Grant’s quiet, hands still in pockets, shoulders lifted against the wind.
I turn to look at him. ‘What about you?’ When he just shrugs I keep going. ‘Do you feel like maybe … catching a band?’
Still Grant shrugs. ‘Nah, I’m seeing my dad.’ He breathes in slowly. ‘Which unfortunately means football and pizza.’
‘Football and pizza?’ Izzy immediately reacts.
‘Well … at least he’s trying,’ I say quietly.
‘Trying to turn me into something that I’m not,’ mumbles Grant.
There’s no point pushing, and no reason why I should try to sneak out to the Dixie Bar. So I put it to the back of my mind, as with all things that clash with dancing: chocolate, late nights, keeping up with non-Academy friends … and pizza.
First rehearsal starts with us all sitting around while Jack talks us through the storyline. He’s barely begun when I realise that it’s a complete rip-off of A Christmas Carol, except instead of Scrooge, the main character is a prima ballerina who has lost her love of performing. As Jack says that part, I see a pained look in Izzy’s eyes as she tries to hold back a smirk. So I wait until she glances my way and then do a snobby ballerina flick of my hand. Perfectly executed, if you ask me. It sends her over the edge, snorting out loud and making Jack glare at me.
She’s right, it is corny, but I can see why they did it. Tadpole is the spirit who takes the ballerina back to past performances, trying to help her find the passion she lost, which gives us the freedom to throw in a whole array of styles and dance numbers. There’s a piece from Swan Lake, I’m happy to hear, as well as modern and contemporary pieces, and a scene from Cats. Any strength or talent among our year level has been given its time in the spotlight.
Paige’s solo sounds haunting and beautiful, a lone figure dancing in a studio, unaware that she’s being watched through a window by the lead character. It’s still a bit corny but somehow I think it will work.
We’re all itching to get moving, starting with one of the three numbers involving the whole year level. But then Jack hands out a list of all the dance companies and agents who have been tagged for invitations.
A hopeful silence settles over us. Eyes skim down hungrily. Mine move straight to the National Ballet Company.
‘We’ve found in past years,’ calls Jack from the front, ‘that they’re more likely to show interest if their invitation is accompanied by a personalised letter from students.’ He stops and slowly scans the rows of seats. ‘This may well be the most important piece of writing you do all year. I want you all to choose someone on the list …’
Whispering from Anka and the others at the front makes Jack pause. ‘I know a lot of you already have very clear ideas about who to approach and won’t need to do any research. But either way you will need to show them that you know their work and explain why you want to be part of their company, or what you could bring to their agency. Make it clear that they’re your first choice.’
Paige is holding her sheet in both hands, knees together and body still. I know her eyes were caught by the same name as mine.
‘Of course, a reference from someone in the industry wouldn’t go astray either,’ calls Jack, raising his eyebrows at me.
I catch his meaning and nod slightly. Natasha.
It’s late by the time I make it home from rehearsal. I flip through my wallet for Natasha’s business card and find it tucked behind my bus pass. Immediately I pull out my phone and begin to dial. I’m almost at the last digit when I pause, thumb hovering. Is it rude to call at this time on a Saturday? Sunday wouldn’t be any more polite, and I’ll have classes until Monday afternoon.
Don’t want to leave it that long. I decide to try her anyway.
‘Hello?’ Natasha answers quickly.
Can’t hear anything in the background. ‘Yes … hello. It’s Scarlett Stirling here.’ For some reason, my heart quickens. There’s something about Natasha that makes me want to fidget. ‘Sorry to call on a Saturday.’
‘I was expecting your mother to call.’
‘Sorry, yeah, she’s … busy.’ No point pushing that one. ‘I’m calling to ask if you’d mind writing me a reference. We’re inviting companies to our graduation performance and it would be great to have a letter from someone with your reputation.’
‘Of course,’ says Natasha. ‘Which company have you decided to approach?’
‘Well …’ I can’t help checking over my shoulder, even though Mum’s downstairs. ‘I still want to try for the National Ballet.’
There’s a moment of silence before a small sigh. ‘All right, I’m very happy to write you a reference, but I’d like to speak to your mother about it first, particularly if you’re intending to apply for the NBC. Perhaps I could arrange to call her?’
‘Ah …’ For a moment I imagine the response if Natasha called Mum. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘I know it’s hard,’ says Natasha. ‘But considering the – circumstances of your father’s death, I think it’s important for her to speak to me.’
What is she talking about? ‘What do you mean circumstances?’ I blurt. ‘What does the crash have to do with any of this?’
Silence at the other end. ‘Crash?’
What’s wrong with this woman? ‘Yes, he died in a car crash.’
More silence. It’s beginning to scare me. ‘I’m sorry,’ says Natasha. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s not my place to say.’
‘Wait. Why is it so important to speak to Mum?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Natasha hangs up and I’m left with a dead phone in my hand.
The rising notes of a scale waft up the stairs. For a moment I just stand there, focusing my frustration on the phone, at Natasha wherever she is, whatever she was talking about.
It’s as if she heard nothing about the crash.
I’m out of my room before I really know what I’m doing, down the stairs and bursting into the living room. My mobile’s still in my hand. I look at it, confused. Natasha must have it wrong.
Mum looks up from beside the piano, surprise morphing into concern. ‘What is it, Scarlett?’
It’s only now that I stop and stare at the student beside her, barely seeing him as a million possibilities race through my mind. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Now?’ She stands, unsure whether to be worried or annoyed. ‘Can’t it wait?’
It could wait. It should wait. But I can’t. ‘That dancer who partnered Dad – Natasha Stojmenov?’
At the sound of the name Mum’s eyes narrow. ‘I’m sorry, Jacob, I need to finish early. I’ll make up the time next week, if you don’t mind?’
‘Sure. I understand,’ the guy says.
The front door’s barely clicked shut before Mum spins my way. ‘Why have you been talking to her?’ The fear in her eyes makes my stomach turn over. She should be confused.
Just for a few seconds I let my mind step back, already aware that this is a moment that’s going to stay with me.
‘What happened that night?’ I ask quietly. ‘You told me Dad died in a car accident.’
‘Yes.’ Mum clutches her hands together, eyes on the floor.
‘Yes that’s how he died, or yes that’s what you told me?’
She looks up. ‘You were young when you asked.’
‘I’m not young anymore. Tell me how he died.’ My words have never been so clear.
‘They’re not entirely sure.’ One hand slides over the back of the other as her eyes scan the floor tiles. ‘They say his heart stopped.’ Again she hesitates, and I can almost see her thoughts turning in circles, finding words but not being able to say them.
Finally she looks up again. ‘It was because of his shoulder. He kept trying to work with the injury but he was in constant pain, shouldn’t have been lifting partners. He’d been using painkillers for more than a year. Abusing them, really.’ She swallows and takes a breath. ‘His
body … they said it just couldn’t cope. They found a combination of prescription drugs, alcohol and sleeping tablets –’
‘He killed himself?’
‘No!’ Her tears start to fall. ‘It was an accident. A terrible accident.’
I shake my head. ‘But how –’
She swallows, eyes pained. ‘I can only tell you how they explained it to me. He didn’t come home the night he died.’
It’s not so much the words as the way she says them, as if she can hardly breathe. He didn’t come home that night. But Mum knows where he was.
Her voice is quiet with hesitation. ‘We had an argument. It wasn’t the first. I wanted him to take a break from dancing but he wouldn’t listen. He said that I didn’t understand, but I did … I just … I was worried. He needed proper treatment. He was my husband, not just a dancer. And now that woman thinks that she can …’ Her mouth opens, lips quivering before her face cracks with a sob.
Not JUST a dancer?
‘You told me he died in a car crash,’ I say evenly.
‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry …’ She steps closer, meaning to hug me, but I step away and shake my head.
‘All these years … you’ve been lying to me.’ I turn and start for the stairs.
Can’t look at her anymore. I’m not even sure how I’m moving but I can feel her behind me, following me up.
‘Scarlett, wait. Let me explain.’
There’s a backpack under my bed. I pull it out and push pyjamas inside. Next are socks, undies. My mind gets busy with a list of things.
‘Scarlett …’ Mum’s only just reached my room. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you think?’ I can’t even look at her. Just look for clean tights.
‘Sweetheart, you have every right to be upset. But try to be reasonable. You don’t have to talk about this until you’re ready. Just … please, don’t rush out. Stay at home. That’s all I ask.’
It’s not until now that my focus shifts from the bag. I’m not even sure what I’ve packed and what’s been forgotten. Without a word I unbutton my jeans and slide them down, pull off my T-shirt, eyes on her.
There’s a short skirt on the back of a chair. She hates this one. I find a top to match, a tiny one.
She stares with her lips pursed, saying nothing. Our history has said it already. You can’t go out like that.
I zip up my boots and sling the bag over my shoulder. The fear in her eyes gives me strength. ‘I’m going out.’
‘At least tell me where you’re going.’
‘No!’ I swallow. ‘I’m going out and I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
Then I walk downstairs and make sure I slam the door so that the sound echoes through the house.
NINE
Already I feel the chill of evening in the air. It licks my chest, cooling my blood. Should have packed a jacket, but there’s no way I’m going back now.
The bus stop is a couple of blocks away and the walk gives me time with my thoughts. My breathing slips into sobs. I hold my breath and push back the tears.
A woman in an old-fashioned hat and overcoat is sitting at the bus stop, nose buried in a book. A bus must be due soon. I sit on the edge of the bench, pull out my phone and select Paige.
‘Hello?’ Her voice sounds distant, almost formal.
‘Hey, it’s me. I …’ Not sure what to say. ‘Can I come over?’
There’s a pause before she asks, ‘How come? What’s up?’
My mind has barely stuttered into an answer when I hear whispering at the other end. ‘What was that?’ I ask slowly. ‘Who are you talking to?’
Again, more whispering and then Paige clears her throat. ‘It’s Thanh.’ The way she just used Tadpole’s real name changes everything. ‘We were about to watch Taste of Sunshine, if you want to come over.’
Why do I feel like I’ve been hit with a rock? I should be happy for her. ‘No … no. It’s okay.’
‘Look.’ Her voice softens. ‘I know you want to go to the Dixie Bar tonight. But there’ll be time for that next year, you know?’ Her words sound so far away.
‘Yeah, I know. It’s okay. Have fun, all right?’
Laughter sprinkles down the phone, maybe because of something Tadpole said. ‘Sure you’re okay?’ Paige moves straight into sign-off. ‘See you at school.’
For the second time in one day I’m left with a dead phone in my hand. I scroll through the names again. Izzy always has people coming and going at her place, but it’s an hour away by train. Grant’s mum is pretty cool, she’d let me come round if I asked, but I suddenly realise that if I call either of them I’ll have to tell them why.
By the time the bus comes, I haven’t called anyone else and I know I’m not going to. I step on, glad to be out of the wind. The Dixie Bar. That’s where I’ll go.
Outside the bar, ropes have been strung up between poles, waiting to control a crowd. A lone bouncer stands at the entrance. He’s three times as wide and almost twice as tall as me.
I walk up and flick hair off my shoulders.
His trunk of a neck barely moves. Two eyeballs rotate my way. ‘Got any ID?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m a dancer. I worked with Moss on his latest music video.’ As I talk, the bouncer’s gaze drops and I feel him taking me in. My hair. My legs. I push out a hip. ‘Moss invited me to come and watch tonight.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Scarlett Stirling.’ I’m sounding way more confident than I’m feeling. What are the chances of Moss putting me on the list?
The bouncer reaches just inside the entrance and pulls out a clipboard. He grunts before nodding. ‘This you? Scarlett and friends.’
It’s like a beacon. ‘Yep!’ Can’t help a smirk. ‘Had a bit of trouble with the friends part.’
He doesn’t think that’s funny. ‘All right.’ He lifts the rope and replaces it after I’ve passed through. Steps ahead of me lead upward into darkness.
‘Hey, Bernie?’ calls the bouncer. ‘There’s no cover charge for this one.’
The carpet sticks beneath my boots, damp and soggy. I can feel a bass beat in the floor rather than hear it. I step up to find Bernie leaning over the counter, trying to make a poster stay in position. She doesn’t look up so I keep going, deeper into the darkness.
‘Hey, you want to stash your bag?’
I turn, unsure. ‘Um … okay.’
‘I’ll put it in the cloak room.’
It feels weird handing my stuff over to a stranger. My English essay is in there. My pointe shoes too. All I get in return is a square raffle ticket, D61. I slip it into a back pocket of my skirt with two twenty dollar notes. The thought comes to me that if I die in here, that ticket will be the only way to work out who I am.
I follow the dark passageway towards music that gains in volume as I round a corner. Through another doorway the sound explodes. In front of me is the bar and beyond that is a dance floor. The stage is at the end of the room. Screens flicker with images along the walls. An open mouth, a grinding dance move.
People are dotted around, talking and drinking. It’s only because the place is so big that it seems empty. A guy with bad acne scars smiles hopefully at me, but I nod uncomfortably and step away. Don’t want him getting any ideas.
At the bar I pull out twenty dollars.
‘Yeah?’ The bartender’s bald and really old.
‘A black Russian?’
He hesitates, just for a moment, before mixing liquids: clear into dark, and then filling the glass with black.
‘Fifteen bucks.’
Ouch. I hand over the money as if I don’t care, counting out the rest in my head and wondering if this place also sells food. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
The glass feels solid in my hand, and cold. I find a corner and sip, feeling its effect trickle along my arms and into my toes. I sip again, and already I’m lighter. This can count as dinner.
I’m not sure how long the drink lasts but by the time I�
��ve finished, my whole body’s floating and the space around me has closed in with bodies and heat. Some are on the dance floor, bouncing in time like a pack that’s been hypnotised.
I leave my glass on the edge of the bar and slink through the crowd. It doesn’t even matter that I’m on my own. The dance floor is where I belong.
For a while I let myself sink into the beat, enjoying the feeling of that heavy beat pounding through my chest. I try not to think about what’s brought me here.
One track blends into another. And another. I feel hot and light-headed. There’s applause and I turn to see figures on the stage. I recognise them from the afterparty at Moss’s place. Bruno is sitting at the drum kit, a woman with short blonde hair is behind an elaborate keyboard, and a tall, pencil-thin guy plays guitar.
I shuffle close, right in front of the stage. Soon the recorded music fades out and Moss steps up to the microphone.
‘Hello, Dixie Bar!’
He’s welcomed with cheers and a couple of shouts. Then Bruno smacks his drumsticks together four times and they launch into their first song. The room responds, not dancing with abandon anymore, but rocking in time. It’s a song I know, and I join in. At the end of the chorus I look up and find Moss’s gaze directed at me. He points and winks, making a woman beside me turn and stare.
I wave and smile just for him.
This is fun. As they move through the set I count the times that Moss glances my way. It feels natural for our eyes to meet. It’s not until the end of the set that he announces his new single due for release. Then he nods my way and gestures as if he wants me to come up.
I keep watching as the music begins. With live keyboard and guitar the sound is more raw, more real, than at the shoot.
Moss begins to sing, still watching me. He pulls the microphone out of its stand and saunters across the stage, reaching down. He looks so natural up there, so comfortable being watched. We’re both performers, at home in the spotlight. I place my hand in his and feel the lift as he pulls me onstage. He’s still singing, walking backwards, arm out like an offering.
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