by Cate Holahan
Fortunately, Ms. V never stayed for stretching. She watched the teacher exit, feeling particularly happy that she could have the students all to herself. She had something to tell everyone, and she didn’t want Ms. V interrupting from the audience.
Nia clapped her hands. “Okay. There’s no barre in here, so we’ll stretch with partners. Everyone, please pair up.”
She rose from her front-row seat in the empty auditorium. The air grew hotter as she approached the stage steps. Ms. V had wanted the spotlights blaring at maximum brightness in order to scrutinize movements.
The students moved around the stage to find their usual partners. They always broke into the same sets: the T twins, Alexei and June, Joseph and Aubrey, Kim and Suzanne. Normally, Marta, as the second least popular kid in class, would end up with new-girl Lydia.
Aubrey sashayed from the front of the stage to the center where Lydia stood.
“Be my partner?” She grasped the soloist’s hand. “It’s better to do this stuff with someone who shares your flexibility.” Aubrey turned to Marta. “Help out Joey.”
Marta nearly skipped over to Joseph. The boy looked at the floor, not concealing his annoyance.
Lydia flashed a toothpaste commercial smile. She seemed relieved to have a classmate talk to her. Since landing the solo, Suzanne and Kim had become less friendly. Nia guessed that, before Lydia’s arrival, Suzanne had considered herself second best after Aubrey. Suzanne didn’t like being bumped, and bulkier Kim seemed all too happy not to stand next to ballet’s idea of the perfect body.
The rest of the class paired up in the expected way. Nia stood at the edge of the stage. “Okay. Stand back to back and then grab your foot and bring it up as high as you can toward your head. Use your partner’s back for support.”
The class transformed into five letter Ws. Nia moved toward Alexei and June. The pair talked to each other as they held their legs by their ears.
“So, super thin?” June asked.
“Basically emaciated.” Alexei chuckled. “He’s on the guilty diet.”
Nia placed her palm on June’s foot. She pushed it another inch higher. “Really try to attain maximum flexibility,” she said.
The girl pressed her lips together. Nia let go. “Hold it there for a four count.”
Nia rounded to Alexei on the other side. “Sorry to overhear. But if you’re talking about Theo Spanos, he’s not guilty.” The auditorium acoustics made it easy for the whole class to listen in. Out of the corner of her eye, Nia caught the T twins watching. “Apparently, that text message to Lauren didn’t come from Theo. It was just made to look that way.”
Alexei’s leg fell onto the floor with a thud. He put his hands on his hips. “How do you know?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t disclose that.” Nia assumed an authoritarian tone, trying to give her information more weight than Alexei’s usual gossip. “But I have it on good authority.”
Doubt clouded Alexei’s face.
June’s leg returned to the floor. “The police probably told you. Or Dean Stirk?”
Nia didn’t respond. June didn’t seem to care. She appeared excited to hear someone finally agree with her that Theo didn’t do it.
“Good authority?” Alexei’s eyebrows rose in disbelief.
“There’s an app that allows people to fake sender information. Someone likely used it and entered in Theo’s number. It’s called SMS spoofing.”
“So Theo really didn’t do it.” June spoke loudly. “I knew he didn’t.” She turned to Alexei. “He’s really not a bad guy. If you got to know him, you would like him.”
“What are you talking about?”
The question came from center stage. Aubrey had lowered her leg. Lydia’s back no longer touched her partner’s. She balanced by herself.
“Theo isn’t guilty,” June said. “Ms. Washington heard that the text message was faked using some kind of app.”
Aubrey glared at Nia. “Who cares about an app? Theo is definitely guilty. He’s the only one who would want to hurt that girl.”
June returned Aubrey’s annoyed look. “How much evidence do you need? The police already let him go. They know he was waiting for someone in Claremont when Lauren was killed. And now this text message is fake.”
“He had motive,” Aubrey said.
“Just because you messed around with him and he didn’t care enough to keep it quiet doesn’t mean he’s a murderer,” June said. “You made that tape. That’s on you.”
Alexei looked at June with an expression that could only be described as impressed.
Aubrey scowled at June and then transferred the look to the teacher that had started the whole conversation. The girl hated Theo for e-mailing that video to his friend. She probably had demanded the meeting in Claremont to punish him by wasting his time.
“I thought I should squash false rumors before they get out of hand,” Nia said. She clapped her hands together. The sound reverberated on stage. “Now let’s get back to it and stretch the other leg. Press your back against your partner and lift as high as you can. Really aim for a full split. Major companies want to see that straight line. Some even look for a reflex angle.”
32
Temps Développé [than dayv-law-PAY]
Time developed, developing movement. A movement in which the working leg is drawn up to the knee of the supporting leg and slowly extended to an open position en l’air and held there with perfect control.
A subtle march crept from the auditorium speakers. The drummer played with a brush rather than a stick, suggesting the steady shuffle of footsteps rather than the pounding boots of war. Above the sound, bells shimmered, accenting the singer’s sustained falsetto.
The class tiptoed from the wings in time with the recording. Cotton skirts swept calves as the girls swirled to center stage. The flowing fabric mimicked the ombré chiffon costumes that the female students would wear during the performance. Nia had unpacked the gown order, taking extra time as she placed the dresses on hangers to admire how the brilliant gold bodices melted into dusky pink hems. The program spared no expense with costumes. Once dressed, the women would resemble sunbeams in a Maxwell Parrish painting. Nia’s job was to get the group dancing that way, light and graceful like sunshine sparkling atop water.
After taking over the rehearsal Tuesday and Wednesday and then sitting in on Thursday, Ms. V had finally allowed her to fully take over instruction. Nia felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. It was freeing to teach without someone judging every comment.
“Alexei, Joseph. Stag leaps, in time with the girls,” Nia shouted. “As their heads turn, you should hit the ground.”
The boys tried to follow the command. Joseph jumped higher, but off the beat. Alexei hit the mark, though his height was less impressive.
“Fifth position,” Nia shouted.
Heels descended in unison. Front legs raised into passé. Toes pointed just above standing knees.
“And onto devant.” Legs extended in front of waists. “Plié,” Nia commanded. Standing legs dipped. Nia scanned knees for desired angles. “Tati, more turn out. That ankle should point to the ceiling.”
Tati’s face tightened as she rotated her raised leg.
“Good. And close.” Nia stood parallel to the line of students. She performed each movement as she named it on the beat, a staccato rap of broken French. “Pointe, lower onto devant, arms up, relevé. Hands down. Sweep the floor.”
She stood and watched the line. The ghosts of teachers past criticized the group in her mind. She vocalized their more constructive comments. “As your arm lifts, so does your leg, as though they’re connected by the same puppet string.”
Legs rose. As expected, Aubrey and Lydia translated the instruction immediately into the desired movement. June tried too hard. Concentration stiffened her body. Her leg rose to an oblique angle, a robot hitting a mark on a protractor.
“June, relax. Open your shoulders. Hear the music. Think graceful.”
Tati’s and Talia’s long legs didn’t achieve the angle she’d hoped for in time with the count. Nia clapped her hands beside them. “One, two, three, four. Five, six, seven, eight. Talia, Tati, to the beat. Step out, arabesque. As high as you can, everyone—except for Aubrey and Lydia. You two keep the legs in line with the class.” The two starlets raised their legs 135 degrees, higher than their classmates but not enough to completely show them up.
“Good. And port de bras. Switch arms. And sweep arm, open and plié.”
Nia clapped. “Okay. Very good. The opening is coming together. On Sunday, we’ll work more on the second half and perfecting those turns. Thank you all. Massage those feet. See you then.”
Nia sat and dug her knuckles into her arch as she watched the group split into their usual circles for warm-downs.
“Hey, Lydia, you’re coming tonight, right?”
Lydia raised her head from her calves. Her big brown eyes scanned for the source of the question.
Aubrey batted her doll lashes. One of her arms draped over Marta’s increasingly frail shoulders. The other arm was extended in welcome.
Nia wanted to step in front of the open limb, block the path to whatever door Aubrey held open. It couldn’t lead somewhere good.
“She has to come, right, Mar?” Aubrey asked. “It’s practically Wallace’s official Halloween party.”
“Um . . . yeah.” Marta seemed uncomfortable with the invitation.
Nia’s ears perked up. What were they talking about? Halloween wasn’t for more than a month.
Lydia rolled up to standing position. Her left foot scratched her right calf. “Isn’t it just for seniors? Senior Samhain, right?”
“What’s Samhain?” Nia asked. She didn’t like the fact that the party had “senior” in its title, or that Aubrey invited Lydia. That girl was not a good influence.
“It’s the Gaelic shindig Halloween is based off of,” Alexei piped up from somewhere behind Nia. No wonder that guy was the source of so much gossip. He heard every conversation, even those he wasn’t involved in.
“Samhain marks the end of the harvest season,” Alexei continued. “It’s typically mid-October, but whoever started the party here picked September because it’s still warm enough to wear cute costumes.”
“We’re not allowed to celebrate Halloween because it glorifies violence, so we have Senior Samhain,” June said.
Alexei cleared his throat. He looked straight at Lydia. “And, yes, it is just for seniors.”
Aubrey rolled her eyes. “It’s only billed as just for seniors so the pretty juniors and sophomores will want to crash it.”
“Well, I don’t want to offend anyone by crashing.” Lydia cast a sheepish look at Alexei. “I’m still new and—”
Aubrey’s hand hit her hip. Her elbow stuck out in a perfect triangle. “I will be personally offended if you don’t come. If you need a costume, I have one for you. I was deciding between two.”
“Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson.” Alexei muttered. Joseph scowled at him.
Aubrey kept her attention on Lydia. “You can walk in with me.”
“I don’t know. Are you sure I should go?”
“Yes. Joey’s friend Alistair is one of the seniors throwing the party, and he wants to meet you. He has a British accent. Very James Bond.” Aubrey giggled.
Lydia smiled shyly. “Well, if he wants me to come.”
“He absolutely does. Right, Joey?”
Joseph stretched his legs in the corner of the stage. He walked his hands back from the floor to his toes. “The more, the merrier.”
Lydia brightened. “Okay. Sure.”
Aubrey bounced on the pads of her toes. Nia didn’t remember ever seeing her show such excitement. Bouncing was Lydia’s thing.
“We’ll all walk over together. I’ll get you on our way, around eight. Cool?”
Nia wanted to answer for her. No. Not a good idea. But how could she? Lydia looked so relieved to be included.
“Sounds great,” Lydia said.
The class began to disperse. Lydia walked toward her new friends, but Nia couldn’t let her go skipping to a senior class party with Aubrey without some warning.
“Hey, Lydia. Would you stay for a moment? I need to go over something.”
Aubrey hung back, waiting for her former rival.
“It’s about the solo and could take a bit. You all should go on.”
Lydia looked confused. “I’ll catch up,” she said.
“Don’t be too long.”
The door shut. Lydia nearly leapt into the center of the room, both excited and concerned. “Did Mr. Battle add something to the choreography?”
Nia lowered her voice, unsure whether or not Aubrey was listening outside the door. “Look, I’m not quite sure how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. Please be careful around Aubrey.”
Lydia’s brow knitted. She stroked her clavicle. “She’s the first person to invite me to a party.”
“I know, and I’m sure that seemed nice. But as her RA, I’ve seen some things and heard some things.”
“Drinking?” Lydia asked.
And sneaking into clubs. And flirting with much older men. “She’s a little wild.”
Lydia shifted her weight from leg to leg. “I don’t drink.”
“So you won’t go?”
Lydia’s hand cupped her neck. She looked at her shoes. “I haven’t been to any parties on campus. It’s a chance to make friends, you know?”
Nia sighed. There was no way she would convince Lydia not to go to that party.
“Okay. But will you do me a favor? Please don’t drink around her. It’s easy to convince someone when they’re a little buzzed that bad ideas are good ones.”
“Don’t worry. My father would kill me if I got caught with alcohol. I’ll just go, say hi to Alistair, maybe dance a little. If it turns into a booze fest, I’m outta there. Promise.”
Lydia executed a fouetté turn. “So passé, relevé, plié, en devant, and then keep my hip down to a la seconde.”
“Um?”
“In case anyone’s waiting for me,” she whispered.
“Be careful.”
“I will.” Lydia strode toward the door. “Thanks for the tips.” She said loudly. “I’ll keep that hip down. See you Sunday.”
The door swung open. Aubrey stood in the corridor, arms folded across her chest. She stared into the room, eyes like flames around a gas burner. They burned into Nia as if aware that she’d kept Lydia late to share Aubrey’s bad behavior.
“Come on, Lydia,” Aubrey said. “Let’s go play dress-up.”
33
Sickling [sik-el-ENG]
This term is used for a fault in which the dancer turns his or her foot in from the ankle, thereby breaking the straight line of the leg.
The weather woman’s palms undulated from her waist to her shoulders, a green-screen hula showing the path of a cold front from the midwest to the northeast. The theatrical body movements seemed a bit excessive, even for a temperature drop of ten degrees. Nia guessed ratings increased when an attractive twentysomething gyrated in front of the Great Plains.
She snuggled into Peter’s side. A woodsy, citrus scent saturated his neck. He smelled like a GQ lumberjack.
Music beat from the floorboards above: a poppy rhythm that drowned out all but the high notes in the singer’s voice. Peter grabbed the remote and turned up the television volume. The weather woman shouted about a polar vortex.
Nia inhaled beneath Peter’s ear. “Weren’t we going to watch a movie?”
“Yeah. Just wanted to see the news. They said they had an update on Lauren’s case.”
The mention of the murder changed her mood. Nia sat up straighter. “How is Theo doing? Did you talk to him today?”
“He’s a little better since people began buzzing about text spoofing. But he won’t feel vindicated until the news reports that the text message was fraudulent.”
The kettle whistled on
Peter’s stove. Nia rose to get it. “I feel so bad for him. I wish there was more we could do.”
“I know. It’s frustrating to wait for some Internet company to relinquish data.”
Nia opened one of the kitchen cabinets. She grabbed two tea bags from a canister marked “Wild Orange Oolong.” Peter’s favorite. She slipped a bag into each of the two waiting mugs and poured the hot water inside. Delicious steam bathed her face.
“Is Theo eating? He looked so thin.”
“I didn’t want to bring it up with him. But I think he’s still avoiding the dining halls.”
Nia opened Peter’s fridge and grabbed the soymilk she’d purchased earlier that day. A splash went into the plain white ceramic cup. She liked tea the British way. It tasted more like coffee.
Peter took his oolong straight. She returned the milk to the fridge and then carted over the cups to the couch. The outside of Peter’s mug featured the words “Stay Drunk on Writing So Reality Cannot Destroy You.” The Ray Bradbury quote mug, as he called it, was also one of Peter’s favorite things. She’d learned a lot about his likes and dislikes after spending every day with him for nearly three weeks.
She settled in beside him again. The camera panned to the anchors. The male reporter had a youthful face that belied the thick, silver mane atop his head. He sat beside an attractive black woman with overtweezed eyebrows. The woman lowered her barely there brow in an exaggerated expression of seriousness while the man spoke.
“An update on the gruesome killing of Wallace Preparatory student Lauren Turek, after the break.”
The screen faded to momentary black before a car zoomed onto the screen. Peter cursed under his breath and hit the mute button. The news always made viewers wait through the whole program before getting to the top story.
Without the television, the sounds of the party again became audible: a din of voices pierced by occasional laughter. Nia recognized the top-forty tune blasting in the background. She handed Peter the mug.
“Thanks.” He took a long sip. “So what do you want to do this weekend?”
“I don’t know. I have rehearsal Sunday pretty much all day. But tomorrow is free. It’s supposed to rain, though.”