Dark Turns

by Cate Holahan

  Nia scanned for Aubrey’s family. No one matched the mother in the old law firm photo. No one had a little boy. Nia reminded herself that the article listing Philip Byrne’s survivors had been nearly a decade old. She searched again, looking for a twelve-year-old towhead and a woman with platinum or gray hair and piercing blue eyes.

  She paused on a bottle blonde in the front. Nia realized a moment later that the woman belonged to Suzanne after seeing a middle school–aged girl beside her raise a “We love you, Suzie” poster board. A heavyset woman with Kim’s broad shoulders stood next to the group.

  Beside them sat a woman with Marta’s big brown eyes and formerly heart-shaped face. Rapid weight loss had since cinched Marta’s visage into a pointy oblong. Still, the woman was likely Marta’s mother. A dark-haired man stood near along with an older boy. An elderly pair, each with Marta’s deep brown eyes, flanked the boy.

  Nia had accounted for everyone in the reserved rows. Aubrey’s family hadn’t come to the recital.

  A tap pulled her attention from her game of parent match. Nia turned to see Battle standing behind her. The expression on his face advertised a problem. Nia braced herself for news about Lydia.

  “Ms. Washington, I need to speak to you.”

  Had the toxicology report come back? Battle’s stiff posture and taught face hinted that it might have. If he knew Lydia had been drugged, he might want to discuss her suspicions about Aubrey.

  “Now?”

  Battle glanced over her shoulder at the crowd. The show would go on in just a few minutes.

  “No. Right after the show. Please meet me in my office.”

  “Of course.”

  He hurried away. His usual gliding walk appeared harried.

  The overhead lights dimmed, cueing the stragglers in the audience to take their seats. The students in the balcony hollered, ready for a rock concert. Nia ducked backstage where the dancers stretched in golden skirts. She air-clapped and pointed to the wings. Showtime.

  Battle’s musical voice rang through the auditorium’s speakers. He discussed the dance department and how fortunate the school was to have the dedication of parents and alums. The “wondrous work” the audience would soon enjoy would not be possible without “such continued, generous support.” The appeal for money could only have become more transparent if Battle sent a basket through the rows.

  The students sashayed to the wings. They assumed preparatory stances: left legs pointed, arms outstretched in fourth position. Nia glanced down the line. June appeared ashen.

  “You’ll be great,” she whispered.

  June brightened. Her posture lost some of the stiffness that made her more like a ballerina statue than an actual dancer.

  Light piano drifted into the room. The dancers swirled onto the stage. Soft lights sparkled overhead, warm and yellow like sunlight slipping into a nighttime sky. The students performed in unison, bending and rising, turning and swaying. Aubrey and Suzanne took center stage. The girls tipped to their toes as the music assumed a triumphant march quality. They spun in beautiful, mirrored pirouettes that landed in arabesque. Aubrey kept her leg lower to match Suzanne’s lesser flexibility. She would have gotten to show off if Lydia had danced. But it didn’t matter. Aubrey would have plenty of opportunities to flaunt during the solo.

  The singer’s voice cried over the music, shredding the lullaby quality it held moments before. The students’ movements sharpened on cue. Stage lights flickered red and gold, an explosion of sunshine breaking through clouds. The dancers performed a series of pique turns on a diagonal line with the boys leaping behind them like horses pulling twirling sunbeams across the sky. The students converged in the center of the stage as the music strode toward the finale. The girls dipped to the ground, revealing the two boys holding Aubrey and Suzanne at their heads in arabesque. The girls raised their arms high above their heads, ballet’s version of a victory cheer. The sun had risen. The song ended.

  The audience erupted in applause. Though she had not danced, Nia felt she owned some of the hooting, hollering, and clapping. She had demonstrated the dance, corrected form, aided with choreography, and helped the ensemble come together. The audience might not know it, but they applauded her efforts too.

  Nia looked across the stage to Peter’s aisle seat. One of the female students said something to him. He nodded as he clapped, agreeing with the girl’s statement. He said something back. Nia imagined the words My girlfriend is one of the instructors.

  The pas de deux followed the opening. Both pairs danced on stage at the same time. The boys demonstrated all the moves they would need to showcase in a company audition—lifting the girls in bent-legged arabesques, turning while holding their partner, rotating their girl in front of them while she posed on her toes. The dance provided visual confirmation for any informed parent that Wallace Academy provided the same dance preparation as the famed Bolshoi Ballet Academy or SAB.

  Nia found Suzanne and Alexei’s pairing more beautiful than June and Joseph’s combination. Alexei faked attraction to Suzanne as he danced. His lifts were tender. His movements showed care and gentleness, as if he were awed by her beauty. Joseph couldn’t pretend. Though his performance was technically competent, his face betrayed annoyance whenever he turned from the audience. When Joseph pulled June from a bent knee position to his shoulder, he yanked too hard, nearly sending her flying over his arm. It was as though he wanted the audience to know he had an inferior, slightly off-balance partner.

  If the audience detected the performance problems, they didn’t show it with their applause. The final notes were barely audible through the clapping. June and Suzanne had brought the loudest cheering sections from home. Nia stole a glance beyond the curtain. A row of young men and women in the balcony held up a rainbow sign with Alexei’s name on it. The school’s LGBT community supported him. She was glad that they hollered for Alexei and not Joseph. Alexei deserved more recognition.

  The couples hurried off opposite ends of the stage. The auditorium lights went out. The stage darkened. The clapping stopped, silenced by the change of mood.

  A bony hip hit Nia’s side.

  “Break a leg,” Nia whispered to Aubrey. She intended the encouragement to have hidden meaning. The phrase was part of the old performers’ superstition that wishing someone bad luck on stage had the opposite effect. But dancers never said it. Instead, custom held that they wished each other “shit” in proper French. No one ever wished a dancer’s legs ill will, even in jest.

  “Lydia already did,” Aubrey hissed.

  Aubrey tiptoed to center stage and coiled on the ground, a spring set to explode with compressed energy. Nia didn’t want to watch. But she didn’t have a choice.

  Nia stared at the faint outline of the figure in the center of the floor. Aubrey hid in the darkness, camouflaged by the black bodice wrapped around her torso like a second skin. Aubrey’s dance would be the antithesis of the first piece. The company work celebrated sunrise. The solo reveled in shadow: the way it stretched, contorted, consumed the light. Battle intended the choreography to be intense and dark, fitting the apocalyptic soundtrack. But it had moments of comfort. Lydia’s performance, though not lacking ferocity, had hinted at the softness in darkness, the repose brought by the night’s stillness. Nia doubted Aubrey’s version would contain such nuance.

  The sound of a bow cutting across guitar strings screeched from the speakers. The spotlight hit Aubrey. She slithered from her position on the floor, rising like a hatched creature from the future—part human, part reptile. The beat pulsed. She attacked, executing a series of fouetté turns. Ms. V had apparently changed the choreography to suit her favored student. Aubrey finished the opening with her impressive standing split, made all the more startling by the shimmery black stockings encasing her legs.

  Nia scrutinized the performance for mistakes. She failed to find one. Aubrey danced like the devil played fiddle. Every turn hit its mark. Every angle was spot on. When jumping, her legs never f
ailed to part into a full split or perfect stag’s leap. When en pointe, Aubrey’s feet held an insane arch, as if they were naturally shaped like boning knives.

  Nia had expected Aubrey’s technical precision. What she hadn’t anticipated was the emotion. Each move engendered a feeling: tortured, angry, aroused, triumphant. Aubrey didn’t display vulnerability like Lydia, but Nia had to admit that her interpretation didn’t require it. Aubrey’s shadow was violent and voracious. It consumed everything like a giant funnel cloud, beautiful and terrifying, a force of nature.

  When the music stopped and Aubrey stood in the center, holding a pointed foot to her head, the crowd sat in stunned silence, as if movement would startle the creature on stage. Tears burned behind Nia’s eyes. It wasn’t fair that someone so horrible could be so damn talented.

  Ms. V started the ovation. The rest of the audience followed suit, rising in height and volume, like a passing sound wave. Even Peter took to his feet. Nia tried to tell herself that he was applauding the whole company’s efforts. But it wasn’t true. Peter applauded Aubrey.

  Aubrey spun out of her position and curtsied. The auditorium lights rose on the standing crowd. The rest of the company joined Aubrey from the wings. The applause didn’t increase in volume at the addition of the corps. It already thundered.

  Lightning strikes followed the claps. Flashes ignited as parents put pricey cameras to work. Students rushed off the stage to accept flowers and hugs from family. Joseph’s father and mother embraced him. Marta accepted a rose bouquet from her grandma. Aubrey wasn’t with them.

  Nia stepped onto the stage to better view the crowd. Battle and Ms. V chatted with alumni. Students filed out the doors. Parents drew closer to the stage, composing album shots with the performers. Aubrey didn’t appear in either direction. The star performer had somehow slipped away.

  Nia shrugged off her sympathy. If Aubrey weren’t such a terrible person, maybe she would have friends to congratulate her instead of faceless applause.

  She stepped off the stage toward Peter’s seat. He wasn’t there. He couldn’t have gone far. Perhaps he was looking for her among the teachers. She needed to tell him that she’d meet up with him after talking to Battle.

  Nia scanned for her boyfriend as she walked down the aisle.

  “Ms. Washington.” Anger seethed in Ms. V’s tone. “You’re wanted in the director’s office.”

  Nia had expected Ms. V to be ecstatic after such a performance by her favorite pupil. Instead, she appeared red-faced. She must have known what Aubrey did—or she’d heard of Nia’s accusations and was angry with her.

  Nia held herself up straighter. She would stand by her claim that Aubrey spiked Lydia’s drink, even if Ms. V didn’t believe her.

  “Follow me,” Ms. V snapped.

  Nia didn’t dare argue. The woman wanted a fight and she would have to give her one. Someone had to stand up for Lydia.

  41

  Soubresaut [sew-brah-soh]

  Sudden spring or bound. A springing jump from both feet usually performed traveling forward in either a croisé or efface direction and landing on both feet.

  Battle’s office was lit like a bunker. Navy curtains hid the large windows, blocking the view of the lake below. The heavy fabric absorbed the light emanating from the ceiling, darkening the room’s cream walls to the color of decayed newspaper.

  Ms. V joined Battle and Dean Stirk behind a walnut desk. A campus security officer stood by the curtains. His presence surprised Nia. Did a cop need to be involved because spiking a drink was a crime? Would he get Aubrey after she explained what the girl had done? Had he picked her up already?

  Nia sat on the edge of an upholstered chair positioned opposite the trio. The faculty’s expressions matched the room’s grim mood. Nia welcomed their frowns. What Aubrey had done to Lydia couldn’t be excused by a stellar performance.

  Battle adjusted his tie. The group’s formal clothing was more buttoned-up than Nia’s black dress. She’d chosen a deep V neck, thinking she would spend the night with Peter after the performance. The cut wasn’t appropriate for a meeting with the bosses. She pushed her hair over her shoulders, partially filling in the neckline.

  “We called you here because of a substantial allegation that we must investigate thoroughly,” Battle said.

  Dean Stirk punctuated Battle’s statement with a sharp nod. Ms. V hung her head. Maybe the Russian wouldn’t fight Nia’s allegations against Aubrey. Perhaps she felt horrible for failing to notice her favorite student’s ruthlessness.

  Nia fought the urge to launch into an anti-Aubrey tirade. She couldn’t seem too eager to tell the teachers all the girl’s horrible actions. They would wonder why she hadn’t come forward earlier—when she’d picked Aubrey up from a nightclub, for example.

  Stirk cupped her chin in her palm and stared. “You don’t seem shocked?”

  “I thought we might need to talk eventually about—”

  “And you know these allegations are sexual in nature?”

  Nia’s back stiffened. “No. Lydia’s ankle was broken. I didn’t think anything—”

  Battle pulled his chin into his neck, a theatrical demonstration of disgust that made him resemble a tortoise retreating into a shell. “We are not here to discuss a student falling down the stairs, Ms. Washington. We are here to discuss a teacher making advances toward a student.”

  “What?”

  “You made clear sexual advances toward Aubrey.” Ms. V spat the words. “We saw the texts.”

  The room spun. Nia gripped the edge of the chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Ms. V raised her hand like a policeman halting traffic. Battle cleared his throat.

  “Aubrey came to us just before the fall show alleging that you propositioned her,” Battle said. “She showed us several text messages sent from your phone in which you suggest performing lewd acts with her and another student.”

  Nia’s chin dropped. No words emerged from her open mouth. Her face tingled as though regaining sensation after a hard strike. Tears stung her eyes. She fought them back. Crying could be misinterpreted as an admission of guilt rather than shock and stress.

  “Lydia. Who I left in your care,” Ms. V nearly shouted. “No wonder the girl took those sedatives. She probably had trouble sleeping knowing that a teacher—”

  Battle patted Ms. V’s hand, shutting her up. Nia struggled to process the new information. Lydia had taken sedatives? Had the toxicology report come back?

  Dean Stirk shook her head. She folded her hands on top of the desk, assuming a lawyer’s position. “The text messages we saw constitute a clear violation of the school’s policies on student-teacher communication as well as state laws on corrupting minors and sexual assault.”

  “It’s not true.” The words finally tumbled out, falling over one another and rushing together. “I never sent Aubrey any text messages. I don’t even know her number. I didn’t—”

  “There was a photo of her and Lydia in a suggestive position that was sent from your phone to Aubrey’s cell,” Battle said.

  Nia racked her brain. Aubrey and Lydia were barely together, and never alone with one another. Could Aubrey have faked an image with photo editing software?

  “Other students remember you taking the picture.”

  Aubrey’s voice came back to her. Let’s get a pic of us in penchée position. It will make a cool shot for the yearbook. She had taken that photo of Aubrey and Lydia during practice. But the picture was of a well-known dance position. It wasn’t suggestive—to a dancer.

  Battle continued. “Aubrey said that, soon after, you began sending text messages in which you made sexual comments about the photo and suggested meeting after class.”

  Anger finally melted through Nia’s shock. She jumped from the chair as if scalded. “That is a complete fabrication. I never, ever texted her. I did take a photo of Aubrey and Lydia practicing, at their request. Aubrey said she wanted to submit it to the yearbook. Then s
he took my phone and sent it to herself. You can ask Lydia. I never even knew Aubrey’s number.”

  Ms. V fixed her with a look that threatened to reach across the table and strangle the recipient. “So you admit that her number was in your phone. But, before, you said you didn’t have it. And you admit to sending a photo to Aubrey, though, before, you claimed to have not sent her anything.” The Russian’s voice rose with each sentence. “I should have known when Marta and Aubrey avoided you—”

  “Irina, please,” Battle’s voice matched Ms. V’s volume. “Let me finish telling Ms. Washington the charges against her.”

  Charges? Did they plan to report Aubrey’s lies to the police? Had they already called the cops?

  The walls seemed to close in around her. How could she defend herself? Lydia would say that she never received any messages, but that didn’t mean Aubrey hadn’t. And she would never get Aubrey to admit the truth.

  How many years behind bars did someone get for sexting a minor? Probably just enough to ruin her ballet career forever.

  “Ms. Washington.” Battle patted the air, motioning for her to return to her seat.

  Nia fell into her chair. Her throat felt inflamed. She took a breath to compose herself. She needed to think. She’d sent the photo, but not any messages. How could Aubrey send texts from Nia’s phone?

  Detective Kelly’s explanation came back to her. Aubrey knew how to spoof texts.

  “Aubrey must have made the messages appear to come from my phone.”

  “And how would she do that?” Ms. V’s French accent had disappeared. She sounded like a Russian.

  “There’s an app called SMStealer. It allows people to mask sender information with another number.”

  Battle chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “So you are saying that someone may have sent Aubrey the messages pretending to be you?”