No One's Watching

by Sandy Green

As Mrs. Ricardo handed me my flute, Mrs. Sykes bellowed from the audience, “That’s all the time we have for your piece. Please clear the stage.”

  I’d never fully understood the expression to get your Irish up until then. Mr. Sean faced the shadowy audience and stepped to the edge of the stage. He was about as down stage as you could get without dropping into the musicians’ laps. They stopped tuning up.

  I was pretty sure he’d gritted his teeth because I’d never heard him speak to us in such a strained way. “Thank you for your update, but our scheduled rehearsal isn’t over.”

  A hollow, deep silence fell in the theater. I was afraid it would swallow us. Megan slouched on one hip. Blake crossed his arms, and I hid behind him. I might have conquered my fear of death from thunderstorms, but Mrs. Sykes was a whole other thing. Kind of like Mom.

  “Very well.” Her voice cut through the darkness. “But please be considerate of the other dancers’ time.” As the fiddle and concertina plucked and wheezed to life, she didn’t bother to hide her thought in whispers. “Why bother? No one will be watching them anyway.”

  As he faced us, his pink face deepened to red, and the curtain fell. He took a breath. “Let’s do it again. This time, use all the space on the stage. We’re looking for clean feet and controlled movement.” He left the stage. His footsteps tapped on the steps leading to the orchestra pit. “Ready.”

  It was more of a command than a question. Was I ready to perform? Yes. I couldn’t wait. Was I ready to face Mom? The question of the summer. I’d know the answer tomorrow.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  After eating brunch and packing most of our stuff, all the performers headed to the studios for warm-up. The other dancers, who were part of the audience, met with their parents, but we had to sustain the illusion of magic. Or something like that, according to Mr. Jarenko. He told us, “The theater is an enchanted place, and you have to maintain the fantasy you are fairies or peasants or…” He nodded to Danilo who’d perform a modern dance. “…the embodiment of an emotion. You must wait to see your parents. You may not appear to the audience before the performance in your mortal forms.” Shivers.

  The performance was scheduled for one o’clock. Was Mom wandering around the city or visiting the conference room where Ms. Jen had displayed photos of us in class and at Chester Park before the storm? Was Mom even here? Where was Grandma — at the hospital or in her bed at home?

  The performers met in the lobby so we could walk over together. I clasped Blake’s hand as Shelly glided over on her crutches.

  “You’re getting pretty good on those things.” I studied her feet. “Can you do a pas de chat?”

  She balanced herself between the crutches while lifting her feet in a quick sideways gallop like a little cat. She laughed. “Almost. Do you know if your mom is here, or will you be coming home with me?”

  I shook my head. “You haven’t seen your mom?”

  “Not yet. I’m technically a performer, although I’m going to help the stage manager get the acts on and off stage. They have a stool for me in the wings.”

  “Cool.”

  “They let me sit in the sound booth at rehearsal yesterday. It was pretty interesting.”

  “Are you going to be okay? With your foot and all?” Blake asked.

  “I have to take it slow, but I’ll be back better than ever. Don’t think you can count me out.” She toddled off.

  Mrs. Sykes clapped her hands. “Follow me, and please, no talking.”

  Blake leaned over and whispered. “It’s more of a death march than a performance.”

  I squeezed his hand. Would I ever see him again? Would he visit me? We crossed the street to the cool theater.

  Blake dipped his hand in his bag and gave me Chester the Cheetah, a small stuffed Chester Park University mascot. “You can hold on to him between visits from me.”

  He drew me close, I fainted, and we kissed. When we went to our separate dressing rooms, I was surprised I hadn’t wandered onto the stage and fallen in the orchestra pit. Now the question was, would Mom let Blake visit me? She had to. I buried my nose in the soft fur of the cheetah and set him on the dressing table.

  I set to work on my makeup, stroking the damp sponge on my forehead, cheeks, and neck.

  Candace tapped me on the shoulder. “Have you seen the program?” She folded back the cream-colored paper and pointed to my name. “You are Irish. At least, according to this.”

  Whoever printed the program spelled my last name, Othersen, wrong. Under the Irish dance version of Les Sylphides, the lead dancers were Kitri O’Thersen and Blake Rasmussen. “Ha. They made my Danish name Irish.”

  I handed it back to her, but Candace gave me a pen instead. “I’m getting everyone to autograph it. When you’re all famous, I’ll have you give master classes at the college dance department where I’ll be teaching.”

  I pointed to a scrawl. “You got Blake to sign it.”

  “You know, Rasmussen is Danish.” Her mouth opened in mock surprise.

  “It is? How do you know?”

  “I asked Blake when I got his signature. He’s Irish on his mom’s side.”

  “Weird and cool at the same time.” I shivered.

  “Here’s an extra copy.” Lindy propped it in Chester the Cheetah’s paws.

  She had a huge smile as she and the rest of the munchkins signed Candace’s copy next to my “Best roomie ever! Thanks and hugs. Together forever. Love, Kit O’T.”

  Everyone wandered away. I twirled the excess black liquid from the tip of the eyeliner brush against the inside of the bottle. My hand shook as I drew a crooked line on my upper lid. I dabbed at it with a tissue and tried again. What’s wrong with me?

  Megan stood by my elbow. “I was going to ask you to help me with my makeup, but I think I’ll do it myself.” She edged away.

  I used the corner of a foam pad to erase my second attempt and took a deep breath. The program Lindy had given me fell from Chester’s paws and opened. On one side was the statement all performers were to be given DVDs — Mom’s wish had been granted, and the other side read “Irish Dance Version of Les Sylphides” with all of our names. Was Mom in the audience? What would she think of her daughter performing a form of dance she loathed?

  I cupped my hands over my ears, not only to keep out the roar of the music and squeal of voices, but to focus. Had I been selfish by picking Irish dance over the ballet solo? Were we all like the swanning swans or the poet in Les Sylphides, wandering aimlessly and chasing something not quite real?

  I adjusted the white band on my head and hummed the prelude I was to play on my flute. I concentrated on the yearning notes, but the whole piece wasn’t like that — all achy. There was plenty of fun and happiness, too. I had to show Mom and Grandma that part. If Mom ever let Grandma see the Irish dance piece on DVD. A big if. And if she’d ever speak to me again.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The lights blinded me as I stepped from behind the curtain onto the stage. My back brushed the velvety curtain, so I edged out further, although I was afraid I’d fall into the pit. Mr. Sean lifted his hands in expectation. One good thing about the spotlight. I couldn’t see the people in the house. Except for the first two rows. And there was Mom, her face a muddle of confusion and disapproval.

  Mr. Sean nodded, and I took a breath, blowing across the mouthpiece and playing the soft notes. I dipped and swayed as the music trickled from my flute, setting the mood.

  As the last notes floated over the audience, there was applause. Not from Mom. I stepped behind the curtain, handed the flute to Mrs. Ricardo and hurried to my place. Was this all a big mistake? My hands were cold, and I struggled to keep my bottom lip from quivering.

  The audience gasped as the curtain rose. Mr. Sean had set a fog machine behind the curtains in the wings. Mist rolled lazily onto the stage, snagging our feet and curling into the air. The musicians finished the prelude, and I left the stage as the little girls danced.

  Blake danced hi
s solo with bold leaps and quick footwork before drawing me out of the wings so we could dance together. I had forgotten about everything except what was happening at that moment. I couldn’t wait to get back onstage.

  Blake circled the stage, and I joined him. Irish dance had taught me to control my arms. My ballet teachers had commented on my relaxed arm movements, and I showed them off here.

  Dancing my solo, I traveled across the stage with sweeping kicks and leaps. When Blake and I danced together, it was as if we had practiced together for years. All the awkwardness and pain at camp fell away. Shelly beamed at me from the wings.

  At the end of the piece, Blake held my waist as we spun. I wasn’t afraid to look at him this time. Round and round we twirled as the music built and then paused. The notes spun off like mist, and the dancers settled in our same positions as at the beginning of the piece.

  The musicians played the finale as the curtain swept down. We formed a line holding hands before the curtain rose again. As we stepped forward to bow, my heart lifted as the audience rose to their feet in a standing ovation. A real standing ovation! The musicians and Mr. Sean bowed, too. The curtain closed again, and we filed off stage in a breathless line. The only problem was I couldn’t see if Mom had stood.

  After hugs from Dira, Nicki, Candace, and especially Blake, we changed, and removed our makeup. Then all the dancers crossed the street to the conference room where there was a reception for the performers.

  Blake pulled me back from the door before we went in. “You sure you’re ready for this? I mean your mom.”

  I shook my head no. “Yes.”

  We laughed and went in. The room was packed with parents, teachers, and dancers milling around, munching cookies and drinking punch.

  “Blake.” A teenage girl with wavy, dark hair flung herself at him. “You were great. The best. Everybody loved your dance.”

  “Thanks.” He peeled her from his neck. “This is my sister, Sophia.”

  She shook my hand. “Hi. You were both so awesome. It was the best piece ever.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.” I wished Mom could hear her.

  She babbled on to him as I scanned the room. Mr. Sean talked to Mom as she pressed against the far wall like he was robbing her with a bodhrán.

  “I’ll catch up with you guys later.” I crossed the room.

  Megan and Lindy, their mouths full of cookie crumbs, hugged me. “Great job.”

  “You, too. Thanks for all your extra help. We couldn’t have done it without you.” I moved through the crowd.

  “Kit?” A girl with super long hair reached out and touched my shoulder. She stood next to a tall girl with jet-black hair.

  I frowned.

  “Remember us from the psychology lab? Hilary and Carey.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Sorry. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “You’re not a college student.” Carey crossed her arms.

  “Sorry. I’m only fourteen. I was just trying to get back to my dorm here at the dance camp.”

  “We saw flyers around campus about the dance performance.” Hilary clutched her program. “It was great. You were wonderful.”

  “Thanks. Sorry if I hurt you.”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t real. I was in on it. It’s called the Milberg experiment to see how far you’d keep shocking me at the command of an authority figure.”

  Carey raised her hand. “That would be me, but we’re both grad students.”

  Random thought. How far would Mrs. Sykes go if she were told to keep hurting people by an authority figure?

  “We determined you have a strong sense of right and wrong and don’t bend easily to absolute authority.” Hilary beamed.

  “Okay.” I glanced at Mom. Did that mean her? Or Mrs. Sykes, or both? “I need to say hello to someone. See you later.”

  I swept away to rescue Mom from Mr. Sean. She held her enormous handbag between them like an exploded airbag.

  I inhaled. “Hi, Mom.”

  She had twisted her blond hair into a loose bun. “There you are.”

  How should I interpret that?

  Mr. Sean shook my shoulder. “Beautiful dancing. Well done.” He leaned close to my ear. “Many people have told me the Irish dance was the highlight of the afternoon. You all worked so hard. I can’t wait to set that same piece on my students back home.”

  “Thanks.”

  He shook my hand. “I’ll let you catch up with your mother.” He shook Mom’s hand. “Very nice meeting you, Mrs. Othersen. I’d be happy to e-mail you those addresses.” Mr. Sean spun off through the crowd.

  “How’s Grandma?” My throat burned.

  “Her nurse friend from mahjong is staying with her.” Mom set her handbag down.

  “She’s home. That’s good, right?” My spirits rose.

  “Well enough to come home late yesterday.”

  I shifted in my sandals. “How did you like the performance?”

  “Lovely.”

  A spark of hope ignited in my chest.

  She checked her program. “Olivia was great. The boy with the red hair, Jupiter, was a terrific partner. I see Tiffany had two roles, which is unusual, I think. She was quite good as Jupiter’s partner.” She lowered her voice. “I’m not sure she was suited to the waltz solo, though.” She shrugged.

  I fingered my sundress. “Yeah, about that. Maybe we can go somewhere to talk.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Mom followed me out of the conference room and into the TV lounge. She tucked one leg under herself on a sofa. I sat in a plump chair across from her.

  “What happened to the ballet pas de deux you told me you had?” Mom folded her hands in her lap. “There were scouts from major ballet schools in the audience.”

  I studied my hands in my lap. “Actually, I was offered the solo. I had a choice to make because of a scheduling conflict. Irish dance or the ballet solo. I guess you can tell which one I chose.”

  Her voice rose. “But why Irish dance, of all things? You’ve never shown any interest in it.”

  “I never knew what it was. Every time it came on TV, you made a negative comment and changed the channel.” I raised my hands helplessly.

  She studied my face. “You didn’t pick Irish dance because of the boy who was your partner, did you? I saw you two come in to the room together. Blaine something.”

  “Blake. And no. We’re, um, friendly now, but definitely weren’t when I chose to stay in Irish dance.”

  She leaned forward. “Are you sure? Irish dance.” She shook her head. “I hope you’re not going to make the same mistake I did.”

  Silence.

  “What mistake? What are you talking about?”

  She fussed with her gigantic handbag. “We should get on the road.”

  “Wait. What mistake? What are you talking about?”

  Her face reddened. “Have you packed everything? We need to get your bags.”

  “This isn’t about the ballet solo, is it? You’re upset because I did the Irish dance. Why?”

  “You lied to me about the ballet solo. You wanted to come to this camp. To improve your ballet technique.”

  “That was why you sent me here. No one asked if I wanted to be a ballet dancer. I’ve found something else I love to do. Irish dance is exhilarating, fun, and takes so much control.” I closed my eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” I opened them. “If this isn’t about the ballet solo, why are you so angry with me? What mistake are you talking about?”

  Mom sank back on the sofa. She glanced around the empty room. “One summer many years ago, I was performing at a festival in upstate New York for a few weeks. A lot of dancers do that in the off-season. Ballet, jazz, modern. Anyway, I met a dancer with one of the Irish dance troupes.”

  I nodded. “Go on.”

  “He was tall and handsome with black hair. He had fantastic leaps.” She paused. “We became close.” She eyed me. “You know.”

  “Close. Is that what you called i
t back then?” I tilted my head. Her comment sank in. “My father is an Irishman? Why have you never told me? What happened to him?” Please say he died tragically, never knowing the daughter he left behind.

  “After our residency was up, he went back to Ireland.”

  “Didn’t you tell him about me?” Was I the mistake?

  “At that point, I didn’t know you were part of the picture. I thought that was it. A summer fling.” She frowned. “Apparently, he had a wife.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “I didn’t know about her until the end of our time together when I told him my company was going to tour Europe and I could visit him.” She smoothed her hair and replaced a bobby pin. “That was the mistake. Not you. Getting involved with a cheater, although I didn’t know it at the time. From then on, I couldn’t stand anything that reminded me of him. Including Irish dance.”

  Poor Mom.

  She straightened her skirt. “I didn’t know I was pregnant for a couple of months. I wondered why I was gaining weight. When I found out, I decided to leave the ballet company. It worked out. Grandpa had passed away a year earlier, and Grandma needed me to help her with the studio.” She sighed. “I was in the corps de ballet. Who knows what would have happened if I hadn’t met him and stayed with the company, but that wasn’t the case.” Mom stared at her hands.

  So because of me, Mom quit performing. Could she have risen to soloist or principal dancer? Or joined a more prestigious company?

  She focused on me. “And Grandma and I both raised you. That was never a mistake.”

  “When were you planning on telling me this?” My head spun from the confession.

  “Um, when you were fourteen and a half.” She managed a weak smile and stood.

  Deep breath.

  “Not all Irishmen are like him. Mr. Sean is nice and so are his Irish musician friends.” Too bad Mr. Sean wasn’t my dad, but he was way too young. “So you never told him about me?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

  A little part of me broke off and drifted away. Maybe if he knew about me, he’d want me to visit him in Ireland. Like that wouldn’t be awkward.