by Kari Jones
“I figured, but what specifically?”
She still sounds grumpy, almost like she was expecting me to complain, so I don’t say anything until she says, “Lila? If you don’t have anything to say, I’m going to get back to studying.”
“It’s the costume,” I say. “I hate it.”
“I thought you always loved Dana’s costumes,” Angela says.
“Usually, yeah, but this one’s different. It’s all white and gold. It’ll make me look like a ghost. Plus, the skirt has a huge slit up the side, and”—I take a deep breath, because this is really the part I have a problem with—“the top’s a bra.”
I expect Angela to gasp or something, but she blinks and says, “A bra?”
I nod.
“Ouch,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“I like Amala’s costume better,” I say.
“Yeah. I love it,” Angela says. “It’s not really professional-looking though.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it,” she says. She points her nose back into her book, and I am left staring at the top of her head.
Angela isn’t sympathetic in the least. How’d she feel if she had to wear a stupid white skirt and a bra?
* * *
The English test is hard, and I know I haven’t done well. When it’s over I head to the garden to wait for Angela to join me, but today when she comes, she’s with Jonas and Nini. So I guess she hasn’t said anything to Nini yet.
“You finished quickly,” Jonas says to me.
“Yeah.” I don’t want to talk about the test, because I know I failed, so I don’t pay much attention as Nini and Angela and Jonas go over the answers they gave. Besides, Jonas spends the whole time trying to make Angela look at him, Angela spends the whole time looking at everyone except him, and Nini spends her whole time looking at him and trying to get him to look at her. Lovely. I so don’t want to be part of that.
After a few minutes of trying to ignore the conversation, I give up and leave. I’m halfway across the courtyard when I spot Robin and Alex. “Hey, Robin,” I call, jogging to catch up with them. “Where are you two going?”
“Alex wants samosas,” Robin says.
There’s a bakery down the street that sells French bread, Danish pastries and Indian samosas.
“Can I come?” I ask.
“Sure,” Robin says, and we head out of the courtyard and onto the street. “Did you hear about Bea?” she asks.
“What about her?”
“She told Dana she quit.”
“What? No way! How come?” I ask.
“Are you really surprised?” Alex says. “Dana picks on her all the time. Bea told Dana she feels like she’s not good enough to dance for her.”
“What did Dana say?”
“She said Bea has promise, but she’s not applying herself.”
“That’s so unfair!” I say. I know both Alex and Robin have practiced a lot with Bea in the last couple of weeks.
“I know,” says Robin.
“So she quit?”
“I guess Dana tried to convince her to stay, but Bea said her mom wants her to go to another studio,” Alex says.
We reach the bakery and walk inside. The air is warm and smells of fresh bread. I inhale deeply.
“Wow,” I say. Bea’s quitting is big news. I’ve always liked Bea, and though she has a hard time learning the moves, she’s really a beautiful dancer. Her movements are fluid and graceful. It’s not her fault Dana rides her so much that it makes her nervous and then she messes up. Quitting though. That’s big.
The bakery is busy with kids from our school, and I lower my voice so only Robin and Alex can hear. “Which studio is she going to?”
“Probably Amala’s,” Robin says.
“Yeah, that’s where Angela dances. Bea’ll love it there!” I say.
For some reason, my voice catches as I say it, but neither Robin nor Alex notices, and Alex says, “I hope she does. I’m going to miss her.”
Robin reaches the front of the line and orders three samosas. It takes us a minute to figure out the cash, and once we’ve paid, we stand over to the side to wait for the samosas to be heated up.
“The truth is that she wouldn’t have been performing with us anyway,” Robin says after a long moment. “She was bound to be one of the girls who got cut. This way she makes it her choice, not Dana’s. So good for her.”
“Maybe Dana wouldn’t have cut her,” I say.
Both Robin and Alex raise their eyebrows at me, and I shrug in agreement. Bea was going to be one of the girls cut.
“Who else is going to get cut?” Alex asks.
“Not you,” Robin says. “Or you, Lila.”
The bakery lady hands us our samosas, and I quickly bite into mine and head for the door so I don’t have to respond. When Robin and Alex catch up with me outside, I say, “What do you think about Bea’s brother, Jonas? He’s in my English class.”
“H. O. T.,” says Alex, and just like that, we’re talking about boys. We slow down as we go over all the boys in our grade, and by the time we get back to school, I’m feeling more relaxed than I have all day.
Twelve
But no matter what Robin and Alex or anyone else says, I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to be one of the girls who gets cut. It’s all I think about during math and socials, and even on the bus ride home when Nini and Sarit try to get me to talk about Mrs. O’Connor, I agree with them without really listening to what they’re saying.
There’s no dance class this afternoon, so I get on my bike and ride around thinking. Right now things aren’t great. I know I’ve failed my English test, and I haven’t handed in my essay yet, and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in at least a week, and I’m probably going to get cut from Dana’s troupe. I bike around for a while until I find myself at Angela’s door. I didn’t plan it; I just ended up here. Of all the things worrying me right now, the one I hate the most is being in a fight with Angela. It’s even worse than not knowing what’s going to happen with dance.
Angela’s mom opens the door before I have a chance to knock. Her hair’s coming loose from its bun, and there’s a big chocolate smear across her left cheek.
“We’re making brownies,” she says, and we both break into laughter because for years and years we’ve had a joke that I can smell her brownies from my house and come running. My legs knew bringing me here was the best thing for me, even if my brain didn’t.
“Hi, Lila,” Angela says when I follow her mother into the kitchen. I sit in my usual chair and Angela’s mom hands me a spoon to lick. The chocolaty goodness fills my mouth, and when I’m done I stand next to Angela’s mom and try to stick my finger into the mixture. She smacks my hand away playfully.
“So what’s up these days, Lila?” Angela’s mom asks.
“Lila’s dancing with Dana, Mom, remember?” Angela says.
I nod, and Angela’s mom says, “I know, but how’s it going? Are you enjoying it? Don’t you miss Amala and the girls?”
“Dana’s very professional, and Lila’s learning a lot,” Angela says. She flashes me a huge smile when she says this. There’s no trace of jealousy or sarcasm in her voice, and I realize all at once that Angela is truly pleased for me. Even though I’ve been selfish, she really does want me to succeed.
Tears form in my eyes.
“Lila?” Angela’s mom says. She puts down her spoon and runs her hands over my hair as she pulls me into a hug. “What’s wrong, sw
eetie?”
“I’m not sure about it. I mean, about the class, about Dana, about any of it.”
“I thought you loved how professional Dana is,” Angela says.
“I did. I do. I don’t know. I did, but then Bea quit because Dana rides her so hard. She’s a good dancer—Bea, I mean—but Dana pushed her so hard that she was nervous all the time, so she made mistakes. And I always loved how Dana would correct every tiny bit of movement, because I thought she was helping us, but now I don’t know.” The words tumble out of my mouth.
“Isn’t she helping?” Angela’s mom asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know what she wants. I mean, we work so hard. I know for a fact that Bea practiced way more than anyone else, and Dana tells her she isn’t applying herself. What does she want? We can’t quit school and dance full time.”
“Does she do that to you too?” Angela’s mom asks.
I let out a deep breath. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“So you feel like you’re being criticized, not helped?”
“I’m starting to.” There. I’ve said it.
Angela’s mom turns back to the bowl and stirs again. After a couple of fast swirls she pours the mixture into the pans waiting on the counter. When the trays are full she hands the bowl to me. Then she reaches across the counter and pulls three spatulas from the pile. She gives one to me and one to Angela.
“Chocolate therapy,” she says.
The three of us dig into the bowl, scraping leftover chocolate-brownie batter onto the spatulas, then licking them. Soon our faces are even more covered in chocolate, and when there’s not enough left in the bowl for spatulas, I use my finger until my hand is sticky and my stomach tells me it’s time to stop.
Angela puts the two brownie pans into the oven and turns on the timer.
“I’ll wash up, girls,” her mom says. “You two go do something fun. I’ll let you know when the brownies are ready.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Angela says, giving her mom a kiss on the cheek.
“You’re being really nice to me,” I say to Angela when we get to her room.
“You sound surprised,” she says.
I can’t look at her as I say, “I was kinda selfish, and I thought you were mad at me.”
“I am, but also I’m your best friend. bffs, remember? We need to help each other when we’re in trouble,” Angela says.
“Are you in trouble? Are you being nice to me so I’ll be nice to you?”
“No, idiot!” Angela frowns and plunks herself on her bed. “You’re the one in trouble, remember. You didn’t study for English at all, did you? And every day you seem more and more tired. So something must be going on.”
“I just told you,” I say, sitting next to her.
“Dana’s costume and whether or not you’ll get picked? That’s it, really? That’s making you so stressed you can’t sleep?”
It’s like Angela and I are talking two different languages. “Of course it’s making me stressed. Wouldn’t it stress you out?”
“A bit, I guess,” she says.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to dance. That’s all. Is that too much to ask?” I say.
Angela looks at me like maybe I came from Mars. Then, out of the blue, she says, “Do you remember Amala’s choreography?”
“I think so.”
“Run through it with me. I need the practice,” Angela says.
“That’s because you’ve been skipping classes to hang out with Jonas,” I say with what I hope is a light tone.
“Amala’s okay with it, you know. I talked to her, and she said as long as I keep practicing at home and I come to the last rehearsals before the festival, she’s okay with me missing a couple of classes,” Angela says.
“Really? I can’t imagine Dana saying something like that.”
“So come on; practice with me. I promised Amala I’d do it every day.”
It’s not what I want to do, but then again, maybe dancing will make me feel better. “Okay,” I say.
Angela jumps across the room and puts her phone on the stand. She fiddles for a second, then says, “Ready?”
I scramble into position. “Ready.”
The music starts. It begins with the drums calling the other instruments, which join one by one as Angela and I snake our arms around us, building energy. Then the drums trill and we twirl, almost bumping into each other in the small space. The sequence of hip drops and kicks comes back to me as we do them, and when the bit with the fast hip and chest lifts starts, Angela and I both nail the transition. The music pauses, then builds from slow to fast. Angela and I pick up our shimmies starting at the hips and moving up to our shoulders. The music takes over my whole body, and I stop thinking and start feeling the beat within me, moving every inch of my body.
The music slows, and we catch the wave of sound with a body roll, drawing the music down from the air and through our bodies to the floor. We do a slow twirl, come back to the front and end.
“Wow! I can’t believe you remembered all that,” Angela says when the music stops.
“I can,” I say. “I love that choreography, and the music.” I flop onto the bed, which is a bad idea, because from here I can see Angela’s beautiful costume hanging on the back of her cupboard.
“I do too. And I wish you were dancing it with us.”
“I…” There’s a crash about to happen in my mind, which I know I can’t do anything about. I can feel it coming, so I study the tiny mirrors on Angela’s costume, counting them one by one, but the crash comes anyway, and suddenly I’m faced with the thought that I was happier when I danced with Amala. I think I’ve known this deep down for a while, but now I can’t hide from it anymore. Not with her music and choreography still in my body. It makes my throat tight to think about it.
“You…?” says Angela.
“Nothing. I love that music. I’d forgotten, that’s all.”
Thirteen
The room is quieter than usual when Dana walks in on Saturday morning. We’re practicing every day now, since the festival is only a week and a half away. We’re all standing in our positions, which means we can’t help seeing the huge hole where Bea used to be. I’m not the only one who keeps glancing at the empty spot.
Dana surveys us from the front of the room, then says, “Eve, Sam, both of you move closer to each other by about a foot.”
The two girls each take a step toward each other.
“There we go,” says Dana.
“We’re off balance with two,” Sam says.
She points to the other clusters of girls, but Dana says, “We’re going to have four groupings, three of three and one of two.”
No one responds with words, but suddenly there’s a stiffness to the way most of us are standing. We glance at each other, and I know we’re all wondering who’s going to be next to go, and what the groupings will look like then.
We drill for the whole class, stopping frequently to make corrections in the new formation. On the surface it’s the same as ever, but underneath something has shifted. It seems like we’re not as friendly as usual tonight.
When the class is over, Dana says, “Good work, ladies. You are all beautiful dancers, and don’t you forget it.”
I catch the bus home with Robin and Alex. None of us says much until Robin asks, “If we’re all such beautiful dancers, how come she has to choose only ten of us?”
It’s what we’ve all been thinking, I know.
“I think it’s a rule of the festival—only ten on the stage at a time,” Alex
says, but I say, “It can’t be, because Amala has eleven dancing for her.”
“Oh,” says Alex. “Well, I just wish Bea hadn’t quit.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Robin sighs. “Me too.”
We’re silent again as we pass another couple of bus stops.
Robin and Alex get off at their usual stops, but I get off near the high school and transfer to another bus. I need to talk to Amala.
* * *
The route is familiar, and it should feel natural to step off outside Amala’s studio and take the three steps to her door, but my hand shakes as I reach out to turn the knob, and the stairs to the second floor loom long above me. My breath fills my throat as I climb, and I almost turn around before I reach the top, but as I come to the last step, Amala opens the door.
“Lila, what a lovely surprise!” she says. She’s carrying the jug she uses to water the plants. There’s a little wall alcove at the top of the stairs, next to the door to the lobby, and she always has flowers growing in it.
“These anthuriums are not thriving. Maybe I need to change them for something else,” she says as she pours water into the bowl.
It’s warm and sunny up here, and when I take my shoes off, the wood floors feel smooth under my feet. Amala smiles at me, and my breathing slows to a normal rate.
“I was hoping you’d come by to tell me about dancing with Dana,” Amala says. “I hear her choreography is really something. And she showed me the costume. Stylish!”
I nod.
“Has Angela shown you her costume? I think the girls like it, and they look fantastic, especially Angela. The troupe’s like a carnival, or a rhododendron garden.”
“It’s beautiful. I saw the costumes before I left, and yes, Angela showed me hers,” I say. I don’t say how much more I like Amala’s costumes than Dana’s. How I wish I looked like a part of the rhododendron garden rather than a pale ghost.
Amala finishes fiddling with the plants, and I follow her into the studio. A bar of sunlight stretches across the floor, splitting the room in two. Dust particles float in the air. There’s a rack of skirts hanging along the far wall, with colorful piles of hip scarves underneath it. Amala has written step patterns in grease paint on the mirror. The warmth and friendliness of the room rushes at me and hits me with a whomp that takes my breath away.