by Sandy Green
Mrs. Ricardo shot Mrs. Sykes a warning glance while patting Blake’s arm. “Just a precaution, dear.”
The lights flickered and turned on. At the same time, the sun brightened. Steam rose from the pavement.
“The storm’s over,” Danilo announced.
A shrill horn pierced the strange silence.
“And the ambulance is here.” Jupiter jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Can I go with Blake to the hospital?”
That’d be my job. When I opened my mouth to ask, Mrs. Ricardo told us Mrs. Sykes would go with him. End of story.
Mrs. Sykes clapped her hands for attention. “I called the bus company, and they’re sending the buses in a few minutes. I suggest you gather anything you may have left outside. Do be careful in case of broken glass.”
No one moved as two emergency technicians burst into the building with a wheeled stretcher.
“Over here, gentlemen.” Mr. Jarenko stood.
Before I left Blake’s side, I whispered to him, “No way are you getting out of partnering me. I’ll see you back at the studio soon.”
His crooked smile pierced my heart. I moved aside to stand by Candace, and she held my arm. Shelly hovered in the darkest part of the building. I wanted to shake her, but instead I ignored her and called her nasty things in my mind.
The bubble in my throat burst as the techs fussed over Blake. They strapped him on the gurney, stuck plastic air tubes up his nose and an IV tube in his arm and wheeled him off with Mrs. Sykes. He struggled to raise his hand. A thumbs-up sign, or was he reaching for me?
“He’ll be fine.” Candace patted me. “He’s strong.”
“I know.” I held myself and trembled.
Chapter Forty-Four
The bus rumbled back to the college in a soothing way, making me drowsy. Tiffany sat beside me, posing silently as if grieving. She was one dramatic drama queen. Was this her way of comforting me? Kind of sweet.
I propped my arm on the slim windowsill and tapped my nose. I stole a glance at Tiffany and put my hands in my lap. Would Blake be okay? Had he broken any bones? Damaged his insides? Would he be able to dance again? Would he die? I shifted in my seat. I needed to take my mind off poor Blake, or I’d go crazy. I needed to worry about something else.
I closed my eyes and pictured our Irish dance class, complete with munchkins, as Blake and I tiptoed, twirled, and bounced across the studio. In the bus seat, my feet couldn’t help marking steps to a combination Mr. Sean had taught us. Why did Mom hate Irish dance so much? Would she totally freak out at the performance? Which was more important to her — a ballet solo, or me not doing Irish dance? There were two weeks until the performance. If Blake weren’t able to dance with me, would that change the whole Irish dance thing? He had to be there with me in class and on stage. We’d been through so much together, from learning this crazy and wonderful dance form as newbies to surviving Shelly’s attack to lure him away as her partner.
A raw, burning ache filled my mind. I erased it with happy scenes from the park before the storm. Blake. The elegant swans. Blake. The kiss.
The ache returned, all hollow with flaky, dark edges like a burnt piece of paper. I had almost died out there in the storm. Mrs. Sykes said so. But I’d made it to the shelter. I didn’t give up and wait to get electrocuted. I ran back on my two dancer’s legs.
I shivered then sat up straight. Thoughts like lightning bolts shot across my mind. Nothing like a near death experience to put your life in perspective. I couldn’t wait to get back to the studio to practice Irish dance and have Blake join me. He’d have to be okay. Blake. Blake. Can you hear me? Get well. Please get well. I have to see you again.
****
The next morning when I woke, the knuckles on my right hand hung on the floor beside my bed. Blake and Grandma were the first things I thought of. Would they be okay? I mentally sent them good wishes.
Something was wrong with Candace’s clock. It read two-seventeen. It couldn’t be the middle of the night. Gray light struggled around the window blinds. Candace snored softly on her bed. Doors slammed in the hallway. Voices called. Laughter. The top ten hits blared.
“Candace.” I sat up, rubbing my head. My raw toe hurt worse than wearing pointe shoes with no protective tape on my toe knuckles. It must’ve gotten sunburned.
She mumbled and opened her eyes, brushing hair away from her face. “What time is it?” She reached for her glasses. “Wow. That late?”
“Is your clock right?”
She yawned. “Yeah. What a week.”
“At least we’re not late for an audition.” I pulled out a pair of stretchy pink and yellow swirly patterned shorts and a teddy bear T-shirt.
She laughed.
I picked up my clothes hamper and squeezed it. “I hope Blake is okay. And Grandma.” I chewed my lip.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. And so will your granny. She’s too spunky to let something like an operation get her down. My granny had the same thing done. She was home from the hospital in three days and threw away her cane after two weeks. And she was never a famous ballerina like yours.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to hear about your grandmother.” I exhaled. “I’ll be back to pick up some things.” I dashed down the hall to the laundry room and stuffed my clothes into a washing machine. Candace promised to dry them.
By three I was in the studio. Alone. No Megan. No Lindy. And, sadly, no Blake. Was he strung up with tubes like when he left in the ambulance? I blotted tears with my towel. He was going to get better. He had to. He was the only partner for me.
I’d made up my mind. I wanted to do Irish dance. It was hard but so much fun. The footwork, the cool jumps, the fact my arms didn’t spin like windmills. I sat on the floor of the studio and took out my flute. Not waiting until something stupendous happened so I could celebrate, I played all the Irish tunes in my songbook. Even one called The Swan. Not the one from the ballet, instead a beautiful Irish song. For Blake.
I was in a Celtic mood, so I fished the Irish dance magazine from my dance bag Megan loaned me. The pages were crinkly and stuck together from getting soaked, but I’d let it dry on the windowsill overnight. I pried the pages apart and studied the pictures of the dancers — their posture, the lines of their legs and bodies, their proud attitude. I ignored the curls.
Mr. Sean had left a box of Irish dance CDs in the studio because we — make that Megan — had complained she was bored with the same CD we used at evening practice. I picked one that had a selection of reels, slip jigs, hornpipes, and jigs. I chose the slip jig section because Mr. Sean had told us we were going to perform one.
At the barre, I warmed up like we always did. Sweat formed on my forehead and cheeks. I moved to the center of the room and practiced under-overs, butterfly jumps, beats and everything else I could think of.
Panting, I grabbed my water bottle and took a sip, pacing the room. What did Mr. Sean have in mind for our performance piece? I pictured the curtain opening and Blake and me posed next to each other center stage toward the back. Our heads tilted toward each other. His arm was barely around my waist.
I frowned. Was Blake okay? I shouldn’t have missed breakfast or lunch so I could’ve seen one of the directors and asked them for news. After practice, I’d go up to the ninth floor where the teachers and directors stayed and see if anyone had an update.
Back in my imagination, Blake and I stood at the back of the stage with three girls posed on each side of us. There were seven of the munchkins, so one girl — probably Megan, would have to be somewhere else. Like in front of us. I wandered around the studio, sipping from my water bottle. On her knees? Could she recline on her side? Where had I seen that before? I capped the bottle and laughed. The opening scene from Les Sylphides. Of course, the ballet dancers wore long fluffy tutus, but the arrangement was similar. The poet stood with one nymphs on either side of him while the corps de ballet arranged themselves in a semi-circle.
Would Mr. Sean go for it? An Irish ver
sion of Les Sylphides? That would rock my world.
I turned up the volume on the CD player, shook my hair out of my ponytail and danced. I had no limits, as if I were dancing on the open patio at Chester Park before the horrible storm. I spun, hurdled, and skittered across the floor. My hair flounced like it was underwater.
I hugged my arms to the sides of my body. My neck lengthened on my straight back. I closed my eyes, channeling the swans — elegant, calm, and strong. I’d never felt so free. On and on I danced, slicing the air with my legs and whipping it with my feet. Thrilled with the Gaelic movement and yet agonizing about Blake. The fiddle, flute, and Irish bodhrán drum filled the room with their lovely song.
Finally, the music ended and the CD player stopped, hurtling the final notes into space. I panted as I finished, standing on my left leg with my right toe pointing to the front left corner of the room. A single tear clung to my cheek.
One person clapped from the hall. A rough accented voice froze me to the floor. “Could you dance like that on stage if you thought no one was watching?”
Chapter Forty-Five
I was too afraid to check the mirror. Did the voice with the accent belong to Mr. Sean or Mr. Jarenko? Or was Jupiter mocking me?
Whoever it was shuffled his feet but didn’t leave. I couldn’t pose there forever.
I filled my lungs with air along with the last of the notes from the Irish music, swiped my hand at the tear on my cheek and slowly swiveled.
Blake stood in the doorway.
“Ahh!” I flung myself at him.
“Whoa.” He laughed and staggered backward, grasping me around my waist.
My eyes bugged out, and I hopped away from him. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
He thrust his arms to each side in a big ta-da move. “I’m fine. They made me stay overnight. I had the wind knocked out of me when the tent collapsed and have a big bruise on the top of my thigh.”
I touched his forehead where his bangs hid a moth-shaped bandage. “Did you get stitches?”
He caught my wrist and interlaced his fingers with mine. “Just a couple.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t badly hurt. What an awful storm.”
He drew me closer. “I know I’m lucky. I get to be the boyfriend of the most beautiful dancer in the camp. If that’s all right with you.”
Was he kidding? Blake and me, boyfriend and girlfriend? My head slanted toward my shoulder.
He kissed me right there in the studio. My favorite place on Earth. It was perfect. My insides melted. I’m not sure how much time passed or why I didn’t drip from his arms into a puddle on the floor. All I knew was how intensely happy I was and sure of everything. Certain this feeling would last forever.
****
On Monday, I prepared myself for a week of twice-daily ballet classes, twice-daily Irish dance rehearsals, music appreciation lectures, repertory class, and Labanotation thrown in for good measure.
I avoided Shelly as best I could, considering we had all meals, Labanotation, and repertory class together. It was easy to track her when she was with Amy. When Amy wasn’t in class and wasn’t wearing her bucket hat, she wore a turban. With a pink feather. She had found it when she sneaked into the flamingo area at a zoo.
In repertory class Monday afternoon, Mr. Jarenko said we’d had enough of perfecting Swanilda’s Variation and switched to teaching us Shelly’s solo from Les Sylphides. Perfect. Maybe Mrs. Ricardo would stop by and see they’d given it to the wrong girl, but it was too late for her to switch me. I was way too excited for Irish dance classes and rehearsals.
Not to be mean or anything, but since I knew the Les Sylphides solo so well, I was going to prove I was born to dance it. Even the older girls, like Olivia, told me afterward I did a good job. Mr. Jarenko lifted his eyebrows in admiration. At least, I hoped it was admiration and not surprise. I caught Mrs. Sykes peeking in the studio. She didn’t actually throw up. Shelly sneered.
During our Irish dance classes, Mr. Sean strung chunks of steps for our performance piece. “Remember these combinations. You’ll dance them again soon. I’m trying to get a feel for what works best for all of you.” After Irish dance rehearsal that evening, Megan showed us DVDs of Irish dance performances on a portable player Mr. Sean loaned us.
By Tuesday I couldn’t stop myself from asking him after class about the dance we’d perform. “I like the DVDs you gave us to watch. Especially the story ballet choreography you did for your Irish dance students.”
Mr. Sean beamed. “Thanks. I like to push the art. Ballet choreographers often make abstract pieces, so I thought I’d try to convey a story in what is traditionally a competitive dance form.”
“Will you do that with our piece? Choreograph an Irish version of a ballet? Like Les Sylphides?” Maybe it would satisfy Mom. If not, it was still a cool idea.
Mr. Sean rubbed the stubble on his chin.
Blake swung a towel over his shoulder. “Awesome idea.”
Megan scooted over to us. “What’s awesome?”
“I heard.” Lindy flapped her hand like she wanted to be called on but couldn’t wait. “Mr. Sean is going to set our Irish dance piece as Les Sylphides.” She clapped. “What will our costumes be?”
“What a minute.” Mr. Sean held up his hands. “Kit just suggested it.”
“Don’t you think it’s a good idea?” Megan asked. “What’s wrong with a story to go with the dancing?”
The other munchkins crowded around and cheered.
“Hold on.” He pressed both palms toward them like holding back a tide. “Nothing’s wrong with the idea. Let me think about it.”
Megan crossed her arms. “All the performance pieces should be a version of a ballet.”
“The same ballet?” Lindy asked.
Megan nodded. “The whole show would be more cohesive instead of being like a talent show.”
“Even hip-hop dancers?” Lindy gasped.
“Yeah.”
“How about character and modern?” Blake asked.
“Those, too.” Megan picked up her dance bag. “It would be so, so fun. My girlfriend’s dance school at home did an alternate version of Swan Lake. Everybody danced in it. Hip-hop classes, jazz, even break dancers.”
“Wait a minute, guys.” Mr. Sean frowned. “The other teachers have probably set their pieces on their dancers already.”
Ms. Jen had started the character piece, according to Candace. I wasn’t sure about the hip-hop class or the modern class.
“What about the music?” Lindy lifted her shoulders.
Blake hung his towel on the barre. “You remix it on a computer. I do that at home all the time.”
Jupiter called to Blake from the hallway and, after saying good-bye, we left Mr. Sean to sift through his CDs.
“Do you think he’ll set our dance as an alternative Les Sylphides?” Blake asked.
“No way.” Jupiter slapped two caps on his head. “That would rock.”
“Of course, the ballet solos would stay the way they were, I guess. I’d think he’d just group all the non-ballet dances together.” I peeked down the hall for Shelly.
Blake pressed the button on the elevator. “If he can get everyone to agree.”
“If.” I nodded.
A big if.
I’d buried my anxiety about Mom’s inevitable disappointment at my not clinching a ballet solo and about lying to her that I got one. A little worry finger wiggled to the surface reminding me I’d have to face her and explain why I was happy in the dance form that gave her hives and so much distress. Like grinding rosin in an open wound. Instead, I fantasized Mom’s delight as I danced an Irish dance interpretation of a ballet.
I hoped Mr. Sean could and would pull it off.
Chapter Forty-Six
On Wednesday, the next day at Irish dance class, Mr. Sean clapped his hands in the same way he had when he announced his musician buddies were going to play live for us. “I spoke with some of the other teachers, more spec
ifically the non-ballet teachers about doing an adaptation of a ballet. They thought…” a drum roll pounded in my head, “…it was a good idea, but didn’t have enough time to prepare for it. Maybe next year.”
“Oh,” the whole class moaned.
He tilted his head. “That was the other teachers. I didn’t say anything about my class.” We cheered. He patted his hands at us like he was tamping an invisible quilt. “Quiet, please. You don’t want everyone to think we’re having too much fun.” We laughed. “I think it’s a fine idea and had been tinkering with translating something from a well-known ballet to Irish dance for my studio back home. There’s no reason not to try it here. After all, we’re all artists and this summer dance camp is an opportunity for us to stretch our artistic wings.“
I liked the part about stretching our artistic wings. Would that reason fly when Mom saw me in an Irish interpretation of Les Sylphides? I sighed and gazed at Blake flicking his hair from his eyes. So perfect.
“Ireland has a rich folklore history full of dragons, spellbound swans, fairies, and magical lands. An adaptation of Les Sylphides would fit in nicely.” Mr. Sean beamed.
My shoulders relaxed. Yes. After our warm-ups and cardio work, Mr. Sean directed us to stand against the barre in the back of the room. He paced in front of us, muttering to himself, one finger pressed to his upper lip. He pointed to the center of the floor. “Kit and Blake, stand here please.” He arranged us side-by-side, Blake facing the audience, or in this case, the mirror. Mr. Sean positioned me slightly toward Blake and looped Blake’s arm around my waist. I rested my right hand on Blake’s left shoulder. Take your time, Mr. Sean. I can get used to posing with Blake.
Then Mr. Sean pulled Lindy and two other munchkins from the barre and settled them to my left, posing on one knee or sitting. He did a similar pose for three other little girls to Blake’s right as a near mirror image. The set-up was what I’d had in mind on Sunday. Was this a dream? Or another one of those “great minds think alike” episodes Grandma talked about when we said the same thing? Mr. Sean had arranged us in the same positions as when the curtain rose for Les Sylphides. Only Irish-style.