by Sheryl Berk
Anya had a sinking feeling that there was more to the story than her mother was telling her. But she was too excited to be going home to argue with her. “Fine. I’ll stop in and say hi. But these . . .” She took the pointe shoes out of her bag. “Stay here.”
I Love L.A.
The flight from Newark to LAX seemed a lot longer than usual, probably because Anya was so anxious to touch down. While her mom napped, she made a mental list of everything she wanted to do as soon as they got home: go shopping on Melrose with her best friend, Poppy; grab a hot dog at Pink’s; take a long walk on the beach barefoot.
“Please fasten your seat belts and prepare for landing,” the pilot’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
“We’re here! We’re here!” she said, shaking her mom awake.
Her mother opened one eye. “Already? That was quick. I could have used a few more hours of shut-eye.”
She had to practically drag her mother by the arm through the airport into baggage claim. “Mom, hurry up!” she pleaded with her.
“Anya, honey, we have a whole week here. What’s the rush?”
“I have so much to do,” Anya insisted. “I want to get it all in.”
When they exited the airport, Alexei and Anya’s dad were waiting at the curb in their convertible. Mr. Bazarov kissed his wife before sweeping Anya up into a huge bear hug.
“Wait! Wait! I gotta get this on film,” Alexei shouted, grabbing his camcorder out of the glove compartment. “Okay: lights, camera, action!”
Anya stuck her tongue out toward the lens. “Did you get that?” she asked, laughing. “Do you ever give the moviemaking thing a rest?”
Alexei shook his head. “Do you think Hitchcock ever stopped rolling? Or Spielberg?”
“You’re Bazarov—not Spielberg,” Anya told him.
“But you could definitely play E.T.,” he teased her. “You’ve got that big-alien-head thing going.”
Anya suddenly noticed he was getting behind the wheel. “Wait! Did you get your license?”
“I did!” her brother replied proudly. “I am officially a California State–licensed driver.”
“Awesome!” Anya squealed. “Can you teach me?”
“Whoa!” her dad interrupted. “One teenage Bazarov on the freeway is plenty. You see all these new gray hairs?”
“You should see me on the I-10,” Alexei bragged.
“No, trust me,” her father said. “You want to keep your eyes closed. It’s better that way.”
Her mom laughed. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go home!”
As they pulled into the driveway, Anya noticed that everything looked exactly the same as she had left it. The mailbox was still painted bright blue with BAZAROV on it in yellow letters. The front yard still had a white picket fence around it, and her mother’s begonia bushes were in bloom.
“Wait till you see your room,” Alexei teased her. “I gave it an extreme home makeover.”
“No, you didn’t!” Anya shrieked. “Mom!”
“He’s kidding,” her father reassured her. “But I did give the kitchen a fresh coat of paint.”
“Without asking me?” her mom shouted. “No, you didn’t!”
“Kidding!” Anya’s dad and brother sang in unison.
Anya pushed open the front door and bolted up the stairs to her bedroom. She held her breath as she turned the knob and opened the door. There was her pink canopy bed; her giant stuffed giraffe, Percy; and her autographed framed poster of prima ballerina Misty Copeland on the wall.
“See? Told ya I didn’t touch it,” Alexei said, peeking in. “Your smelly ballet shoes are still under the bed.”
Anya lifted the comforter and peered underneath the bedframe. There—just where she had put them—were more than a dozen pair of beaten-up ballet slippers.
“My collection,” she sighed. “Thank goodness!” Each pair had a very special significance in Anya’s ballet career: they marked every first and last day of each level she’d been in. They were a symbol of her progress from primary to Level 6, and she loved to stand them next to each other and compare how much her feet had grown over the years.
Anya flopped down in her white, fuzzy beanbag chair and kicked off her sneakers. “This feels so good,” she said, closing her eyes. “I missed this.”
“I didn’t miss your snoring through the wall at night,” Alexei teased.
“I don’t snore!” Anya insisted, tossing a throw pillow at her brother’s head.
“Do to,” he said. “You sound like Dad’s lawn mower.”
“Well, you’ll only have to suffer for a week,” she said.
“I wish it was more,” Alexei said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It’s lonely around here with no one to pick on.”
“You could always drive Dad crazy,” Anya pointed out.
Alexei shook his head. “Not the same. He doesn’t take the bait like you do.” He looked around the room and his eyes settled on the wall behind Anya’s head. Suddenly, his face went pale. “Look out!” he shouted. “There’s a giant tarantula climbing up the wall!”
“EEEK! Where?” Anya shrieked. She jumped out of her chair and grabbed her tennis racquet out of the closet. She sliced through the air, swinging it wildly. “I got it! I got it!”
Alexei fell on the floor, laughing. “Oh, you got it all right!” he said, cracking up. “I got you!” He zoomed in on her face with his camera.
Anya dropped the racquet to her side. “Seriously? There’s no spider?”
“Like I said,” her brother smirked. “No one takes the bait like you, Anya.”
It was almost reassuring to know that her brother could still pull her leg after all these months apart.
“Fine. You got me,” she admitted. “I’m still terrified of spiders.”
“Aww, you mean this little guy?” Alexei asked, pulling a tiny black insect out of his shorts pocket.
“EEEK! Get it away from me! Get it away!” Anya screamed jumping up on the bed.
“Relax! It’s a rubber spider!” Alexei laughed. “Awesome scream, though, for my movie.” He checked the replay. “If this footage doesn’t get me into film school, I don’t know what will.”
“Are you still planning on going to college to study film?” Anya asked.
Alexei nodded. “Absolutely. I’ve applied early decision to my top two: UCLA and Tisch at NYU. Fingers crossed. I could hear any day now.”
“NYU?” Anya gasped. “You’re thinking of going to college in New York City? That’s super close to Mom and me! That would be awesome!”
“It’s my top choice,” Alexei added. “Do you know that Woody Allen went there?”
“And you’re going to make your little sis the star of your first big movie, right?” Anya reminded him.
He dangled a rubber spider in her face. “We’ll see!”
Downstairs, Anya’s parents were busy catching up—and discussing how they were going to break the big news to their daughter.
“She’s going to be so disappointed,” Mrs. Bazarov said.
“Felice, we talked about this. We have to do what’s best for us as a family.”
Anya burst into the living room and flopped down on the couch next to her dad. “Alex is crazier than ever!” she said. “His practical jokes are out of control!”
“Tell me about it,” her father said, putting his arm around her. “You don’t have to deal with him every day.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice if we did?” her mom suddenly interjected.
“No!” Anya said. “One spider psych-out is enough for me.”
“I mean, wouldn’t it be nice to be back living here in L.A.? All together as a family?” her mother continued.
“It would—if Dance Divas was here,” Anya said. “But it’s not.”
Her parents shot each other a concerned look.
“So I think you and Alexei should hit the beach, then meet us for sushi at Wok ’n’ Roll for dinner,” her dad said. “Sound like a plan?
”
“Sounds like a great plan,” Anya replied. “As long as you check his pockets first for rubber spiders.”
A Change of Pace
While Anya was in L.A., Liberty was in Hollywood, Scarlett and Gracie were in Orlando, and Bria was busy hitting the books, Rochelle was bored silly.
“You can’t just lie around all day staring at your phone,” her mom said, prying the iPhone out of her hand. “Find something to do.”
“I was doing something!” Rochelle replied. “I was texting Scarlett. She’s on the Dumbo ride. I never thought waiting in line for two hours to get on a flying elephant would sound appealing, but it does.”
“If you’re bored, then why don’t you clean out your closet?” her mom suggested. “Or entertain your brother? Or crack open a textbook?”
Rochelle pretended to yawn. “Boring, boringer, boringest.”
“Then how’s this for a plan,” she said, handing her daughter her dance bag off the coatrack in the hall. “Head down to Divas and get in some extra practice.”
Rochelle mulled it over. Busting some moves while the studio was empty over the break didn’t sound all that bad.
“Fine, I’ll go practice,” Rochelle agreed.
“Thank you!” Her mom heaved a sigh of relief. “I was afraid your butt was going to become glued to that sofa!”
Rochelle had never seen the studio so deserted. All the rooms were empty and dark, though she could hear loud, pulsing music coming from somewhere. She followed the noise down the hallway to Toni’s office and pressed her ear against the door. She listened intently, straining to make out the song. It had a heavy beat and a cool rhythm but it also sounded a bit classical.
Suddenly, the door opened and Rochelle fell inside the office.
“May I help you?” Toni asked, clearly annoyed.
“Um, no, I was just . . .”
“Spying? Eavesdropping? Poking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” Toni fired back.
She noticed her teacher was dressed in a pair of billowy pants and a crop top. Her hair was long and pulled back into a loose ponytail. Rochelle tried not to stare, but it was hard not to. Toni looked strange for Toni. She never came to class in anything but a leotard, ballet skirt, and bun.
“Are you doing hip-hop?” she asked her teacher.
“If you must know, it’s a form of dance that I’ve never personally performed, and I’m trying to perfect my moves.”
Rochelle shook her head. “But that’s just the thing. Hip-hop isn’t ballet or jazz or even acro. There is no ‘perfecting’ it. It’s spontaneous and loose. It’s just gotta come from the music.”
“Well,” Toni huffed. “Since you think you’re such an expert, perhaps you’d like to come work with me in the studio and you can give me a hand.”
“Me? You want me to teach you hip-hop?” Rochelle gasped.
Toni handed her the boom box. “I’m still the teacher,” she reminded Rochelle. “Let’s not forget that, shall we? I’m working with a new form of hip-hop—like a fusion of ballet and street—and I need to try it out on someone.”
Rock followed Miss Toni into studio 2, where they both quickly pushed the barres to the back of the room. She pointed to a spot for them to take their starting position.
“You don’t want to be too stiff,” Toni said, showing her. “Feet should be hip-width apart. But I want the arms and legs to be less lock and pop, more ballet. Get it?” She demonstrated a kick ball change while gracefully pumping her arms to the sides.
“You could also do this,” Rochelle suggested, pirouetting in her sneakers while crossing her arms in front of her chest. She rolled her shoulders and slid her feet across the floor in a series of lightning-quick steps.
“Exactly!” Toni said, “I saw Charles ‘Lil Buck’ Riley jookin’ and I was inspired.”
Rochelle’s mouth fell open. “You follow Lil Buck?” she asked. “He’s amazing! He does pointe in sneakers!”
“It’s Urban Ballet,” Toni corrected her. “And I love it. It’s very forward-thinking, very this generation.”
“It’s very cool!” Rochelle said enthusiastically.
“So you’re up for working it into your duet with Anya?” her teacher asked. “If we could fuse both of your styles, ballet and hip-hop, into one, I think your dance would take first place.”
Rock smiled. “You had me at hip-hop, but first place works, too.”
Meanwhile, Bria found a way to study and stay limber at the same time. She sat on the floor with her legs in a straddle and her English book on the floor in front of her.
“That does not look very comfortable,” her mom said, watching her stretch.
“It’s not supposed to be comfy,” Bria insisted. “It’s supposed to be good for my middle split.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Chang replied. “How’s your term paper coming along?”
Bria sighed. “It’s not. It takes me forever to read just one page of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. None of it makes any sense!” She held the book up. “Just look at this! Who talks like that?”
Her mom took the book and read aloud: “‘Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth!’”
“See what I mean?” Bria said, groaning. “It’s gibberish.”
“Theseus is just saying he wants to throw a party,” her mom explained.
Bria sighed. “I just don’t get it.”
Her mom nodded. “I think I have something that might help.” She held up a pair of tickets to the New York City Ballet. “They’re performing A Midsummer Night’s Dream tomorrow night. I thought maybe we could go together. Seeing it might help you better understand the story.”
Bria’s face lit up. “You mean get out of the house and go see a ballet? Do something besides study?” She pulled herself out of her straddle and jumped to her feet. “I’m in!”
Mrs. Chang smiled. “When I was younger, I felt the same way about Shakespeare. Until my father took me to see Hamlet at a local theater.”
“Did you like it?” Bria asked.
“I thought it was the most magical thing I had ever experienced,” she recalled. “The lines were spoken but they had a musical quality to them.”
Bria remembered that her mom studied violin for many years. “So thinking about Shakespeare like a song helped you get it?”
“Exactly!” her mom replied. “And I hope seeing A Midsummer Night’s Dream as a dance will help you get it as well. Sometimes, it’s stressful tackling something new. So you need to see it in terms you can relate to.”
Bria considered what her mom was saying. “That makes sense . . . I guess.” Her mom flipped through the book and found another line. “I think this one describes you,” she said with a smile.
Bria picked up the book and read Helena’s quote: “‘Though she be but little, she is fierce!’”
Bria giggled. “I love it! Maybe that should be the Divas’ new motto! I guess Shakespeare knew what he was talking about after all!”
Back to Ballet
While Bria and Rochelle were trying to find something entertaining in their time off, Anya was just looking forward to being lazy. She refused to set her alarm clock, and was annoyed when her mother knocked on her bedroom door bright and early.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” she called. “We have a fun day ahead!”
Anya opened one eye. “It’s vacation. Don’t I get to sleep late?”
Her mother opened the door. “Not if you want to go see your old ballet friends at Dance Academy West.”
Anya groaned. “Mom, they have to be at 9:00 a.m. pointe class. I don’t.”
“Well, I thought maybe you’d want to pop in before class. You know, chat with everyone in the dressing room? Say hi to Miss Natalya?”
When her mom got something in her head, she was like a dog with a chew toy. “Fine,” Anya said, sighing. “You’re not going to leave me alone until I go, are you?”
“Nope,” her mom replied. “I made your favorite blueberry pancakes for breakfast. So
up and at ’em!”
The studio was thirty minutes away in downtown L.A. “Look! Nothing’s changed!” her mom said as they pulled up to the gray brick building.
“It never changes,” Anya said. “I stuck my chewing gum under the bench out front when I was five years old and I bet it’s still there.”
“But you had some great memories here,” her mom tried to convince her. “All those recitals, spring shows, that adorable butterfly costume . . .”
“It was a moth,” Anya pointed out. “A gray moth that flittered around Poppy, who was a flame, remember? And the costume was really itchy.”
“It was your first recital and you were precious,” her mom insisted. “You go say hi and I’ll wait here in the parking lot for you.”
As she walked through the door of Dance Academy West, Anya recognized a few familiar faces.
“Anya! You’re back!” a tall blond girl said, racing toward her.
“Well, just visiting, Amanda,” she replied, giving the girl a hug. “Do you know where Poppy is?”
Amanda pointed down the hallway. “She’s in a private right now with Miss Natalya. Go peek!”
Anya strolled down the carpeted hallway, stepping over the dancers sprawled on the floor stretching. She stopped to look into the studio windows. Each group wore different colored leotards: there were the tiny pink level 1s; the red level 2s; the green level 3s; and the purple level 4s. Level 5 and up wore black—which is what Poppy had on along with a pair of well-worn toe shoes. Anya looked inside the window of studio 4 and saw her old ballet teacher twisting her bestie’s leg into a pretzel. She couldn’t make out what she was saying to her, but she was sure it was the usual: “Nyet! Nyet! No! No!”
When Miss Natalya noticed her visitor at the window, she motioned for her to come inside. Anya turned the knob and the door creaked as she pushed it open.
“Ah, look who we have here!” Miss Natalya said, holding out her arms. “She returns!”
She pulled Anya into a hug so tight Anya could barely breathe.