No One's Watching

by Sandy Green

  We rushed down the hall.

  “I can’t believe we all overslept. This is like high school every morning.” Nicki had parted her auburn hair in the middle, drawn it into a low ponytail and clipped it several times on her head.

  Dira clamped her hand on the strap of her dance bag, ready for the prom, with her black hair sleeked in a bun. Mascara thickened her curly lashes. Nicki’s cheeks were pink. How had they had time to apply makeup? Maybe Nicki’s flushed cheeks were nerves. Mine burned.

  We hurried to the elevator, tapping the down button every two seconds. The elevator hissed as it settled on our floor. It dropped us seventeen stories to the basement studio level, stopping at every floor for college students taking summer classes. Sweat moistened my upper lip, and I swiped at it with the back of my hand.

  We tumbled out of the elevator and checked in at a long table.

  “You’re lucky they’re running late setting up the judges’ table.” An assistant dance teacher ticked our names off. “You won’t have time to warm up.”

  I pinned the white card with number fifty-nine to my leotard, right below the scoop neck. We squeezed through the crowded hallway to a small space by the water fountain, slipping off shorts and pulling on our ballet slippers. The assistant teacher called us back to the main studio.

  Dancers from the advanced and intermediate ballet classes flooded into the room and clung to the barres. The four of us stood in a row. An extremely close row. Shelly had planted herself at the head of the barre, facing the mirror. How was everyone going to fit?

  My muscles were too short for my bones. I faced the barre at an angle and flung my right ankle on it, staring at my bent leg as I bid my forehead to rest on my knee in a pitiful attempt to stretch. Shelly stood on her left leg, stretching her right leg high next to her ear. Then she pulled it closer to her head and leaned, overstretching her legs. I gritted my teeth, held my breath, and plopped my forehead on my knee, biting my lip so I wouldn’t shriek from the pain.

  Familiar notes from Chopin filled the air as the pianist warmed up. Mrs. Sykes sat behind a long table in front of the mirrors. She wore a silvery jacket that looked like fish scales. Her mouth was set in a grim line as she scribbled on a stack of paper. Because she was the head judge, the other dance teachers sat to either side of her. I didn’t recognize all of them.

  Mrs. Ricardo, wearing a pair of stretchy of black pants and a matching pullover shirt, led the class. Her crinkly hair was pulled up in a loose bun. “Everyone will have to turn slightly toward the barre so you don’t hit the person in front or in back of you.”

  My leg dropped from the barre with a thud. Mrs. Sykes jerked her head and scanned the room. I could’ve sworn fire blew out of her nostrils.

  “First position.” Mrs. Ricardo talked us through a plié combination.

  I sucked in my stomach and concentrated on keeping my arms locked into position. With every leg movement, there was a matching arm movement. My name wasn’t the only thing I inherited from the ballet Don Quixote. My arms acted like the windmills he fought. It didn’t help that every stiff and uncooperative muscle in my body, from my toes to my earlobes, screamed.

  Mrs. Sykes scratched notes on her papers. One of the judges leaned against the mirror. After thirty minutes at the barre, my legs didn’t hurt so much. We moved au milieu, to the center of the room, and danced a slow adagio. I pictured myself in the long white tutu in Les Sylphides, a crown of small white flowers circling my hair. Or the short violet tutu in the Lilac Fairy’s solo. I was weightless and caught myself smiling. Shelly shook her head.

  Mrs. Sykes motioned to Mrs. Ricardo. They and the teachers clustered together, consulting over several papers.

  Then Mrs. Ricardo straightened and the teachers went back to their seats, or leaned against the mirror. “Thank you for trying your best. If I call your number, please leave the studio. The rest of you will continue with the competition.”

  Mrs. Sykes listed the numbers in order from the lowest to the highest. Dancers shuffled out of the room. The dance teachers stared at the tabletop or the floor. Ms. Jen nodded sweetly at the ones leaving the room.

  Shelly turned to me, her hands straightening the low, uncalled number on her chest. Like it was a pilgrim’s collar and she’d baked the prizewinning pumpkin pie for the Thanksgiving Day feast.

  Mrs. Sykes had finished calling the numbers in the forties and started on the fifties. Mine was fifty-nine. I held my breath, afraid I wouldn’t be able to hear her.

  Afraid I’d hear my number.

  Chapter Five

  More dancers shuffled out. Some fled like their shoes were on fire. Others banged their bags into the wall as they left. Mrs. Sykes continued reading the numbers of the cut dancers.

  I dropped my head to check the upside down number on my chest. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t heard my number. She skipped it. I made it to the second round. My heart soared and blocked any pain from the soreness of the day before.

  Candace squeezed my arm when she walked past me, congratulating me for staying when she had to go. She was so nice.

  I scanned the room for Nicki and Dira. They were both there. Shelly’s roommate, broad-faced Amy with her fake-blond short hair, slinked out of the room like a naughty cat.

  “Everyone can leave whose number has been called.” Mrs. Sykes glared around the room and scowled at Mrs. Ricardo, who continued with the class.

  We danced a quick, springy combination in the center of the room. I had happy feet and a straight back. I bounced from one foot to the other, like a handful of delicious fruity candy someone had thrown across the floor. Mrs. Ricardo’s whole face lifted as she watched me. Mrs. Sykes’ expression was impossible to read. It might have been, “Cerrito’s Variation might suit number fifty-nine, that amazing jumper,” or “I shouldn’t have had broccoli with the hot dog last night.”

  Since so many of us were left, we took turns in pairs leaping from the far back corner to the piano. I soared. I hung in the air and time stopped. I knocked one girl with my arm, but I was pretty sure she’d turned the wrong way. One of the male teachers leaned toward another after I finished. “Fantastic jumper. Beautiful.” I hoped that was for me.

  My heart floated along the ceiling. After we finished, there was another elimination round. The teachers gathered for a short consultation before Mrs. Sykes read off the numbers. “Thirty-five, thirty-seven, forty-one, fifty-three.” She lifted her head after each number and gave the corresponding dancer a curt nod.

  Blake turned and left with a shrug. Nicki scooped up her dance bag and followed him. Dira tugged on the leg opening of her leotard as she remained.

  Mrs. Sykes’ eyes drilled through me as she pulled her chin over the paper. “Fifty-nine.”

  Something cold kept my feet on the floor. Time halted once more. Mrs. Sykes and I stared at each other.

  “This time, please go.” Mrs. Sykes wagged her head. With her silvery jacket and flame-throwing nose, she reminded me of a dragon.

  The pain surged back into my legs like ice splintering into my muscles. My ears clogged.

  Mrs. Sykes broke the spell as she dipped her head and read off a few more numbers.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Ricardo burbled from under water. “Will the remaining girls change into their pointe shoes?”

  I grabbed my dance bag and tripped over Shelly lacing up her toe shoes.

  She sneered. “Why didn’t you go the first time she called you?”

  I opened my mouth to say Mrs. Sykes hadn’t called my number. Instead, I frowned and fled the room.

  Candace and Nicki huddled by the water fountain. Nicki fingered the knob. “Maybe she thought it was fifty-six? You know, the nine was upside-down?”

  Candace folded her dance skirt when she saw me. “Why didn’t you come out with me?”

  I went up to them. “My number wasn’t called.”

  “Yes, it was. That’s why I tugged on your arm.”

  “Mrs. Sykes skipped my number.” I
couldn’t have been out in the first round. She’d passed over me. Candace must feel bad she was eliminated so fast. And Shelly didn’t know what she was talking about.

  Candace squeezed my arm. “That’s okay. Do you want to wait here for Dira?”

  Another eliminated dancer grumbled down the hall and kicked someone’s dance bag out of her way. “I don’t know what they’re looking for. It’s not for good dancers, that’s for sure.”

  I slid down the wall. “We can wait here.” My head was a jumble. Had I wanted a solo so badly I hadn’t heard Mrs. Sykes call my number? It didn’t matter if I were eliminated in the first round or next to last. I wasn’t going to dance a solo or anything else in the performance at the end of camp. Who were Mom and Grandma coming to see then? Not me. I couldn’t bear to tell them. They knew auditions were usually held the end of the second week. At least, I had until then to give them the news.

  I dropped my head so no one saw the tears rimming my eyes, and tugged off my ballet slippers. Before I pulled on my shorts, I wiped my eyes on the hem. It wasn’t fair. I’d worked so hard this past year. So what if I took a break? I couldn’t keep going at that pace. Even Shelly had taken off a bunch of times during the year whenever she injured herself. But I plugged along, dancing in both matinées and evening performances where Shelly and I shared a role.

  I squished close to the wall next to my dance bag and rummaged through it, pretending to look for something, hiding more tears leaking from my eyes. I dabbed at the dribbles with my sweat towel and wiped my nose. I had to stop this flow of self-pity. And desperation. Problem was, there wasn’t anything else to think about. Dancing was my life.

  Nicki and Candace slid down the wall next to me. Nicki turned to Candace. “Will we have time to go to the college store?”

  “Not till after our afternoon class.” Candace sipped from a water bottle. “Did you want to buy something special?”

  “I saw these shorts that were the cutest thing on the planet.” Nicki tapped her muscled leg. “With the college logo right here. Chester the Cheetah.”

  The music ended, and applause erupted from the studio. Dira came into the hall. Her beaming face was moist. “I can’t believe I made it to the final round.”

  Nicki stood and high-fived her. “Good job, roomie.”

  I snaked my way up the wall until I stood. “I can’t wait to see you dance in costume.” And I couldn’t, even though a bit of jealousy tugged at my insides.

  “So cool. When will you know which number you’ll dance?” Candace pulled herself up.

  “Tonight after dinner.” Dira took a deep breath and plopped on the floor. She pulled off her taupe pointe shoes that matched her tights, an inspiration from her dream ballet company — The Dance Theatre of Harlem, where all the African American girl dancers wore tights and shoes to match their skin tone. She waved her arm at the wall across from us. “Our roles will be posted here.”

  I stared at the scuffed paint, cursing it in my head. The rest of the day was a waiting game.

  Our afternoon ballet class with ancient Mme. Petrova was a blur. I had a vague feeling I’d smacked someone with my arms.

  Back in our dorm room, I lingered in the shower, letting the sudsy water wash away the day. Hoping it would tell me what to do. All it said was thwip, thwip, splat. Then it asked me in a Southern accent if there was any hot water left, seeing as I was in there for forty-five minutes. I toweled off and let Candace take her shower.

  My mouth dried up. Would I at least stay in the advanced ballet class? They wouldn’t take that away from me, too, would they?

  At supper I drowned myself in iced tea.

  “You do know tea is a diuretic?” Candace’s blond hair hung in a perfect, wavy sheet to her waist. “You lose more water than you gain.”

  I nodded at my empty plate and got up to refill my glass, my stomach sloshing as I sat back at our table. I patted my round belly. “I have a food baby.”

  Apparently, no one from Georgia had ever made that statement, and Candace couldn’t stop laughing. I relaxed. My family didn’t know the auditions had been held earlier than usual. I had a little less than two weeks to figure out what to tell them. The stress was too much. I shut down my brain for the evening.

  In support of Dira, we raced to the elevator after supper and pounced on the down button. When we got to the basement level where the studios were, I hurried to the ladies’ room. Candace was right about the iced tea.

  I hesitated once I got back in the hall, searching for Candace. Dancers bobbed up and down, trying to see over each other’s heads to the assignment sheets. There were more sheets posted than I expected with only four solos and two duets. Dread hovered over me and settled on my head like a lead hat as I wandered down the hall where the results were posted. Confirmation of my lack of solo.

  “Look.” Candace had pinned her finger to a list on the wall. She motioned to me as if she was fanning her face. “Your name’s here.”

  Chapter Six

  My name? My heart throttled my lungs. “What?” I had to be dreaming. Was it possible I’d slipped in the shower and hallucinated?

  “Come here.” Candace underlined something with her fingernail. “This is exciting.”

  I passed Shelly by the studio door, a scarf draped around her neck, beaming at her minions. She waved at me. “I’m dancing the waltz solo from Les Sylphides.” She glowed. That was supposed to be my solo. I was impaled on a barre. Skewered. Slowly roasting.

  Dira clasped her hands together as I surged past. “Good job. I got Cerrito’s variation.” She turned to read the announcement again as if the words would disappear.

  My lips tugged back in a smile. “Great.” I could picture her in a long, romantic tutu dancing the light and delicate solo.

  A dark-haired girl squealed. “Lilac fairy. I love purple. I get to wear a purple tutu.”

  “Who’s doing the Sugar Plum fairy?” someone asked.

  “Olivia,” someone else said.

  “Watch the hats, Tiffany.” Jupiter clutched his hand to his head. An older girl with gorgeous long legs hugged him until his two Chester Park University caps fell off. His signature thing — wearing two caps at once.

  “We’re dancing Don Q,” Tiffany said in a breathless, high-pitched voice about the pas de deux from Don Quixote.

  No one mentioned the pas de deux waltz from Les Sylphides, and I didn’t want to break the spell and ask.

  Candace waved at me as if creating a strong air current to draw me toward her. It was an Alice Through the Looking Glass moment. The faster I headed for Candace, the farther away she drew.

  Candace grabbed me as if I’d fallen overboard and drifted out of reach. “See.” She pointed to my name on the sheet “You’re going to perform Irish dance. That’s new this year.”

  Now I was positive I was living a hallucination. The posted paper had the title: OTHER DANCE PERFORMANCES. Listed were the group and solo dancers for Character — Candace was a part of that; Hip-hop — Nicki would dance with them; a Jazz duet; and a Modern dance solo with backup dancers. At the bottom was an Irish dance duet with my name and… Blake’s.

  My mouth hung open like a guppy. I must’ve turned into one because I couldn’t breathe air.

  “Are you okay? You’re turning blue.” Candace flapped her hand in front of me. Her face stretched like dough.

  Nicki took my elbow and led me to the water fountain. “Take a drink.”

  The last thing I needed was more liquid. I dipped my head and doused my face. The cold water stung, and I gasped for air.

  “I know you’re excited. Me, too.” Nicki bounced and slid to the side, dragging her leg with her in a hip-hop move.

  “Yeah.” I nodded, and patted my face with my T-shirt.

  “I can’t wait to learn hip-hop from a real hip-hop teacher so I can show my friends at school.” Nicki’s eyes glowed. “My teacher says ballet dancers need to know all styles of dance.”

  My mom thought so too, only she ha
d a ridiculous hatred for Irish dance. “Cool.” A drop of water fell from my eyebrow.

  “Bless your heart. It’s such an honor to be chosen to perform.” Candace patted my arm. “Do you feel better?”

  “Sure.” No. No. No. Way.

  Candace drew close to me. “You get to dance with cute Blake.”

  Who? My mind went blank. I wasn’t even sure of my own name. Not only wasn’t I going to dance anything resembling ballet, I was going to make a fool of myself. How would I explain this to Mom? I gripped the water fountain, doused my face again and shook my head. “What exactly is Irish dance?” Mom had done an excellent job of burying any mention of it except prefaced with the word “useless” or “ridiculous.”

  Nicki stopped bopping up and down. “Where have you been for the past decade? Under a rock?”

  “Uh.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of Michael Flatley, the famous Irish dancer?”

  I frowned. “Sort of.”

  “Lord of the Dance? Celtic Tiger?” Nicki snapped her finger and pointed at me. “Riverdance? Irish dance is beautiful. Flashing feet, big leaps. They dance in soft shoes and hard shoes, kind of like tap shoes.” She dangled her hand close to her ear. “Ring any bells?” Her bracelets jingled.

  “Kind of.” I hated tap, although I’d played plenty of Irish songs on my flute. Jaunty and happy. Sweet and haunting. “I like Irish music.” I switched from Nicki to Candace. “I do.” I squinted at the hazy memory of Irish girls dancing in a long line on TV. Mom made a comment about folk dancing belonging in villages, not on stage. She flipped the channel so fast I thought she’d developed a twitch. I’d seen enough of their crisp feet moving a mile a minute while their long curls bounced on their shoulders. I fingered my straight, wispy hair, barely long enough to put in a bun. My lips jerked into a smile.

  “There you go.” Candace flipped a chunk of wavy hair back over her shoulder.

  “And you’re happy to do character dance?”

  “Yes.” She high-fived herself. “I get to have Ms. Jen every morning. I wish I had my cell phone so I could tell everybody at home.”