by Natasha Deen
When I meet the guys to watch them play football, I spend the first quarter splitting my time between tracking the game and reviewing the video for the showcase. By halftime, 25 percent of my time is going to watching football. The guys are almost at the end of the fourth quarter when I realize I missed the third and don’t even know what the score is.
And that’s when it really hits me.
Sometime during the past few weeks, dance sneaked up and surpassed football as the number-one priority in my life. I watch the final play of the game and try to figure out when it happened, but it’s like falling in love. It hits when you’re not paying attention.
I want to dance. I think about it all the time. I practice in my head when I’m at work, when I’m at home. I’ve started searching out videos on my own and learning steps by myself.
This is what I want to do with the rest of my life.
The doubts crowd my mind. I’ve always been a footballer—and my family has carried the burden of fees, game times and practices. How are they going to react when I tell them I want to change focus and step away from football—and a shot at the NFL? And what about dance? I’m barely keeping up now. How do I think I’m going to keep up with the kids who’ve been dancing since they were three? Sure, Katherine Dunham didn’t start dancing until her late teens, but she’s Katherine Dunham. I’m just Luc Waldon.
But even as I’m trying to talk myself out of it, the possibility of being a dancer makes my heart race. I’m excited by the challenge. I want to do this more than anything else I’ve ever done.
Tim whoops, looks over and gives me a thumbs-up.
Man, the guys. My family. How do I tell them any of this? I take a breath and realize my life has gotten a lot more complicated.
* * *
I spend the last two weeks before the showcase ignoring the questions, the doubts and the fears. As soon as I’m allowed back on my feet, I’m practicing, practicing, practicing with Brittney and Jesse. Heck, I’m even doing the routine in between mowing lawns with Tim.
But no matter how hard I practice, how much lawn mowing I do, I can’t fight the small voice asking me what I plan on doing with my life—and how I plan to tell my family. I want to wuss out. Just stay quiet. Tell Mom and Dad that I want to keep up with dance because it improves my game.
They’d buy it. The guys and Coach would buy it.
But it would be a lie. And when I actually start getting traction on the dancing, then what? How will I explain needing more time to practice or take classes?
In the end, it’s Katherine Dunham and Martha Graham that save me.
They kick my butt.
It’s the day before the showcase. I drop Tim off at home and head back to my place. I’m running through the routine in my head, running through the past two months, and I think about the classes that focused on the dance styles of Dunham and Graham.
And what I remember is Peter telling us that Katherine didn’t start dancing until she was around my age…and that both women used their talents to take on discrimination, dictators, racism and genocide.
It makes me ashamed.
If those two women stood up for what they believed—and did it in a time when women weren’t considered equal and minorities for sure weren’t considered equal—then what am I doing lying about my goals? And what does it say about me if I’m deceitful going into a dance style that’s all about having integrity?
Of course, saying I’m going to be brave is a lot easier than actually being brave. So I compromise. I text Tim and the guys, tell them to bring their tiaras and tutus to Vanguard School ’cause I’ll be performing. And at dinner that night, I tell Mom and Dad about the showcase and say they’re welcome to come.
“You paid for it. Well, 90 percent of it,” I say. “Maybe you want to see what your money bought.”
They glance at each other and agree to come.
Part of me is glad. I want everyone to see me dance so they’ll understand the decision I’m making. But part of me is terrified. What if I do a terrible job? If I bomb, how will I ever convince them to let me pursue dance as a profession?
* * *
I’m backstage, watching from behind the curtains as the audience trickles in. No surprise, the football team takes the first row. I keep watching. Mom and Dad show up, see the guys, wave and take seats a few rows back.
“How are you doing?” asks Jesse.
I told him and Brittney about my plan to focus on dance as a profession when I arrived at the school. “Okay. Trying not to throw up.”
He laughs. “It’ll be fine,” he says. “But if you do start puking during the routine, aim for any part of the stage that doesn’t have me on it.”
Peter arrives and waves me over. “You did a really good job this summer,” he says. “I know you only took this class because you needed it for football, but if you ever want to continue, I want you to know I’d be happy to be your instructor.”
I’m too overwhelmed to do anything but stammer a thanks. Before I can say anything more, he slaps me on the shoulder and goes onstage. He welcomes everyone and talks a bit about the class. Then he introduces us and walks off.
We come out and take our spots. My heart is smashing against my ribs, pounding so hard I think it’s going to explode, and my lungs can’t seem to take in enough air. I’m too scared to look at my family or my friends.
“Go, Luc!” Tim yells and starts clapping.
A few of the guys on the team follow his lead.
There’s nothing but honest support in the cheer, and it gives me the courage to look up and make eye contact. Everyone, Mom and Dad included, have open, sincere expressions on their faces. And it reminds me of being in the park, about the people watching. And I remind myself that this performance isn’t about me. It’s not about proving anything. It’s about giving to the people watching. About making them feel glad they gave up their time to sit in the plastic chairs. About reminding them of the bad and good things in life.
The music starts. All the practice, all the running through the routine in my head, and I’m golden. I know this choreography. I know where everyone on the stage will be, how and where they’ll move. I have control over my space. I have autonomy. And I have muscle memory.
My body sinks into the first step. Hands up, left and then right, tiptoes in sync. Drop my hands to my face. I remember all the times I let myself down or life disappointed me. I run my hands along my forehead and cheeks, channeling that pain and transmitting it to the audience in the shameful drop of my head.
I keep the emotion charged and running through my body. When it’s time to do the leg extensions, I’m pushing hard, elongating my limbs as much as I can, feeling the stretch in my tendons as my stabilizing muscles kick in. I remember Peter’s dance on the first day of class when it’s time to reach my hands to the audience. I imagine my arms and fingers growing, lengthening, touching the audience.
I make eye contact with Tim. Try to tell him through my movements about all the times I’ve seen him fail and all the times I’ve been so proud to be his friend because he got back up and tried again. The combination of emotion and physical exertion is more than I’ve experienced before, because I’m tapped into the audience, feeding off their energy and feeding them back mine.
Sweat’s pouring off my body, my breath’s coming in pants, my muscles strain to keep my balance and control, but I push through. I have something to say about standing and fighting, about staying true to yourself. I’m not giving up until I transmit all my words and thoughts and feelings through my dance.
The final note of the song fades into silence, and I rest on the last move, a power stance—feet shoulders’ width apart, arms strong and by my side, the courageous expression of a warrior on my face. There’s a brief silence, and then the crowd is applauding. Tim and the guys are the loudest of all.
Thirteen
“You were amazing!” Mom gives me a giant hug, then shrieks at how wet and stinky I am.
Dad hu
gs me too. “You look like you sweated off five pounds up there.” He grips my shoulder and squeezes. “You worked really hard up there. I’m proud of you.”
“I did good, huh?”
“You looked like a pro,” says Mom.
I take a breath and rush in before fear can stop me. “I’ve been thinking…” My voice fails for a second. “I want to drop track, swimming and soccer and focus on dance and football.” My mouth is suddenly dry, but I push on. “I want to dance for a living. I know I’m starting late and it’ll take a lot of work. But I’m good at football, and I figure I’ve got a good shot at a scholarship. I can do a Fine Arts degree with a focus on dance. I know it’s really physical, and I’ll really have to give it some hard thought if I’m drafted or something—”
Dad breaks in. “Listen, Mean Joe Green, why don’t we dial back on what you’ll do if the NFL comes calling and live in the moment for a second?”
I brace myself for a lecture—or, worse, a no.
“I think it’s a good plan.”
I gape at him. “You do?”
“Honey,” says Mom, “it’s obvious how much you love this. Everyone could see it in the way you danced. And you really did look like a pro. If that’s what you were able to do in two months, I know you’ll do great.”
“Scaling back on your other sports is a smart idea,” says Dad. “And it shows you’re thinking about school and work and what your priorities are.” He smiles. “If this is what you want, your mom and I will support it. I don’t think it’s easy to make it as a professional dancer, but maybe if you had an education degree or a physical-therapy degree to go along with it…”
I don’t know what to say. It’s gone way better and smoother than I’d hoped. And I’m saved from any babbling when Tim and Hasselman come up.
“Nice job.” Tim smacks me on the back. “You made Hasselman cry.”
“That was dust in the auditorium,” Hasselman shoots back.
“Yeah.” Tim makes quotes with his fingers. “Dust.”
“Hey, listen.” Hasselman shuffles, then shoots a furtive look at Mom and Dad, who take the hint and move off. “Do you know if those classes are running in the fall?”
“The dance classes?”
He nods.
“Yeah, why?”
Tim and Hasselman glance at each other. “No one can argue how much better you’re playing ’cause of it,” says Tim. “We’re thinking about signing up. After all, if Coach thinks it’s worthwhile…”
“Yeah, sure. Come on. I’ll introduce you to Peter.”
I take them over and make introductions, and they start talking. Then I see Jess and Brittney coming toward us.
“Hey,” I say, stepping away from Tim, Hasselman and Peter.
“We saw you talking to your folks,” says Jesse. “How did it go?”
I smile. “I’m going to be a dancer.”
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Marla Albiston, Lucas Crockett, Jessie Dugan and Brittney Schmidt for all their help with my contemporary dance research, editor extraordinaire Robin Stevenson for her keen eye and supportive spirit, and the gang at Orca for all their behind-the-scenes work on this book.
Award-winning author NATASHA DEEN has written everything from creative nonfiction to YA and adult fiction. She was the inaugural 2013 Regional Writer in Residence for the Metro Edmonton Library Federation. Her first book for Orca was Burned, in the Retribution series. Natasha lives in Edmonton, Alberta. For more information, visit www.natashadeen.com.