Showtime! (2 page)

“Nice of you to join us, ladies,” Toni snapped.

Then she gave them “the look.” Scarlett knew it well—she actually had nightmares about it sometimes. It said, “You have disappointed me; you are dead meat!” all in a single icy-cold stare.

The strange thing was that Toni was beautiful. She had porcelain-white skin, wavy dark hair that fell softly around her shoulders, and pale-blue eyes. Scarlett's little sister, Gracie, thought she looked like Snow White.

“More like the Evil Queen,” Rochelle had said, chuckling. “There is nothing princess-like about her.”

But Scarlett could see it: Toni had once been a kinder, gentler person. She'd even watched some of Toni's old performances on YouTube, when she was just Antoinette Moore, a young teen dancer at American Ballet Company, floating across the stage in
The Nutcracker
to the “Waltz of the
Flowers.” This was not the same woman who stood before them, day after day, stamping her foot on the wood floor and barking orders. Even with Toni's hair pulled into a severe bun and her signature bright-red lipstick, Scarlett could see there was something
soft
about her.

“I want to see perfect
pirouettes piqué.
” Toni's voice brought Scarlett back to attention. “Shoulders down! How many times do I have to correct you? We have three days, and this number is a big hot mess! Scarlett, front and center!”

Scarlett obeyed, taking her place in front of the other girls.

“Miss Toni! I can't see with Scarlett's big butt blocking my view,” Liberty complained.

“Well, there's nothing to see,” Toni replied. “You should know this number cold by now without having to follow me. Five-six-seven-eight . . .”

They rehearsed for two hours without a break. The number was a strange contemporary piece set to the
tap-tap-tap
sounds of a computer keyboard. No music; just strange computer blips and
bells. Onstage, there would be a giant video screen behind them, projecting fake e-mails and text messages. The routine was called, “Cyberbully,” and in it, Scarlett played the victim of mean girls bugging her online.

“I want to see the pain in your face,” Toni instructed her, “as if these words are like knives cutting into you.”

Scarlett winced. That wasn't hard to imagine. All she had to do was recall some of Liberty's nastiest insults.

Scarlett flitted from girl to girl, trying to escape their clawing arms. It was dramatic and unsettling.

Toni seemed satisfied. “If this doesn't win Saturday, I give up,” she said under her breath.

At the end of rehearsal, she gathered the girls around her in a huddle, like a football coach handing out plays to his team. “I want you to know that Saturday's competition is going to be tough,” she began. “Some of the best studios are coming to compete, and we cannot afford to make any mistakes. Is that clear?”

Scarlett was used to the speech. It always began with something like “Don't mess up!” and ended with “Do I make myself clear?” To Toni, every competition was a matter of life and death, because her reputation was riding on it. But what she forgot was that none of the girls liked to lose either. It felt awful to spend dozens of hours on group routines, solos, and combinations, only to be handed a second- or third-place trophy. Every one of them wanted to win first place—in every category.

“I said,
is that clear?
” Toni boomed. Four heads nodded. “We leave for the city at eight a.m.”

Liberty raised her hand. “Miss Toni, Saturday is my eleventh birthday, and my mom was planning on having a party for some family and VIP friends later in the day. I think maybe a countess and . . .”

Toni placed a hand dramatically over her eyes, as if to block out Liberty from her vision altogether. “I don't care if Queen Elizabeth herself is coming to tea at your house. You'll be there!” She said each word with the razor-sharpness of a
battement
at the
barre
. “Is. That. Clear?”

Liberty gulped. It was the first time Scarlett had ever seen her know-it-all teammate at a loss for words.

Toni turned and faced the rest of the group. “That goes for all of you. Anyone who is not interested in following my rules . . . there's the door.” She pointed to the studio exit. “I don't care if you like me, and I don't care if you like one another. But we are a team, and we act like one. We let nothing stand in our way of winning.”

On that note, Toni walked out the door, leaving the girls to think about what she'd said.

“My mom is not going to be happy.” Liberty sighed. “She called the caterer and everything.”

“Give me a break.” Rochelle groaned.

“Nothing like team spirit,” Scarlett said. “Can we all just try to get along?”

“Oh, and who appointed you cheer captain?” Liberty shot back. “After I win the crown for Junior Solo this weekend, I'll be Toni's favorite—not you.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Rochelle
said, defending her BFF. “Unless they give out prizes for the biggest mouth. In that case, you'll win for sure.”

Liberty bristled. “At least I have a solo. Toni cut yours this week. I wonder why? Maybe because you
stink
?”

“Not as bad as your feet stink!” Rochelle shot back, holding her nose.

“Aw, someone's a sore loser! What's the matter? Miss Toni thought you weren't good enough to compete?”

“Liberty, cut it out!” Scarlett cried. “It's none of your business. Stop or I'll—”

“You'll what? You'll run to Miss Toni and rat me out? Aw, I'm really scared.” She picked up her ballet shoes and waved them in Scarlett's face, taunting her. “See ya Saturday, girls,” she said, and smirked. “I can't wait.”

Scarlett had a sinking feeling in her stomach that this weekend wasn't going to go as smoothly as planned.

Just as Miss Toni had promised, the Dance Divas' bus pulled up in front of the studio at 8:00 a.m. sharp. It was hard to miss the studio, even from a mile away. There was a bright gold sign on the roof and a giant pair of pink ballet slippers in a star. Miss Toni had personally designed the logo.

Scarlett's dance bag weighed a ton and was digging into her shoulder. Meanwhile, her mom had both hands full, lugging a duffel filled with costumes, makeup, and hair tools outside to the curb.

“I feel like I'm forgetting something,” her mom, Hillary, said to Bria's mother, Aimi. “I know
I packed the curling iron and the blow-dryer, but did I bring the flat iron?”

“I have an extra one if you need it,” Aimi assured her. “I always bring two in case one breaks.”

“Or someone like me forgets,” Hillary said with a chuckle. “I swear, I'd forget my head if it wasn't bobby-pinned to my shoulders!”

Bria rolled her eyes. “My mom, she is so perfect,” she whispered to Scarlett. “She never forgets anything. Not the capital of Wisconsin. Not the formula for finding the area of a trapezoid . . .”

“I guess your math test didn't go so well?” Scarlett tried to sympathize.

“I won't get the grade until Monday. Which is probably the only reason I am allowed to compete this weekend.” Bria sighed. “She doesn't care about my dancing. She just wants me to get straight As like she did her whole life. She was so smart that she skipped two grades and went to college when she was sixteen!”

“I bet your mom could never do a dive front walkover like you!” Scarlett reminded her. “Or twenty-five
pirouettes
in a row. You're amazing!”

Bria shrugged. “My older sister, Lily, is amazing. She got to go to the New Jersey state senate last year and read an essay she wrote about serving chocolate milk in school cafeterias. When she grows up, she wants to be a journalist like my dad, covering wars and politics and stuff. It's not easy being in my family!” She held a stack of textbooks in her left arm and her laptop in her right. “I have two hours till we get to New York. I
have
to study.”

Scarlett glanced over at Mrs. Chang. She didn't seem “bossy” like Bria said. In fact, she was smiling sweetly and helping Scarlett's mom double-check their bags.

Scarlett was glad her mom didn't pressure her—not to get perfect grades and not to win dance titles. She was anything
but
a stage mom. “You do your very best—that is all I can ever ask for,” she told her and her little sister, Gracie. “I'll always be proud of you if you try your hardest.”

Her parents were divorced, which Scarlett knew made things difficult for them as a family. Her dad now lived in Manhattan, so her mom
had to juggle a full-time job as a teacher and fulltime parenting. Scarlett liked to think that she was pretty independent. She could take care of herself, even make her own breakfast (Eggo waffles in the toaster) if her mom was too busy.

But Gracie was a whole other story. Ever since the divorce, she was super clingy and super annoying.

“Scoot, can you play Barbies with me?” she'd plead, right as Scarlett was trying to get her social studies homework done before dance class. She always called her Scoot—ever since she was a baby and couldn't pronounce her full name. Scarlett hated the nickname, but it stuck.

“Not now—I have to finish this.” She tried to close her bedroom door, but Gracie pushed back in. “Mama's busy. I wanna play Olympics with the Barbies. Pleeeeeeeease?”

Scarlett was sorry whenever she gave in. It meant an hour of tossing Barbies in the air and watching Gracie pose them in splits and handstands.

“This is the front pike somersault my coach showed us last week!” Gracie said. She kept the doll's legs straight and flipped her over. “Put your arm out—you're the beam!” she instructed Scarlett.

“Uh-huh.” Scarlett yawned. She knew Gracie loved being on the Mini Sparklers in her gymnastics school, but to her, it was playtime. Gracie loved the shiny red, white, and blue leotards and swinging on the rings. At every gymnastics class, she would race around the mats, tumbling and flipping every which way. Her coach called her “the Jumping Bean” because Gracie could never stand still.

“She's a diamond in the rough,” Coach Maggie told her mom. “She has so much natural talent and ability. But she doesn't want it badly enough to take it seriously.”

Scarlett understood what that meant. She knew lots of girls at Dance Divas who were naturally graceful and talented. Some had beautiful turnouts, pointed toes, and straight legs. But that was only part of it. To be on a competition team,
to work with Miss Toni, you had to want it
badly
. You had to eat, sleep, and breathe Dance Divas. It took so much dedication, determination, and concentration that everything else faded into the background. Sometimes Scarlett was exhausted and fed up, but she pushed herself to nail a routine or take an extra stretch class. Miss Toni expected only the best, and Scarlett expected it from herself.

“I am as good as those big girls on the Elite Sparklers team,” Gracie told Scarlett. “Better! I could win a gold medal if they just gave me a chance. I can even do this . . .” She twisted her Barbie's leg into a wide split until it accidentally popped out of the socket.

“I hope you don't do a split like
that
,” Scarlett teased. “Ouch!”

Gracie's face turned bright red. “You broke my favorite Barbie!” she wailed, sending her mom racing into the room to referee.

“Did not!” Scarlett countered. “You broke her. I was just sitting here—”

“Mama, she's so mean!” her little sister sobbed, cradling the legless doll in her arms. “Look what she did!”

Her mom scooped Gracie up in her lap and gently stroked her hair. “Shhhh,” she whispered. “It's okay. We can put a Band-Aid on Barbie and she'll be all better.”

As she was searching through the first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet for bandages, she scolded Scarlett. “You're eleven and your little sister is only seven. Can't you just play nicely?” Her mom sighed.

It was no use trying to explain or defend herself. Gracie always won.

“Just imagine how hard it must be to be your kid sister,” her mother told her. “You're a hard act to follow, honey.” She pointed to a shelf in her bedroom, lined with crowns and trophies from dance competitions over the years. “Try and understand that Gracie just wants some attention, too. She wants to be you, Scarlett.”