‘Um . . . sorry, sir?’ I took a bite of apple, and a flick of juice landed on his arm. Oops. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Hi, Mr Sandown!’ screeched some of the Year 7 kids as they charged past.
Mr Sandown pointed at the clipboard again. ‘Didn’t pick you as the basketball type. But the girls are always looking for more players.’
‘Basketball?’ I shook my head, like the ‘dumb bimbo’ that Jay took me for. ‘There must be …’
Suddenly I smelled a rat. A rat with long legs and a red cap. I stopped chewing and peered at the list of names.
Jay hadn’t even spelt my surname right, but I could pick his handwriting a mile away. So the jokes just keep on coming, do they, Jay? Har de har har . . .
‘When’s training?’ I asked.
‘Next Wednesday lunchtime. On the basketball courts,’ Mr Sandown said.
‘Cool! See you there, sir.’ I gave him a brilliant smile, even though he was too serious to enjoy it.
Mr Sandown nodded like an army captain.
I walked off, feeling a surge of energy through my limbs. So, Jay thought that I couldn’t play basketball, did he? Thought I knew nothing about the game? Well, I’d show him a thing or two. I’d sat through enough games to know how it all worked. Grab the ball . . . bounce bounce bounce . . . throw it to another player. Or better yet, throw it through the basket. Didn’t look too hard.
On the way past a rubbish bin, I threw in my apple core and smiled at the satisfying tunk as it landed. Yeah, I was fit, I was athletic. Jay didn’t have any idea how tough a dancer’s body really is. Basketball, eh? Okay, bring it on.
This was getting interesting.
CHAPTER 4
‘Magic! Magic! Magic!’
On Saturday night a chant sprung up as soon as the Charms ran onto the court. It was awesome. There was a kind of electricity in the air, pulling the crowd forward in their seats and lifting their hopes to the ceiling.
Lesley’s pep talk before the game had tipped us off that this was a big one. ‘If Magic wins, then we get an extra game in the quarterfinals. So cheer your butts off, people!’
The new opening number was weeks away from being ready, so tonight we were scheduled to do the old one. We’d been doing it for so long that it was as automatic as breathing. But I still loved it. Dancing it was like pulling on an old pair of jeans and not having to check how your bum looks in the mirror.
Doof, doof, doof, doof
… As soon as the music started, the chanting fell away and we sprang to life. Well, our pompoms did, really. Bam, bam, bam, shake. Over, over, up and shake . . . while the guys did punches in the air.
Out we fanned into two circles, one within the other. Then, just like hundreds of times before, the two circles moved in opposite directions as we leapt around.
Aaaaah, aaaaah . . . doof, doof, doof . . .
The electricity in the air reached inside me and gave my limbs a new kind of strength. Each leap felt higher than ever, each split felt harder.
The girls peeled off into formation, with me and Megan in the front. Now we started into the sequence again, for about the six hundred and seventy-first time. Bam, bam, bam, shake. Over, over, up and shake . . .
Except this time, something was different.
As I circled my pompoms over, smiling up at the crowd, it suddenly dawned on me that Jay was among them. That annoying, smug practical joker was out there. Watching.
Normally, when I’m on court it’s like I’m dancing in a glass cocoon. The trick is to smile in the general direction of the crowd, but not actually look at any of them. But tonight, all because of Jay, the glass was gone. What was he thinking right now?
Aaaaah, aaaaah . . . doof, doof, doof . . .
Shake went my pompoms, as I smiled up at the crowd, scanning for that red cap above that familiar tanned face. It didn’t seem fair that he could see me when I couldn’t see him.
As I danced and scanned, I started to notice other things too. A lady breastfeeding her baby in the second row. Two men gesturing and arguing on the steps. And the uni guys in the first row.
As I watched the uni guys, one leaned in and said something to his friend, all the while looking at me. The friend looked my way, and nodded.
Around went my pompoms again, but I wasn’t thinking about the dance. What had that guy said to his friend? Did he like how I danced? Did he like how I looked? Maybe he had noticed that my eyebrows were crooked . . .
I flicked my hair, shook my pompoms and smiled at the front row. The uni guy was sitting low in his seat with his arms crossed, watching me.
Our eyes met. It was just a subtle thing, the difference between looking and actually seeing I suppose, but he must have noticed it too because, just slightly, his mouth opened. For that split second we held each other’s gaze. His eyes were a light kind of blue.
Aaaaaah, aaaaaah . . .
If I had been at school or down the street I would have flashed him a brilliant smile, or giggled, or done something even more embarrassing because of what had just happened.
But as it was, I had a job to do. A very public job.
I broke his gaze and moved to my place in the inside circle for the final set of leaps. Run run, leap . . . run run, leap . . .
Around I leapt, wondering if my hair still looked okay, and pondering the fact that I seemed to be developing a fetish for older men.
But I didn’t get a chance to think about it any more, because suddenly everything felt wrong – no one beside me was where they should be, the music was going aaaaaaah, when I was expecting doof doof, and Abe was in front of me instead of to my side – all dead giveaways that I was in a dancer’s worst nightmare.
I was out of formation.
Oh no . . . An awkward stumble, a glance around to pick up the timing, then I was leaping again. As Abe passed me in her leap, her eyes went wide and angry. I heard her too – the swear words weren’t as bad as the way she spat out my name at the end.
Cheeks tight, eyebrows high . . . smile smile SMILE.
When the number ended, I ran for our place behind the Magic basket and sat in position, feeling like a beetroot in a sequin skirt. Not now, Saph. Not in front of the uni guys . . .
The rest of the troupe sat in their places.
‘What happened?’ whispered Megan, front and centre.
I shook my head at the tangled strands in my pompoms, sucking in air.
The first ball went up and the game started, giving me a chance to calm my pounding panic.
Oooh yeah!
Magic scored the first basket, and we shook our pompoms in the air.
‘What the hell was that, Saph?’ Abe whispered.
We’re not meant to talk during play, but Lesley has developed a way for us to communicate without making it obvious – to make sure that we know the next time-out, or whether to cheer from sitting or jump up and go wild. What Lesley doesn’t know, though, is that we use the same technique to chat during the game.
‘Lay off, Abe …’ Megan kept her head facing forward, watching the game, speaking just loud enough for the others to hear. ‘She’s only sixteen, remember?’
But Abe wasn’t ready to forgive. ‘Sweet sixteen? Makes us all look bad.’
For the rest of the game I held my head high and danced like a pro, smiling as though nothing had gone wrong. I stopped looking for people too. Not Jay, not the uni guys, and definitely not Lesley. What was she going to say?
‘Guess who I’ve been talking to, ladies!’
After the game, Lesley burst into our changing room on a high. Magic had won in a landslide. But I knew that wasn’t going to save me. I stayed in my corner, trying to blend into the brick wall. Not easy when I was covered in fake tan and glittering sequins.
‘Oooonly the marketing manager for Sportscraft.’ Lesley enclosed a half-naked Megan in both arms and squeezed. ‘She’s interested in sponsorship!’
The room erupted into squealing – talk of corporate gigs and
free costumes. But I stayed out of it all, cramming my costume into any old bag and rehearsing in my mind a sneaky escape from the dressing room – somehow without Lesley seeing me go.
But when I stood up, there was Lesley, fanning her red cheeks and frowning. ‘Now, Saph. Do we have a problem?’
A tense hush fell over the room. All I could hear was Bec blowing her nose in the shower.
‘Sorry, Lesley.’ I stood tall, like the victim of a firing squad, looking her straight in the collarbone. ‘No problem. I won’t do it again.’
‘Good.’ Lesley cupped my face in her hand. ‘We’ve got people watching us now, Saph. Important people. I don’t want them to see any problems.’
I nodded, finding it hard to breathe and apologise at the same time. ‘I know. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. I’m really sorry …’
Lesley smiled. ‘Let’s see that it doesn’t.’ Then she kissed me on the forehead and disappeared out the door.
I did a half-groan, half-sigh and let my shoulders drop, resisting the urge to crumple to the floor. The tense bodies around me slowly started moving again.
‘Do we get better pay for corporate gigs?’ asked Abe from in front of the mirrors.
‘Hope so!’ said someone else.
At least I was able to breathe now. At the mirrors I unzipped my make-up bag and slowly started taking off the goop. Cold cream first, then careful soothing strokes as I wiped away the grime. It felt good to remove that stuff and find my own skin underneath it all. Here I am again. Still me.
I could feel Abe watching my reflection. ‘You okay?’ she asked in a grumpy way.
I shrugged. ‘Kind of deserved it, didn’t I?’ Then I threw some tissues in the bin and turned to look at Abe – the real Abe, not her reflection. ‘I know I made you look bad, Abe,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry.’
She glanced at me with a nod and a small smile. Then she leaned in to her reflection – touching up rather than taking off her make-up. ‘Well, Saph, the way you dance sometimes makes me look better than I deserve. So I reckon we’re even.’
A snort from me. Without make-up it was easy to see my cheeks flush red. But I was glad that everything was okay again with Abe and me.
By the time I walked out to the carpark to find Dad, I was almost calm. It felt good to be finally away from the bright lights and watching eyes.
‘You’re late,’ Dad said, as soon as I fell into the seat beside him.
‘Sorry.’ I seemed to be saying that a lot. ‘I . . . took longer getting changed than usual.’
Dad looked again at the clock display, but he didn’t take it further.
‘Did you see the game?’ I asked breezily and pushed my shoes into the pompom bags on the floor in front of me. A heavy tiredness had sunk into my legs. My head felt numb.
‘It was an important win,’ Dad said, leaning forward in his seat as he changed lanes.
‘Did you see us dance the opening number?’ I asked tentatively.
‘No. They cut straight to the game.’
I breathed a sigh of relief – my stuff-up hadn’t been recorded for eternity. Just in that dark place where you keep memories that you’d rather forget.
Dad glanced at me in the dim light, then back at the road. ‘Magic’s in the quarterfinal, so you have an extra game?’ he asked with a slight growl. The cabin lit up as a car loomed behind us, then drove past.
I nodded. ‘But Megan’s happy to drive me,’ I said slowly. ‘Just for the quarterfinal, will you let me get a lift with her, Dad?’
I could see the muscles bulge in Dad’s jaw. His hands gripped the steering wheel. But he didn’t say anything for a while. When he did speak, it came out like a slow sigh, ‘Saph, I’m not in the mood.’
I didn’t blame him really. Working sixty hours a week, then having to drive me around on his night off.
But part of me must have blamed him – for being tired, or just for being stubborn – because I blurted out, ‘Well, I’ve organised a lift to stop you having to do this. Don’t try to make me feel guilty!’ The high whine of my voice seemed to linger in the air.
Dad shook his head. ‘You’re too young,’ he growled.
I snorted and crossed my arms. Yeah? Abe would agree with you on that.
I set my face in an angry pout, and gave Dad the silent treatment for the rest of the drive home. It had been the night from hell.
Get this for an awesome daydream: a bright flat next to the beach, perhaps sharing with Summer, or just me on my own. Lazy chai teas down the street before driving to dance training in the city. Then long nights of slick professional dancing. A dream life, where I’d meet my dream man . . .
‘Guten Morgen, Saph, bin ich Sie uns könnte verbinden froh.’
On Monday morning, my wonderful daydream was interrupted by a bouncy German teacher. Mr Kissinger was rocking on his feet, and nodding eagerly.
‘Sorry, Sir?’ I stretched out my legs, trying to shake off the daydream.
‘Good morning, Saph. I’m glad you could join us,’ Mr Kissinger translated and did an enthusiastic jig.
Everyone had the same blank stares and slouched shoulders, so I don’t know why Mr Kissinger had singled me out. As usual, Jay was sitting across from me, and avoiding looking my way (What am I, the Invisible Bimbo?), stretching his long legs out like two thick trip-wires.
‘Now, Saph. Please read out the essay topic,’ asked Mr Kissinger. He was making me tired from all that bouncing.
I peered up at the screen, forcing my eyes to focus. ‘Echtes Glück,’ I said with pretty good pronunciation, if I do say so myself.
Mr Kissinger’s smile was one of relief. ‘And translated?’
‘Um . . . er . . . right happiness.’ But that didn’t sound right. ‘No! Real happiness,’ I called quickly.
‘Wunderbar!’ Another relieved smile. ‘Or “genuine happiness” if you like.’
Silence and distant stares from the class.
Mr Kissinger gestured to the screen like a butler introducing the Queen. ‘Class, I’d like to introduce your essay topic. Essay topic, here are the people who are going to write about you.’
Uncomfortable rustling from the class. Now he had our attention.
‘Four hundred words. In German. Due in two weeks,’ said Mr Kissinger.
Lots more shuffling and uneasy murmurs. Four hundred words! In English that would be fine, but 400 words in German was like doing a foreign language marathon. Especially since we would be looking up 350 of them in the dictionary.
‘Four hundred words, Sir?’ Someone voiced the disbelief on everyone’s faces. Annette Braun – who had white eyebrows and German parents – was the only one not frowning.
Jay had picked up his dictionary in both hands as if it could save him from this hell.
‘Now, now.’ Mr Kissinger held out his hands to calm the class and sat on his desk. ‘Do your first draft in English. Don’t worry about your vocab, write from the heart. Then I’ll help you …’ He stood up to make his point. ‘I’ll help all of you translate.’ He started pacing calmly – thank goodness, I was way over the bouncing. ‘This is an exercise in genuine expression. And a great way to expand your vocab.’
I settled back in my seat, thinking about the essay topic. Now it didn’t seem quite so bad. Genuine happiness . . .
Soon we were working on our own, brainstorming ideas while Mr Kissinger cheered us on and typed up prompts on the screen. ‘When do you feel most alive? What stops you feeling happy? Strip away life’s comforts and how do you feel?’
Starting was easy. Happiness is dancing in front of a crowd and making their eyes pop with each kick.
But what else? Happiness is sipping hot chocolate with my best friend, Summer. That was a no-brainer. Happiness is looking at Damien Rowsthorn’s legs. I stopped and read over my work. Then I crossed out my last sentence. Mr Kissinger was cool, but not that cool. I kept scribbling.
Pulling on a fresh pair of dancing tights.
Eating chocolate
and not getting fat.
Getting my licence and buying my very own cool little car.
Real happiness will be turning eighteen.
Four hundred words here we come! This was too easy.
‘Eating chocolate and not getting fat, eh?’ The empty space beside me was suddenly overtaken by two tanned arms placing books and a laptop on the table. Enemy alert!
‘Sorry, that seat’s taken.’ I wasn’t ready for Jay to come and sit here. Not when he could see my work! I rested my forearms over my page of scribbling.
‘Now it is.’ Jay folded himself into the seat and flashed me a grin.
I went back to scribbling, writing any old stuff and ignoring the enemy beside me.
But he started talking to me as if we were friends. ‘I hear you’ve signed up for girls basketball?’
‘Yeah, well, I’m a girl of many talents.’ I shrugged as if the basketball prank was a bit of a yawn. But my heart was doing star jumps. Was he going to own up to signing me up for basketball?
‘Well, Mr Sandown is really keen.’ As Jay played with his pen, the muscles in his arms tightened and bulged slightly. I was so close I could see the pale hairs on his tanned skin.
Annette Braun was chatting away in German to Mr Kissinger as he sat on the table next to her. Puh-lease!
‘Hey, did you catch the Magic game on Saturday night?’ Jay asked.
Saturday night? Not Saturday night! A stumble and loss of timing, beetroot face . . .
‘Is that a trick question?’ I asked, with a quick glance his way.
‘I know you were there,’ Jay said smugly. ‘But did you see the game.’ He didn’t pause to let me answer. ‘From where I was sitting it looked like you were fluffing up your pompoms. Or was that your hair?’
Fluffing up my hair! I couldn’t let him get away with that. I wracked my brain, trying to remember what had happened on the basketball court that terrible night. It helped that I had overheard a couple of fans talking on the way to the carpark.
‘Well, for your information, Tyson Andrews going off with a bad knee nearly cost us the game. But Damien and that other old guy did some top plays and saved the day.’ It sounded pretty good at least. I flicked back my hair and smirked at Jay.
Step Up and Dance Page 4