You're So Sweet (9 page)

“Are you doing that for competition?” Kaitlyn asked as Grace finished.

“No,” Grace said, smiling. “This is for a presentation. Mr. Demidovski wants me to dance it for the Russian ambassadors when they come to visit the school.”

Kaitlyn bit her lip. If Mr. Demidovski had gotten Grace to do this solo for the presentation, it sort of sounded like he had already given her the part of Swanhilda in the academy's production of
Coppelia
for June. Which meant it would be even more difficult to get her role back. She looked at the clock; it was fifteen minutes past now. Where was Mr. Moretti? She went into the hall and into the office, leaning on Gabriel's desk as she waited for him to notice her. “What can I do for you, Kaitlyn?” Gabriel asked, turning around and smiling after he had shifted his papers for long enough to realize that she was not going away.

“I'm supposed to have a private with Mr. Moretti,” Kaitlyn explained. “But he's not there, so I was wondering if maybe he called in sick or something.”

Gabriel shoved his glasses back as he thought, sitting his large Norwegian body back in the small chair. “No, no, I don't think so,” he assured her. He picked up a bag of yogurt-covered raisins that were sitting beside him. “Want some?” Kaitlyn shrugged and took two out of the bag, popping one in her mouth. Gabriel leaned toward her to whisper, “They are Mrs. Demidovski's.” Kaitlyn's eyes widened, and she felt like spitting the raisin out.

“Won't she mind?” she asked.

“No. Not if we don't tell her,” Gabriel assured her.

They both turned around as they heard the main entrance door close with a bang, and muffled curses in Italian. Kaitlyn shoved the raisin back in the bag and passed it back to Gabriel, but it was too late, Mr. Moretti had turned the corner and was peering in the office, his tall frame almost completely covered in a green tarp-like poncho that sprayed water all over the walls and floor every time he moved. “What are you doing?”

“Uh.” Kaitlyn's mind went blank. “I was just checking with Gabriel that — um —”

“You should be in the studio rehearsing!” Mr. Moretti said angrily. “What, I am not here, so you don't need to practise? It is not for me that you become a ballet dancer, it is for you. If you manage, which is highly doubtful.” He strode over to the studio and wrenched open the door. Inside Grace was still practising, and she ignored them. “See? This is what a good student does. Now go, warm-up — I cannot coach you cold like this.”

Kaitlyn walked into the studio as Mr. Moretti went into the office to complain about his last paycheque. Grace looked over at her, and Kaitlyn felt the scorn she felt for herself reflected in Grace's eyes. She looked at the ground and began to stretch, her cheeks red.

At half-past, Mr. Moretti finally showed up, and Grace quietly exited. Mr. Moretti didn't bother to say anything to Kaitlyn, instead walking over to the front of the room and setting his stuff down. He pulled off his grey sweatshirt that said VIBA Nutcracker 2011 on the back, and set it on the chair.

Kaitlyn waited, nervously shifting. She had stopped rehearsing when he came in. As he tuned to look at her, she began to practice her triple
pirouette en dehors.
Mr. Moretti cracked his back idly as he watched her. “You are frightfully lazy baby, aren't you?”

Kaitlyn smiled, not sure how to respond.

Mr. Moretti walked over and put his hand on Kaitlyn's forehead. “No fever. Just lazy.” He walked back and leaned on the mirror. “All right. Let us see how big of a mess this is, yes? Begin.” He pushed Play on the remote control.

As Kaitlyn finished her solo, she fought to breathe. The studio was starting to heat up with her sweat already.

“Are you pregnant?” Mr. Moretti asked as she held her closing position.

“No.”

“Well, it looks it. If you are not the old fat Grandma, you should not look it.” He walked over to her, poked her in the stomach with one finger, and ran another up her spine to make it lengthen. “Like this.”

He bent his head down to hers and looked in the mirror, stretching out her arm and then his, comparing the two. “Your
port de bras
, it is like ice. Blocks of ice moving through space. It is so ugly, even in
Titanic
they did not show such lumps. Look at my arm, it is beautiful. If the old grandpa can do it, you can. Do it once more, just the arms. Bend.” In one swift motion, he grabbed both of her arms by the wrist, causing them to hang down. “Look,” he commanded, pointing in the mirror.

Kaitlyn stared at the mirror. She was bent forward, and her arms flopped in front like a doll in the
Nutcracker
that has not come alive yet. On her back she could only see muscle and her spine: all of her little bones were covered by smooth skin.

“Soft,” Mr. Moretti said, disgusted.

Kaitlyn nodded and quickly stood up.

“From the beginning. Just the arms. No legs.” Kaitlyn ran back to the corner and waited. Mr. Moretti's finger hovered over the button on the CD player. “Actually,” he said, turning around, “I don't think this variation is quite the thing for you, baby.”

Kaitlyn stared at him. This variation was perfect for her, it was a largely technical variation, and she could smile her way through it. She'd already been rehearsing it, too; there wasn't enough time before competition for her to change.

“I think,” said Mr. Moretti, looking through the index on the back of a variation CD that had been left in the studio, “that we can find something a little bit more suitable. Something that will challenge you. Make you grow.” He stopped, having found something. “Why not
Flames of Paris
?”

Kaitlyn opened her mouth and then closed it again. There was no way she was going to win with that variation! “Okay …”

Mr. Moretti turned to show her the version he wanted her to do, and behind him Kaitlyn obediently learned the steps.
It's okay
, she told herself. It's just one private.
My mom can explain to him that I wanted to do the other variation later.

Taylor Smaylor Audley

So exited to perform at the asembly tom!! And nervus :p :0 :D

Taylor lay her head on her desk, trying not to attract her teacher's attention. It was futile. “Taylor? Ms. Audley?” Mrs. Flowers called. “What do you think?”

Taylor sat up and stared at her blankly. “Um — I think that — you know, that the watersheds are — well, we need water, and, like, they make us have water, so that's good and people shouldn't make it dirty, right?”

Mrs. Cowley nodded like Taylor had just said something terribly insightful and turned back to the slides she was showing the class. Technically since they were in grade nine, they should have been learning about the medieval age, not watersheds, but Mrs. Flowers was the Environment Club's sponsor and she wanted to make sure that they knew enough about the environment that they would at least think about helping out. Taylor turned over her BlackBerry on her knee and checked it.

“Taylor, I hope I don't see you doing what I think you're doing,” Mrs. Flowers called. Taylor sighed and put the phone back.

“I'm not doing anything,” she told Mrs. Flowers, putting both of her hands back on the table.

After class, Taylor got up first to leave. Mrs. Flowers stopped her. “Taylor, are you doing okay?” she asked, as the last of the students left the classroom.

“Um, yeah, why?” Taylor asked. She felt put on the spot, and didn't appreciate it.

“Well, to be honest, you haven't been putting the work in that you could for your assignments, and I was wondering if there was anything you wanted to talk about.”

“No, everything's good. Just busy with dance.”

“Right. Well, if you ever need anyone to talk to —”

“Thanks, Mrs. Flowers.”

“Well. You can go then — I look forward to seeing your performance at the assembly today!”

“Thanks!” Taylor left the room, seeing Kaitlyn and Jessica out in the hall. They began to walk downstairs.

“What'd she want?” Kaitlyn asked curiously.

“Oh, she just thought that I looked like something was wrong or something,” Taylor brushed it off. “You know what teachers are like.”

“Yeah,” Jessica agreed. “Like, you know Ms. Bueller, the English teacher? She was always annoying me last year, about did I need counselling for my problems?”

Taylor looked at Kaitlyn, and they both started to giggle: Jessica definitely did need help for her problems.

“It's all because of that stupid nurse who gave us shots,” Jessica said, frowning. “I'll go around calling
her
anorexic. Except she was really fat.”

The bell for second class rang. “I have to go get ready!” Taylor exclaimed.

“For sure, good luck,” Kaitlyn said. Taylor gave them both a hug and made her way to the downstairs washroom.

The halls emptied as everyone else went to their class, and the washroom was soon empty. Taylor got changed into her contemporary outfit and put on some more makeup, eyeliner, a bit of blush, and some lipstick.
Stupid bathroom lights …
There wasn't a single bathroom in McKinley that had good lighting. Taylor reached in her bag and patted around: there, she did have her CD. She left, going to the theatre to warm up and look at the stage.

The lights were already on, and she could hear laughter above her.
The tech club must already be up there
, she thought. She stepped onto the stage, and a teacher she didn't recognize stopped her. “Taylor Audley?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay — dancing, right?”

“Yup.” Taylor looked behind him, at the wings. There were a couple rhythmic gymnasts, a small boy she thought might be a pianist, and a girl who she knew was an opera singer. “Do you want my CD?”

“Sure. Actually, could you please take it up to the students up there?” He pointed overhead to the tech booth.

“Sure.” Taylor began walking in the direction he had pointed, and ended up in front of a partially closed door with laughter emanating from it. She knocked, and there was sudden silence and then a burst of giggling. Taylor backed away from the door.

“Who goeth there?” a boy asked in goofy accent.

“Me,” Taylor called back.

“That is very descriptive, Me,” the voice remarked. “Have we perchance met before?” The boy opened the door and looked at her. He was very skinny and pale. He opened the door a little farther to show off the rest of the occupants of the room, who were all staring at her. Taylor suddenly wished she wasn't just wearing her costume with a Lululemon jacket over top.

“The teacher down there said to give my CD to you guys,” she explained.

“Awesomola, my Sharona,” he answered, staring at her. “Do you go to our school?”

A snort came from a red-haired girl sitting on a chair in the back doing something odd with a Buffy the Vampire Slayer doll.

“Uh, yeah I do,” Taylor answered. “But I'm in the Super Achievers program.” She handed him a CD and started to leave. Behind her she could hear a discussion.

“All the Super Achievers girls are bitches, Zack,” a voice said.

She could hear Matt answer: “Dude. Emily was not every Special Achievers girl. She wasn't even a representative example.” Taylor heard a crash and a stream of creative expletives. She walked slowly, waiting to see if they were going to say anything more about her, but they appeared to be busy dealing with the results of the crash.

Taylor bobbed up and down in the wings, both nervous and excited. She could hear the students in the audience, closer than a regular theatre and louder. She'd found that she had to do her solo with bare feet instead of
pointe
shoes because the floor of the stage was not made for
pointe
work, to say the least. It was so slippery that Taylor had almost put rosin on her bare feet before deciding not to experiment. She could hear the principal, Mr. Grant, talking at great length about how McKinley Secondary School was a much better school than any other school in Vancouver, and how Super Achievers was one of the reasons why McKinley was so much better.

“And the next talented McKinley student I have great pleasure in presenting,” she heard Mr. Grant say; “is a grade nine in intensive dance training at the Vancouver International Ballet academy. Taylor Audley, performing her contemporary piece ‘All I Ever Wanted.' Let's hear a round of applause for Taylor, everyone.”

Taylor heard her music began to play, and winced. She was supposed to start on. Her CD had been labelled with ‘Starts on.' Why were they doing this to her? “Starts on” meant that they were supposed to start the music once she was on the stage and ready, not still waiting in the wings. Had they even bothered to look at the CD?

“Just a moment everybody,” she could hear Mr. Grant say into the microphone as the music turned off.

A teacher came up to Taylor, and she quickly explained what was wrong.

“Let's try again, everybody. Taylor Audley.”

Taylor took a breath, and then walked on, slowly, confidently, trying to take her time. She'd told everyone that she'd gotten a contemporary teacher outside of the academy to do her solo, but in truth Julian had choreographed it. She'd promised him that she'd do his choreography if she liked it, and she
really
liked this solo. He'd originally choreographed it for himself, but it worked well as a girl's solo, too. Taylor looked out into the audience and saw Julian sitting with Tristan and Alexandra in the second row. Julian was sitting forward, twisting his hands nervously on his lap like somehow it was him about to go on stage, not Taylor. Which in a way was true, but only Julian and Taylor knew that. She met his eyes, trying to tell him that it was all good. The music began to play, and Taylor forgot about Julian, about herself, about not messing up, and began to dance.

It was odd dancing on this stage. Taylor felt almost like she was dancing in the studio, everyone was so close. The lights were blinding, though; she didn't know what the tech club thought they were doing. As she
chained
in diagonal, she noticed that there was a spotlight following her. She stepped into a
penche,
kicked herself into a handstand, rolled out into a dramatic huddle of pain, flicked up in a sudden motion, and ran into one of the highest
jetés
she had ever done on stage.

“Whoot!” she heard someone call from the audience, and she would have grinned if the dance hadn't been tragic. Instead she channelled that energy into her grand
pirouette
, turning in attitude,
chaine
,
chaine
, and then a
coupe jeté en tourne
to fall to the ground and up. She felt as if her solo were over too fast, but she could hear the applause as she stood up to take a bow and now she let herself grin. They had liked it; a high school audience was not the sort to fake enthusiasm, at least for a grade nine girl who was unknown to most. She ran off the stage and almost ran into Zack. “Hey,” he said, grinning. “Did you like the spotlight?”

Taylor shook her head, giggling. “You guys are nuts.” She started to run off: she'd have to hurry to get to the academy on time.

“But, the right kind of nuts, right?” Zack called after her.

Taylor got changed into her jeans and shirt, pulled on her shiny new Vans and walked over to the mirror, rubbing off the blush and some of the lipstick. Not all of the lipstick would come off, so she put some pale pink lip gloss over top to cover it up, and then she slung her bag over her shoulder. Her counsellor was outside the door, and Taylor frowned, surprised. “Hi, Mr. Briggs,” she said politely.

“Hi, Taylor,” Mr. Briggs said, smiling at her. He seemed to have something on his mind, and Taylor ran through what she had done lately, getting worried. “Excellent job today. You really make us proud.”

“Thanks.” Taylor shifted her feet, confused.

“Do you mind if I talk to you in my office for a moment?” Mr. Briggs asked.

“Um, yeah. Sure,” Taylor agreed. They walked to the counselling suite in almost silence. Taylor didn't mind. Even though she was worried about what Mr. Briggs wanted to say to her, she always found his presence very soothing. He was that sort of person. He didn't tell you what to do, he just placed information in your hands in such a way that you came to the right conclusion by yourself and then he praised you for your admirable grasp of life.

Mr. Briggs opened the door and let Taylor in. “After you. Have a seat.”

Taylor set down her backpack and sat in the comfortable armchair Mr. Briggs kept in his office. Mr. Briggs sat down at his desk and pulled up her student profile on his computer screen. “How are your classes going, Taylor?” he asked absently as he did this.

“Good, good,” Taylor said, feeling herself about to babble. “I mean, I'm doing okay, but not great —”

“You've been working hard at dance, though?” Mr. Briggs looked at her.

“Yes,” Taylor said, suddenly reminded of the fact that she had skipped contemporary class the other day because her ankle had been hurting and she hadn't wanted to watch at the side.

“Good then. Now, Taylor, I called you in here because as you know, the Super Achievers program requires a B+ average, yes?”

“Yeah?” Taylor giggled nervously. She hadn't had a B+ average since grade two when her mother had bought her teacher a fruit-dehydrating machine. She assumed that the B+ average requirement at McKinley was just one of those things that wasn't a real rule.

“Now, I just want you to take a look over here —” Mr. Briggs swivelled his chair around to look at his computer, and Taylor stood up to peer over his shoulder.

Taylor's grades appeared on the screen next to her school photo. She looked at her photo: she had worn her yellow tank top and straightened her hair, and the blond and yellow looked really good with her blue eyes and the mottled blue-grey photo background. She didn't remember where she had put that necklace, though — it was a silver chain with a heart pendant in it that her aunt had given to her. She'd better find it before her aunt came to visit again …

“Taylor, look here,” said Mr. Briggs, pointing at her grades, “do you see a problem?” He adjusted his glasses and pointed at the first class. “Social Studies. 19 percent.”

Taylor nodded, trying to focus. “I might do better after our project?” she tried.

“Math. You're getting seventeen percent here.”

“I'm going to just retake it online or something.”

“English. Twenty-nine percent.”

“I forgot to hand a story in. I'll give it to her reeeeeaaaalllly soon.”

“Science. It says here that Mr. Barrie wants to talk to you before gives you an interim mark.”

“Yeah — um, he thinks I was cheating on a test. But it totally wasn't my fault, this guy, Brandon? He was whispering all the answers to me, but I didn't ask him to.”

“That's it, of course your PE and fine arts credits are being covered by dance …” Mr. Briggs turned around to face Taylor again, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “High school — it's great. It's educational, it's an opportunity to make friends, have new experiences, it can be a home away from home, but it's only all these things if you want it to be. So, Taylor, what are you doing here? What do you want to get out of sitting in class?”

“Um …” Taylor shrugged.

“What do you think you are here for?”

“To graduate? Like, to get a high school diploma.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

“Do you really want to? Look at these grades, Taylor. I want you to do something for me. I want you to go home, and think long and hard about why you're here. And if you think your time would be better spent doing something else, if you have something more productive that you could be doing instead of going to school, then maybe you should be doing that. Because, you sitting here learning nothing — it's not good for anybody, especially not you.”