by Earl Sewell
“This is not just some ordinary, run-of-the-mill Christmas play, Dad—it’s The Nutcracker!”
“So—” he shrugs “—what’s the big deal?” The look on his face tells me that he still doesn’t really get it or just doesn’t care.
Disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm, I give him a blank stare. “Come on, Dad, really?”
Dad looks over at me and bursts out laughing. “I’m just kidding around with you. Bree, lighten up! I know how important this is to you, and I know you’re going to nail it when the time comes.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say with a grateful smile. “And I hope you’re right. I really do.”
three
“You want fame? Well, fame costs, and right here is where you start paying...in sweat!”
That famous line from the classic movie Fame is my hands-down favorite, and it comes to mind every single time I step into a dance studio. There’s just something about those hardwood floors and mirror-lined walls that gets my adrenaline pumping.
I wasn’t really in the mood for rehearsal today, but now that I’m here, my spirits are suddenly lifted, and my aura has transformed from “blah” to “whoo-rah!” I’m ready to kick some serious butt.
“You’re late” is the first thing Jordan Patterson says to me as soon as he sees me.
Any normal person would have said “hello” or “good afternoon,” but in the few months that I’ve known him, I have come to realize that there is nothing normal about Jordan Patterson. He recently transferred from New York City and is not very sociable, has no sense of humor and is all business all the time. Unfortunately, Jordan plays the Snow King, so the two of us will dance together during the big performance. I’m already nervous about how this will all turn out, but it’s even more challenging having to dance with someone whom I absolutely hate. Wait—hate is a pretty harsh word, so I’ll take it back and just say that Jordan is a hard person to like. The kid is a class-A know-it-all who thinks this is his world and the rest of us are just lucky to be living in it.
I double-check the studio wall clock, which reads 12:00 p.m. on the dot. “I’m right on time,” I tell Jordan, who’s doing a series of exercises to loosen up.
“If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late,” he says, all indignant. “That’s the first thing they taught us at LaGuardia.”
I cross my eyes at him and give him the duck face. Jordan takes every opportunity to remind everyone within listening distance that he went to the New York City school featured in Fame. It’s an achievement, no doubt, but the implication is that it automatically makes him more special and much more talented than the rest of us.
I start to ask Jordan, “If LaGuardia was so great, then why did you leave?” but I don’t really care what the answer is, so I don’t. Instead, I just tell him, “The new instructor isn’t even here yet, so chill.”
Jordan mutters, “Amateurs!” under his breath and continues his warm-up.
Tristan Turner, who plays the Mouse King, catches my eye. He’s standing behind Jordan’s back making this snooty, pretentious face like the guy in Zoolander. We both shake our heads and laugh at Jordan’s expense. He’s such a prima donna.
I walk over and join my friends Olivia and Jade, who are warming up in a far corner of the studio. “What’s up, ladies?” I ask, placing my dance bag on the floor. “Ready for this rehearsal?”
“Not even,” Olivia says. “I didn’t get to bed until midnight last night, so I’m already wiped out.”
“Yeah, I could use a Red Bull myself,” Jade adds, sliding down into a full split.
I put my leg up on the barre and start stretching.
This will be our first rehearsal without Ms. Tucker, which is part of the reason why I initially wasn’t all that stoked about coming to practice today. From day one of freshman year, Ms. Tucker has been my mentor and one of my biggest cheerleaders. I don’t know who the replacement teacher will be, but whoever it is has some pretty big shoes to fill.
A tall redhead with a short pixie haircut enters the dance studio. She’s gorgeous, with a body so perfect she makes the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models look like a bunch of frumpy meter maids. Excited whispers can be heard around the room because most of us recognize her immediately as Tony Award–winner Audra Duncan.
Upon seeing Audra, I am nervous and even a bit starstruck. I’ve been borderline obsessed with her from afar for years. She’s a McKinley High alum and widely regarded as one of the most gifted students to ever come out of our school thus far. Not only has she starred in countless Broadway productions like Fela!, Aida and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but she has also toured with Beyoncé, Madonna and Lady Gaga: the Holy Trinity of divas.
“Hello, everybody. My name is Ms. Duncan, and I will be your substitute until Ms. Tucker makes a full recovery.”
The room erupts into applause. Ms. Duncan smiles and bows so deeply that her head almost touches the floor. She’s very flexible, that’s for sure.
“Thank you, guys, I appreciate that so much,” she says. “But first I have to give you all a disclaimer, which is that I’m a very strict taskmaster, and I don’t play when it comes to dance. Not only do I expect perfection—I demand it.”
As Ms. Duncan speaks, my heart sinks a little. I notice that her face may be soft and kind, but her demeanor is the exact opposite.
“Some of you will hate me by the end of all this, and that’s okay,” Ms. Duncan continues. “I’m here as a favor for Ms. Tucker, and I promised her that I would keep you all on track to putting on the best production this school has ever seen. I want you guys to win. And as long as you win, then I’ve done my job. Now, with that said, let’s get to work!”
four
I once heard it said that “You should never meet your heroes. You’ll only be disappointed.” After meeting Ms. Audra Duncan, I can attest to this because she is nothing like I had hoped she would be. The woman claimed to be a taskmaster, but that was an understatement. She’s actually more like a dictator who rules with a cast-iron fist.
Rehearsal was brutal and intense. It ran twice as long as it normally does. By the time it was finally over, we all unanimously agreed that Ms. Duncan is the real-life equivalent to the evil Mouse King.
Almost everyone in class limped out of the dance studio with some sort of ailment: bleeding feet, sore ankles, muscle spasms and bruises everywhere imaginable. We were good and banged up, so Jade, Olivia and I all piled in Jade’s car and headed straight to the nearest nail salon for pedicures.
“I had no idea she was such a supreme witch!” I say, settling into the warmth of the soothing footbath. Thanks to Ms. Duncan, my feet feel like they’re on fire, my back is shot and I have a huge bruise halfway up my shin.
“She’s trying to kill us,” Olivia says matter-of-factly, then winces as her assigned nail technician massages her swollen left ankle.
“I’m so over her already,” Jade says, fighting back tears. “Did you hear when she called me fat?”
“Yeah, that was so rude and unnecessary,” I say, rubbing her back in consolation. Jade is a sweet girl who is so sensitive she’s been known to burst into tears if someone just looks at her funny. Considered one of the best dancers in our class, Jade plays the lead role of Clara. She’s sixteen, but could pass for thirteen and has about as much fat on her as a number-two pencil. Ms. Duncan was just being mean.
“Was it just me, or did she seem more focused on correcting you more than anyone else?” Olivia asks me.
“Yeah, I noticed that, too,” I say, getting ticked off just thinking about it. “I’m gonna have to start keeping a notebook handy in order to keep track of all her remarks.”
Corrections are a part of rehearsals and are to be expected, but it was like I couldn’t do anything right as far as Ms. Duncan was concerned.
You look sloppy, Bree...clean it up!
Bree, you need to lift that back leg higher when you’re in the air!
Bree, you need to push off the floor to help Jordan lift you so he doesn’t have to do all the lifting himself.
Bree, I need for you to be more like a graceful ballerina and less like a linebacker!
Ouch! That last comment stung a little more than the rest because the one thing I pride myself on is being light on my feet. I had to bite my tongue and swallow my pride so many times today. But through it all, I reminded myself that Ms. Duncan is a professional with a very impressive résumé. She’s been where I’m trying to go, so whatever she tells me to do, I just have to suck it up and do it.
As my very first dance teacher, Mrs. Hightower, used to say, You can cry about it, or you can dance about it. The choice is yours. I choose to dance.
* * *
According to the stories my mother tells, I was born dancing. She claims that even as an infant, I couldn’t keep my legs still whenever I heard music. “Bree was boogying in her high chair long before she could walk!” she says proudly to anyone who’ll listen.
When I was four years old, Mom enrolled me in classes at Mrs. Hightower’s Dance Academy, where I quickly became a star pupil. From ages four through thirteen, I learned various disciplines of dance like tap, jazz, contemporary, hip-hop and ballet.
I also won lots of titles. I was “Little Miss All That” for five years in a row and had won tons of trophies from dance competitions before I fully understood what a trophy was.
Mrs. Hightower was a phenomenal teacher who taught me life lessons in addition to dance. One of my favorites that I always try to keep in mind is: dancing may be fun, but it is definitely not a game.
five
I am bone-tired by the time Jade drops me off at home. I stagger into the kitchen for a snack, and the last person I expect to see sitting at the table playing cards with my dad is Lance.
When he sees me, Lance smiles that big, goofy smile of his and says, “Hey, Bree, you look nice.”
I’m so exhausted that I don’t even have enough energy to speak. Instead, I roll my eyes, knowing good and well that I look exactly the way I feel, which is a complete wreck. My once-perfect bun has come undone. Stray hairs have slipped out from under my scrunchie, and I could definitely use a shower. But, for the first time since I met him, I don’t care what Lance thinks of me.
“Good news, baby girl,” my dad says, shuffling the deck of cards like the expert card shark that he is. “We got your car fixed.”
I’m happy to hear that the Jetta has been resurrected, but all I can manage is a small smile. “Thanks, Daddy. I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me—thank Lance. If it wasn’t for him, I never would have figured out that it was the catalytic converter that was causing all the problems.”
Lance eyes me, waiting for a thank-you. He’s swagged out, and as cute as ever, but I’m not impressed. You can dress up a turd and put sprinkles on top, but at the end of the day it’s still a turd. And once a cheater, always a cheater.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “Now I’m going to take a shower and hit the hay. Long day.”
“Hold on, Bree,” my father says. “Lance has been waiting around for hours to have a talk with you, so...talk.”
My dad makes air quotes with his fingers when he says “talk,” which is so 1999. As he’s leaving the kitchen, I shake my head at Dad and his outfit. He’s wearing the gear of someone half his age: fancy sneakers, oversize jeans and a Buffalo Bills team jersey with a matching ball cap. Mom says he’s going through a midlife crisis, which basically means that now he’s old and trying desperately to be young again. It’s like a last-ditch effort to relive his youth before the social-security checks start rolling in, and it’s kind of sad to watch.
Lance and I are now alone in the kitchen, staring eyeball to eyeball.
“You heard the man,” I say, sitting in the seat my father vacated. “You wanted to talk, so talk.”
There is a weird, awkward energy in the air because this is the first time we’ve seen each other since the big breakup two weeks ago. Since then, Lance has come at me in so many different ways, I’ve seriously considered looking into a stalker prevention program: constant phone calls, email, text, Facebook, Twitter, and I think he even sent a smoke signal or two. However, I haven’t accepted his phone calls or responded to any of his messages. The way I see it, there’s really not much to talk about.
“First of all,” Lance begins, “I want to say that I miss you, Bree. I’m going through some stuff I can’t tell you about right now, but trust me when I say I would never cheat on you. You’re my world.”
He always did know how to tug on my heartstrings. What he just said sounds good, and he really does seem sincere, but I just can’t forget about all the overwhelming evidence against him.
“What about the secret phones calls, the texting and the pictures that Tiffany posted on Facebook?” I ask.
Lance’s only defense is that it’s all circumstantial evidence.
Circumstantial evidence? Really?
My head drops. I am truly disappointed that he’s had weeks to think about this, but still hasn’t been able to come up with a better explanation than that. Nevertheless, I’m torn right now because I still care about Lance. He was my friend before he became my boyfriend, and we’ve had some really great times together. But in my mind, this is exactly how guys get to have their cake and eat it, too; by convincing every girl they’re dealing with that they aren’t two-timing them and to believe him instead of their own eyes. I’m not falling for that just so he can go around claiming pimp status. No sir.
“Okay, I have one final question for you, so think really hard before you answer,” I say. “Was what Noelle said about you coming over to visit Tiffany that day true or not? Yes or no?”
The incident I’m referring to is the most damning evidence of all. I was sitting at this very kitchen table doing homework when Noelle walked in and asked me to play “store” with her.
I said, “Give me about an hour, okay? I’ve got to finish this essay first.”
“I’ve got some real money,” Noelle said, flashing two crumpled one-dollar bills.
“Wow, you’re loaded. Where’d you get all that money?”
“Lance gave it to me.”
“When did you see Lance?”
“He came to see me and Tiffany when nobody else was here.”
Tiffany babysits from time to time while I’m at dance rehearsal and my parents are at work. Tiffany has been known to be really sneaky, so there’s no telling what goes on when the rest of us are gone.
“So what did Lance do while he was here?” I asked as casually and carefully as I could.
“They was talking, and she made him a sandwich, and he took a shower before he left.”
Say what, say huh? My mouth fell open, and I blinked rapidly several times, trying to wrap my brain around what my little sister had just told me. But instead of continuing to question Noelle about it, I immediately called Lance for answers.
“So, Noelle tells me you came by today, ate and took a shower,” I blurted out as soon as he answered his cell phone. “Is that true?”
Lance laughed like that was the best joke he’d heard in a long time. “That Noelle, man, she’s something else!” he said. “I love your sister and all, but she has a very active imagination.”
While still on the phone with Lance, I went into the living room, where Tiffany was watching MTV.
After repeating what Noelle had told me, Tiffany’s response was “She’s four! Little kids make stuff up all the time. Do you really think you can take anything she says at face value?”
“I know my sister,” I said. “She may be feisty and a little hardheaded at times, but she
’s not capable of creating such a tall tale out of thin air. She had to get it from somewhere.”
They both laughed loudly, Lance in my ear and Tiffany in my face.
Later that evening is when I overheard Tiffany whispering into the phone that Lance should tell me the truth. And that was the last straw for me. I was over it.
Now Lance is here, pleading forgiveness with puppy-dog eyes. “I can’t just give you a simple yes or no answer, because it’s a lot more complicated than that, Bree,” he says.
“Either you did come over here that day or you didn’t,” I insist. “It really is that simple.”
Lance takes a deep breath. “Yes, it’s true,” he says reluctantly. “But—”
“I knew it!” I jump up so fast that my chair tips backward and hits the floor with a loud thunk. Not only is he a cheater, but a liar, to boot. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a lying cheat. “You came over to my house and did only God knows what with my cousin, in front of my little sister? Unforgivable!”
“Why won’t you hear me out?” he pleads.
“Just go...” Cold air rushes in as I open the door and gesture for him to leave. “We’re done.”
Lance walks past me and out of the house with a look that is a mixture of defeat and disappointment. I know how he feels, because I feel the same way. Not only have I lost a boyfriend, but I’ve also lost my best friend.
six
Olivia, Jade and I usually drive over to Striver’s deli for lunch, but since it’s snowing and super cold outside, we decide to stay at school during lunchtime and eat in the cafeteria.