stretching her right leg high next to her ear. Then she pulled it closer to her head and leaned, overstretching her legs. I gritted my teeth, held my breath, and plopped my forehead on my knee, biting my lip so I wouldn't shriek from the pain.

Familiar notes from Chopin filled the air as the pianist warmed up. Mrs. Sykes sat behind a long table in front of the mirrors. She wore a silvery jacket that looked like fish scales. Her mouth was set in a grim line as she scribbled on a stack of paper. Because she was the head judge, the other dance teachers sat to either side of her. I didn't recognize all of them.

Mrs. Ricardo, wearing a pair of stretchy of black pants and a matching pullover shirt, led the class. Her crinkly hair was pulled up in a loose bun. “Everyone will have to turn slightly toward the
barre
so you don't hit the person in front or in back of you.”

My leg dropped from the
barre
with a thud. Mrs. Sykes jerked her head and scanned the room. I could've sworn fire blew out of her nostrils.

“First position.” Mrs. Ricardo talked us through a
plié
combination.

I sucked in my stomach and concentrated on keeping my arms locked into position. With every leg movement, there was a matching arm movement. My name wasn't the only thing I inherited from the ballet
Don Quixote
. My arms acted like the windmills he fought. It didn't help that every stiff and uncooperative muscle in my body, from my toes to my earlobes, screamed.

Mrs. Sykes scratched notes on her papers. One of the judges leaned against the mirror. After thirty minutes at the
barre
, my legs didn't hurt so much. We moved
au milieu,
to the center of the room, and danced a slow
adagio
. I pictured myself in the long white tutu in
Les Sylphides
, a crown of small white flowers circling my hair. Or the short violet tutu in the Lilac Fairy's solo. I was weightless and caught myself smiling. Shelly shook her head.

Mrs. Sykes motioned to Mrs. Ricardo. They and the teachers clustered together, consulting over several papers.