‘Sammy!’ she cries. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘What?’ he shouts over the music.
‘Hey, playas!’ Grace purrs. ‘Welcome to my party!’
She gives Ben and Christian a big hug. She seems in very good spirits all of a sudden and I wonder what she’s up to.
Christian only has eyes for Tara and I feel a pang of sharp pain. But this is the way it’s supposed to be. This is what I should want – for my best friend to be happy.
Then, the lights go out and everyone starts screaming. Onstage, three hooded figures take the stage. I forget Christian and Tara, I forget Grace. I am entirely in the moment as lights blitz the stage and the Southdockers start their performance.
Tara dances her heart out with me. I can see she’s determined to have a good time whether Christian’s there or not and I’m proud of her.
Tara and Christian disappear together, for a Deep and Meaningful I suppose. I try not to feel abandoned. Abigail and Grace dance together nearby. Sammy has disappeared somewhere.
Ben leans over and talks to me over the music. ‘What changed?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘After the flash mob, I kind of thought you liked me back. But I’m not picking up that vibe anymore.’
I decide to level with him. ‘There’s someone else. One of those inappropriate, unattainable situations. Sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine. Great actually.’ He gives me a sad smile. ‘Usually it’s because I’m annoying.’
I give him a peck on the cheek. I’m glad we can be friends.
Tara comes back, her face freshly washed. She’s upset, but gives me a brave smile. Sammy joins us. Tara wraps an arm around us both, determined to have fun.
‘Hips and hair, Sammy,’ she says, and bumps him with her hip. ‘Hips and hair.’
In between tracks Ben shouts at Tara, ‘They’re amazing! Thanks so much for putting us on the door.’
‘I didn’t. I thought you guys bought tickets.’
‘You texted Christian about it.’
‘Whoever it was, it wasn’t me.’
Grace leans over to interject. ‘It was Kat.’
‘Excuse me?’ I ask.
‘You’ve been texting Christian all night,’ Grace says, her catlike eyes wide.
‘How would you know?’ Abigail says, frowning.
‘Thank you, Abigail.’
Grace ignores me, pretending she can’t hear over the music. ‘Sorry, what was that? You want to check her phone?’
She pulls my phone out of her bag and hands it to Tara.
Tara looks at me. ‘Why have you been texting Christian?’
Tara thrusts my phone at me without looking at it. She pushes past me. I give Grace a filthy look and pursue Tara through the crowd.
I follow Tara into the lounge. It’s quieter in here.
Tara puts her hands up. She’s crying, but she’s not angry. ‘Don’t explain. You guys are allowed to talk. You’re friends.’
‘Yeah. We are.’ I can’t tell Tara I wish we were more than friends. It’s a secret I’ll take with me to the grave.
‘So when he tells you the break up was all my fault, what do you say?’
‘I don’t talk about that stuff with him. I wouldn’t.’ I hesitate, then go on. ‘But truth time. I don’t think you should have tried to track down his dad.’
‘He wants to meet him. I know he does.’
‘Maybe. But it’s also just another way of saying “there’s something wrong with you”.’
‘There is something wrong with him.’
‘There’s something wrong with all of us, T,’ I say.
‘I shouldn’t have come out tonight,’ Tara says.
‘You know what, I’m not feeling great,’ I tell Tara. I don’t want to go back in and see Grace. I don’t want to face Sammy and Ben and Abigail now that Grace has dobbed me in. I feel exposed, guilty. Most of all, I have that awful, breathless feeling of having had too close a call. ‘I’m going. But you should stay with the guys.’ I hear that phrase echo back. Grace has won, I know. All night she’s made sure I don’t feel entirely welcome. And now I’m leaving.
I walk along the wharf, holding my phone, trying to find the words I need to put distance between Christian and me, to close off that part of me. And then there he is, Christian, sitting staring out at the harbour. My stomach flips over. He’s the last person I want to see … and the only person.
‘Hey,’ he says, surprised.
‘That’s weird. I was just messaging you to tell you not to message me anymore.’
He picks up the edge in my voice. ‘What happened?’
‘There were some highs, there were some lows. It was character building.’
‘I wish you’d come with us. You’re so … easy.’
‘Wow, just what a lady wants to hear.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he says. ‘Everything’s easier when you’re around.’ Christian lays his hand on mine, and something pure and electric, made entirely of light, jolts through me.
I try to make it seem casual as I pull my hand away and run my fingers through my hair. ‘I totally agree. Sometimes things should be easy. Like cheese slices. I mean, who thought a huge block of cheese was a good idea? You can’t just grab it and take a bite. Or you can but – ’
Christian silences my gabble with a kiss. We kiss. I pull away and press my hand to my forehead. ‘Oh, okay, sorry.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Christian says.
‘Sort of was.’ I walk away, furious with myself. What have I done?
CHAPTER 12
The short version of the first day of term break goes a little something like this: I’m in Anne’s office, dressed in a bulbous chicken suit and tap shoes.
‘There I was,’ I tell Anne, ‘tapping my little heart out, driving customers inside. And then this little kid started kicking me in the shins. And I …’
‘Kicked him back?’ she asks, in her usual no-nonsense tone. I have a feeling she has heard some version of this story before.
I nod and Anne takes it in her stride. She flips to the next page in her notebook.
‘So we move on from promotional work. I have an audition, which you’re entirely wrong for. Too short, too inexperienced, but what do we say about rejection?’
‘It’s character building.’
Anne smiles and hands me the details of the audition.
‘The Moulin Rouge?’ I read
‘They always audition in Sydney. We grow longer legs here for some reason.’
‘But I couldn’t live in Paris. My friends are here.’
‘You’re right. What a horrific concept,’ Anne says, deadpan.
I look back down at the sheet. The Moulin Rouge? I used to do the cancan in Tash’s heels when I was a kid. (Tash hates anything lowbrow, quelle surprise!) There was no harm in auditioning, was there? Anne had already pointed out I was entirely wrong for it. So really I’ve got nothing to lose.
I hand in my chicken costume and head down to the Academy to find Ethan and tell him about the audition. He’s spending a lot of time there lately, working on his choreography with Abigail. If it wasn’t, you know, Abigail I might think something was going on. I’m walking down the corridor, when I spot Tara ahead. She’s standing looking out the window and her face is sad. Everything comes flooding back. The kiss. The guilt.
I spin on my heel and find myself face to face with Christian.
‘Hey,’ he says, his eyes full of trouble and pain, which I am used to seeing on account of Tara. I realise this time it is for me.
I don’t know how to deal with his guilt, I can’t even face my own. ‘Hi,’ I say after an awkward pause.
Ethan appears. ‘Hey, Kitty-kat. Sell many nuggets?’
I give Christian a weak smile and hurry to walk alongside Ethan. ‘I’m starting to think croissants might be more my thing.’
And why not Paris? What do I have to stay for? Christian and Tara? Abigail? Ethan will go t
he way of the Karamakov clan eventually – Sydney isn’t big enough for his ambition. I know he’s got his eye on some experimental dance group in Barcelona. Ben comes with his own problems and as much as I love Sammy, I can’t stay in Sydney just for him. I imagine the Moulin Rouge would pay pretty well. I’d have enough money to help pay Sammy’s fees, maybe even to fly Sammy and Tara to Paris to see me. We’d still be friends, just from a distance. There’s still Stalkbook and Fritter and even ye olde email.
But then I picture saying goodbye to Christian and I can’t. I think about the world of pain we live in now and double it, triple it, and I still can’t imagine what it would be like to get on that plane, and leave him behind.
Anne is right, they do grow long legs in Sydney. By far I am the youngest – and shortest – at the audition. I fill in the form and take a number as a woman named April introduces herself and explains that she’ll be leading us through the audition.
We line up in rows. Wearing the number fourteen pinned to my leotard, I dance in the back of the group, barely seen among the glamazons, even in my sparkly high heels. I teeter on them, a little unstable.
‘Your sole purpose in life is to get your leg up as quickly as possible and then down as quickly as possible,’ April calls as we dance relentlessly through the routine.
One girl smiles, taking April’s words as a challenge and kicks her leg super high. But she forgets to turn her head and kicks herself in the face. She yelps with pain, running off the stage. I wince with sympathy.
‘Points for flexibility, though,’ I call out.
April hands her a tissue. Then she looks me over, as if noticing me for the first time. She calls out, ‘You, shorty, to the front so I can see you.’
I run quickly to the front row and keep dancing. I am actually loving this. It’s fast and fun and furious. It’s sexy and bawdy and a little bit naughty.
We kick and spin and as the music comes to an end we slide down into a split and shake our skirts in the air.
‘Right, who wants to go again?’ April asks.
The other girls groan. I raise my hand, exhilarated. And then lower it again. ‘Ah. You were joking. Got it.’
April smiles. ‘So, get ready for some happy slash sad news. If I call your number, please come back tomorrow for an interview so we can decide if you’re a psycho. The rest, you’re probably lovely, but you’re not going to Paris with us.’
Suddenly I want to go to Paris so badly.
‘Number twelve, six, legs eleven and …’ All the girls hold their breath. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. ‘Shorty fourteen.’
‘Yes!’ I literally jump for joy.
I spend the next day researching the Moulin Rouge.
‘Wow, you really want this,’ Ethan says.
And I do. But the idea of the interview fills me with panic. What can I tell them about myself? That I failed at the Academy? That I’m the black sheep of my famous dancing family?
‘Is this where I tell you to be yourself?’ asks Ethan.
‘No,’ I moan. ‘Myself is bad. That’s when they find out I’m a serial failure and dance fraud.’
The worst thing is, the more I read about the Moulin Rouge, the more I want the job. There’s something about the tradition of it that I find fascinating. It’s a place where artists, workers, society ladies, businessmen and foreigners all hang out together, where labels don’t matter, a place of costumes, theatrics, beauty and fun.
The interview set-up is intense. It’s me, April and a panel of interviewers. They all stare at me, weighing my every answer. I am petrified. I mean this is me, right? Serial failure, dance fraud. Ethan told me to be myself, but which self am I supposed to be?
April speaks gently, firmly. ‘At the Moulin you do two shows a night, almost every day of the year. It’s hard and not as glamorous as you’d think. Why would you want to move to the other side of the world to do that?’
‘Last week I kissed my best friend’s ex-boyfriend. Seems like the right time to get away.’
April looks disappointed in me. I close my eyes and try again, digging deeper into myself than I’m usually prepared to go.
‘But when I read about the Moulin Rouge, it felt like me. It’s cheeky and fun, and for a hundred years people have been going there to lose themselves. To be someone else for a night.’ For a moment I forget about the rest of the panel and speak directly and honestly to April. ‘I think I could be good at this and I kind of never think that.’
April smiles.
Sammy’s Grandpa Morrie dies. We all go to the funeral to support Sammy. I watch on as they lower the coffin into the ground. Life is really short, I think. I hold Tara’s hand. I didn’t know Grandpa Morrie, but tears fall anyway, for Sammy and his family and the sadness they must bear. Seeing Sammy and his dad standing together I wonder if good things can come out of grief and loss, if Sammy can find a way back to his family.
On the way home from the funeral I get the text I’ve been waiting for. I’m in the Moulin Rouge. I’m going to Paris!
I ring Mum that night.
‘The Moulin Rouge?’ she repeats. I think I’ve woken her up.
‘I know it’s not the Ballet de l’Opéra de Paris, but I thought you’d be happy.’
‘I am happy,’ Tash says. She doesn’t sound exactly happy. ‘I’m also a little confused. I thought you didn’t want to be a dancer. I was coming to terms with that.’
‘This is different, Mum. It’s not like ballet. It’s fun. It doesn’t take itself too seriously.’
‘All professional dance is serious, Katrina.’
I sigh impatiently. ‘I know that.’
‘And you’re sure this is what you want?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ she contemplates. ‘Paris is closer to Berlin than Sydney. And flights are so cheap here. I could fly in for visits and make sure you’re …’
‘Behaving?’
‘I was going to say looking after yourself. Oh, Kat, I’m so glad you’re dancing again.’
This time I don’t roll my eyes. ‘Me too, Mum,’ I say. I’m actually kind of looking forward to seeing her in Paris.
CHAPTER 13
I’ve travelled all my life, from one country to another. I’ve lost track of time zones, mixed up my Bonjours with my Kalasperas. I’ve looked out of hotel windows at city lights and not known what city, what country I’m in. My passport is stamped with places I don’t recall being in.
Maybe I sound spoilt and ungrateful, but on all those trips I longed for home. For vegemite sandwiches and gum trees, barbecued sausages and Christmas in summer, for Moreton Bay fig trees and fruit bats and possums in the park.
It’s not like I was a tourist. I was little more than luggage, dragged around by Tash and Sebastian. Once in Singapore, Tash went straight from the theatre to the airport and flew out, forgetting I was waiting for her in the hotel. It was only discovered because the babysitter wanted to go home.
But it’s different this time. I am choosing Paris, and Paris is choosing me. In Paris I can be anyone I want, maybe I’ll even choose a stage name and leave the Karamakov name behind. No one has to know about my famous parents, or that I failed the National Academy of Dance, or that I might be flunking out of Normal School. No one has to know that I am a kisser of my best friend’s ex-boyfriend. In Paris I can start again. I can be the real me.
Even better, I can be the Paris version of the real me. Who I imagine is a bit like the real Sydney me, but much better dressed.
‘It’s hard enough not having you at the Academy,’ Tara says, hugging me. ‘I am incapable of an ocean of distance.’
‘Fear not, little one,’ I tell her. ‘You still have two weeks to adore me.’
Ben and Christian offer to accompany me to my first rehearsals (out of the goodness of their hearts, I’m sure). I am relieved to have Ben around, the intensity of my feelings for Christian have only heightened since our illicit kiss. I spend way too much time imagining farewell scen
es (I’ve been hanging out with Tara the hopeless romantic too long), or reunion scenes in Paris, walking along the Seine, the Eiffel tower looming in the background. Argh. PAUSE. STOP. DELETE.
‘You can’t stay,’ I warn them.
Ben pouts. ‘First you reject me and now you’re leaving me. You owe me girls in feathers, Karamakov.’
We walk into the busy backstage area. ‘Thank you, boys, but this is as far as you go. I’m not bringing an entourage to my first day of rehearsal.’
‘Why are you rehearsing here anyway?’ Christian asks, a little sulkily.
April overhears and answers Christian’s question.
‘Because half our dancers are Australian. We rehearse them here and then ship them over.’ She looks at Ben and Christian, questioningly. ‘And you are?’
Christian goes to shake April’s hand but I pat it away.
‘Sorry, April. Academy students. Begged for a field trip.’
‘We’ll be like ninjas,’ Ben promises me. ‘Quiet and you won’t see us.’
April says nothing, and I take her silence to be consent. She rifles through a rack of costumes. She pulls out a ruffled skirt and hands it to me. ‘Pour vous. See you out there.’
I squeak and show the skirt to Christian and Ben. ‘This is mine. See, that’s my name.’
‘I thought the skirts would be shorter,’ Ben says, disappointed.
April introduces me to Jade. ‘She’s a Moulin veteran. Watch closely but ignore everything she says.’
I sit down beside Jade who is lying on her side, languidly stretching her legs above her head.
‘Hi,’ I say, thinking this might be like Lexie and the plastics all over again. But Jade smiles, surprisingly friendly.
‘Welcome to the family,’ she says.
We’re walked through the routines. When the music starts, I dance, trying to follow Jade, but I’m struggling to keep up. April watches from the audience and the boys sit a few rows behind, scoffing chips. I don’t have to try and forget that they’re there – the rehearsal is the audition on steroids. We don’t stop moving for a second, kicking and spinning and cartwheeling our way around the stage.
Kat: Breaking Pointe Page 5