Head to Head (On Pointe Book 2)

by Penelope Freed

  Hannah: Thanks, I promise I’ll go to sleep now. No boys, no distractions!

  Doubt swirls through my mind at Hannah’s revelation. My appetite completely gone, I clean up my dishes and trudge up to bed. For once, I don’t bother to pull out any of my books to study. It’s just as well I finished my homework before dance because I can’t concentrate on anything other than the pain in my chest right now.

  I flop on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. My interactions with Hunter since spring break playing on repeat through my mind. My instinct is to think through this as logically as I can, to catalogue each moment and analyze it as objectively as possible.

  The rides to and from Wedgewood prep.

  Stopping for boba and pastries.

  The glances he kept stealing in the car.

  The tea. In the deepest corner of my brain, where I could pretend it didn’t exist, I’d felt like every tea he brought me before school was a little offering, a secret declaration. An “as you wish.”

  Sharing pens and taking notes together in Chem.

  Asking me to come watch the track meet.

  His disappointment when I left the track meet early.

  Not letting me hide from him in Chem the next day.

  Taking me to lunch.

  Asking me to go to JPL with him. If I’m being as objective as possible, it seems like working on our Chem project is a flimsy excuse. How can we work on a project while he’s driving and we’re touring?

  I don’t think I’m imagining it all, despite my inherent bias. Katy may be his sister, but she doesn’t know everything about him. But what am I going to do about it? I know she’s going to be upset. How do I break it to my best friend that I want to date her brother?

  Can I even date him?

  My phone buzzes again on my nightstand. Assuming it’s Hannah, I pick it up and swipe it open without looking. It’s a photo from Hunter of two tickets to the open house on Sat.

  Hunter: No backing out on me now Sport.

  No, there’s definitely no backing out of it now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hannah

  “Welcome to the stage contestant five twenty-three, Gloria Maizel, age eighteen, performing Metamorphosis.” I clap silently in the wings, Martin by my side. The last three days have been grueling but exhilarating.

  “Get you a man who looks at you the way Uri watches her,” Martin whispers in my ear, tipping his chin at the tall, dark-haired boy standing a few feet down from us in the wing, watching the girl on stage with hearts in his eyes.

  The first three days of the competition have only consisted of classes for us, while the younger age divisions competed on stage first. I’m grateful for the chance to get used to being here before having to compete. Each night, Ms. Parker and her friend Rebecca have booked studio time for Martin and I to rehearse our solos. I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.

  “Doesn’t Sammy look at you like that?” I whisper back, glad to have someone to whisper with in the wings.

  With a cheeky grin, Martin leans down to tickle my ear with his words. “How would I know? I’m the one on stage. Doesn’t your Trevor look at you like that?”

  “First of all, he’s not my Trevor.”

  “I’ve seen your texts, yes he is.”

  I swallow down a buzz of happiness at Martin’s words. “Second of all, I haven’t seen him since January and it was only one double date. He can’t look at me like anything right now.”

  “He sent you literal heart-eye emojis,” Martin points out. “Just tell him that you like him already.” After waiting to hear from him for three unbearably long days, I finally broke down and texted Trevor two days ago, sending him the selfie I took that first morning in Times Square and then some more photos from our tour bus trip the day we arrived. He’d been quick to respond, like he’d been waiting for me to finally be the one to text first, and has been entertaining Martin and I with his musings ever since.

  “Yeah, to a picture of a squirrel eating ice cream, not to me. And no way, I have too much going on to be worried about boys. Now stop distracting me and let me concentrate.” I turn in a pretend flounce and drop into a split, laying my torso out along my front leg before leaning backwards to grab my back foot and pick it up to my shoulder, enjoying the stretch along my hamstrings and hip flexors.

  The mock turtleneck of my navy leotard is loose, the zipper at the back not fully done up yet. Nervous, I smooth the long sleeves down my arms, the mesh bands around my upper arms matching the mesh panels that criss-cross my abdominals and upper chest. My leggings are on, keeping my legs warm as I wait my turn. The skin-toned pointe shoes on my feet are perfectly broken in after rehearsing in them last night with Ms. Parker, and my hair is twisted up in an elegant French twist. Nothing about my costume or look has changed since I performed this solo at the YIGP semi-finals back in February, but I feel like a different person.

  Last time I stood in a wing waiting to perform this solo, Olivia was supposed to be by my side, our friendship teetering on the edge of disaster. That night our friendship imploded in a confrontation of harsh words and accusations. I’d been oblivious to what was about to happen as I was waiting to dance, all I’d been focused on was the sensation of this solo, the building and falling, the expanding of the melody and my movements. The calm quiet of the music building into a crescendo of sound, sweeping me and the audience away. I’d been able to tune out all the other dancers around me, listening to the music over and over, letting it soak into my mind and body.

  Three months later, I may look the same on the outside, but inside, everything is different. An unfamiliar mix of confidence and anxiety flows through me, I’m used to feeling one or the other. Instead of worrying about forgetting my solo, or if my shoes are going to come untied, I’m worrying about how I’m going to stack up against the other dancers here. I’m ready to walk out on that stage and do my best, but what if my best isn’t good enough? I’ve been in class with everyone here for the last three days, I have a good idea of the level everyone here is dancing at, and it’s high. The classes haven’t been easy, but I haven’t felt defeated by them either.

  The girl dancing on stage right now, Gloria, is a tiny powerhouse. She’s shorter than I am, maybe five foot two or three, with thick brown hair pulled up in a braided crown on her head. She attacks the stage in her contemporary solo, it’s jerky and staccato, almost robotic, and intense. The fierce look in her eye is intimidating, even from the side of the stage.

  “She’s a bit scary,” Martin whispers in my ear. “Smile.” At my stifled giggle, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and angles us to get some of the sidelight on our faces before taking a selfie. “And don’t forget to send that to Trevor. Maybe make him a little jealous.” With a wink Martin goes back to his own pre-performance stretching ritual.

  I have never taken so many pictures in my life, but Martin is a selfie king, always taking photos and videos of himself and whoever happens to be in his vicinity. Which, this week, has been me. Thankfully he checks with me before he posts anything, but since he’s been tagging me in his posts and insisting I post some of the photos and videos he’s taken of me, I’ve suddenly gained hundreds of new followers. I’m trying not to think about them. I warned Katy, Lisa and Trevor, then I put my phone in “do not disturb” mode all day. I’ve only been opening Instagram to post the photos Martin insists I share and then close it again as quickly as possible. The last thing I need is to be sucked into a social media black hole. I didn’t even bring my phone backstage with me, it’s safely stowed away in my dance bag. After the competition, I’ll look.

  Gloria runs off the stage to a smattering of applause. Since these are the preliminary rounds of the competition, there are only a handful of people in the audience. The finals on Saturday night will have a much bigger audience and be live stream ed on the YIGP website, but I have to make it through two d
ays of competition and two rounds of cuts before worrying about it. Martin unzips his jacket and hands it to me, leaving him in a plain black tank top and shorts, the muscle tone of his powerful legs highlighted by the harsh stage lights.

  “Wish me luck,” he teases as the announcer says his name. Before I can respond he’s taking slow measured steps onto the stage, stopping dead center, his back to the audience. His movements are lithe and cat-like as the music begins. I’ve watched him rehearse this solo several times this week, each time impressed by the control he has over each movement. He goes from airborne to the floor without a sound, barely contained by the laws of gravity. Low voices nearby distract me for a moment, but I ignore it while I watch, conscious of my choice to be supportive of my new friend.

  I clap silently with the rest of the competitors backstage as Martin exits.

  “Good job!” I whisper as he takes his jacket from me. I have one more dancer to go before it’s my turn.

  “All right, Hannah Banana, your turn to knock ‘em dead.” Martin teases back. “Kick ass and take names.”

  I peel my leggings off, glancing around the wings. Most of the competitors in our age division are still hanging around backstage, whether they’ve danced already or not. My eye is drawn to Gloria and Uri. They look cozy, her back leaning against his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist as they watch. A pang of jealousy snaps me out of my observation. I don’t have time to waste watching other people. I need to get myself ready to dance.

  Folding my leggings up, I pass them over to Martin and turn so he can zip the back of my leotard all the way up, grateful to have a friend backstage. Three months ago, I would have told myself I was better off on my own, but one thing I’ve learned is that being self-sufficient and self-absorbed are two very different things. Besides, Martin is very funny. He reminds me a bit of Olivia, only without all our baggage.

  “Go get ‘em, Tiger!” Martin attempts a terrible American accent as he wishes me luck with a swat to the derriere, the dancer before me coming to the end of her solo. Nerves bubble up in my stomach as I wait for the announcer to say my name. I inhale through my nose, counting to five, then hold it for a count of three as the announcer starts to speak. Pressing my shoulders back, lifting my eyes and my chest to the upper balcony of the theater, I deliberately exhale, relaxing my jaw and face as I step out onto the stage. The bright lights are warm on my skin, the empty space of the stage whispering with the subtle noises of the wings, the rustling of the judges’ paperwork in the front row, a cough from out in the seats. In the not-quite-silence of an audience holding their breath, my measured steps take me to my starting position, just off center. One final step with my right foot takes me into a deep lunge, my left foot reaching back, knee dropped towards the ground. My arms sweep forward and up, freezing as they pass my ears, framing my head and shoulders like a bird of prey.

  The first notes play, and my body expands and contracts with the beat, the notes filling me like oxygen. My body, my breath, and the music meld into one. The music fills me, and I don’t think—trusting my body to know what to do. I don’t separate myself from the melody, the notes telling me what to do, how to reach and stretch and fly through the space.

  Before I know it, it’s all over, the final note dying away. Coming up from my bow is like emerging from a fog, the mostly empty seats filling my vision. I glance down at the judges’ table before I run off stage. It’s hard to tell from their expressions, but I think I did okay.

  Friday mid-morning, my knee bounces nervously as I stand in the line of dancers, waiting for them to tell us who’s made it through to the next round. It’s diabolical that they don’t tell us until after we’ve gone through all of our classes today, both a classical ballet class and a contemporary. I’m so glad that YIGP doesn’t include the classes in their judging criteria like some competitions do, we are only judged on our performances on stage.

  I slept fitfully last night, all the nerves and anxiety I hadn’t felt backstage rushing in to overwhelm me once I was in the hotel room, my parents asleep in the bed next to me, the quiet suffocating. Not even texting with Trevor and the girls helped. Bless him, Trevor tried, but puppy gifs can only get me so far. I’ve been avoiding my phone all week, not wanting to deal with the social media explosion Martin created which also means avoiding Trevor and the girls, but hopefully he understands.

  “Quit jiggling, you’re making me nervous,” Martin whispers, leaning around the dancer standing between us. One more thing to be grateful about? Martin and I are only separated by one number, thanks to them organizing us alphabetically by last name—Needham, Noh, O’Brian—so we are always lined up close together. This poor girl stuck between us must hate us, especially since Martin keeps asking her to take photos of us together. I tried to be friendly in the first class, but either she doesn’t speak English or she’s really shy. She’s barely said a word all week and struggled to keep up in the classes. I think she’s from South Korea, or maybe China, so my rudimentary Spanish isn’t even helpful.

  “Sorry,” I mouth back.

  “We’ve got this. Quit being a basket case.”

  How does he do that? Assume he’s going to be successful? Maybe it’s a guy thing. Or maybe he’s just that confident.

  One of the event organizers clears his throat from the front of the room. “Attention please everyone. The following twenty-five dancers will be passing through to the next round. If we say your number please step forward.” He holds a piece of paper in front of him and starts calling out numbers. My palms sweat as I strain to listen for my number—five twenty-seven.

  “Five oh two, five oh nine, five eleven, five seventeen, five eighteen.” Suppressed squeaks of surprise and happiness start to fill the room, making it harder to hear. Down the line, shoulders are drooping with disappointment.

  “Five twenty, five twenty-three,” Gloria steps forward with a smile and a glance down the line at Uri.

  “Five twenty-five,” Martin glances at me before he steps forward. My stomach is flipping, clenching, bracing for disappointment.

  “Five twenty-seven, five thirty-six…” I stop listening to the numbers as soon as mine is called. What? I made it? I made it through to the next round? I was sure I was done. I’m not good enough to compete with these dancers, am I? Martin reaches over to pull me forward, the girl between us stepping back out of the way.

  I don’t hear the other fifteen dancers’ numbers called, my mind spinning with the news. Happiness swirls inside me, a grin splitting my face. I try to tamp it down, but I can’t help a little wiggle of my shoulders as I wait patiently for the announcement to finish.

  “If we did not call your number, thank you so very much for your effort. Remember, you are welcome to stay and keep taking classes for the rest of the competition, and you’ll have a ticket for Saturday’s final night gala waiting for you at will-call. Congratulations to the dancers moving on to the next round. Your classical variations will be performed tonight at the theater. We will announce the ten senior finalists on stage tonight at the conclusion of the classical round.”

  The moment he stops talking the room erupts in a cacophony of excited talking, hugging and crying. Martin has me swept up and swinging in a circle before I can think. “I knew we’d do it!” Once he puts me down a few more random competitors grab me and hug me, becoming a tangle of excited hugs and exclamations in the center of the studio, while those who didn’t make the cut slink away to gather their things.

  “Attention please dancers,” a female voice rings out, cutting through the noise. “Those of you who are competing tonight, please gather around so we can go over how the evening will work.” I untangle myself from the mass of arms and listen intently to the rules for tonight. We are dancing our classical variations in numerical order, after the junior division competitors do theirs.

  Finally finished, I gather up my things and head out into the lobby to find m
y mom and Ms. Parker waiting impatiently.

  “I’m assuming by the smile on your face you made the cut?” Ms. Parker asks, holding me by the shoulders.

  At my nod, Mom swoops in and hugs me tight, squishing me against her so hard I can barely breathe, not that I care right now. “Oh Hannah, I’m so proud of you!” After another second of bone-crushing hugging, I pull back so I can see her face. There are tears in her eyes and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. “I knew you could do it.” Her voice gets a little wobbly at the end, bringing tears to my own eyes.

  Laughing, I turn to hug Ms. Parker. “Thank you, I can barely believe it,” I tell her.

  “I knew you would be wonderful, I’m so happy for you.” She pulls back and also has tears in her eyes. Laughing at ourselves, Mom leads the charge out into the enormous courtyard of Lincoln Center. I was worried about Ms. Parker the first day we walked through here, worried it would bring up sad memories for her. When I mumbled my worry to her, Ms. Parker assured me that she had been back to visit many times in the ten years since her accident and not to worry about her. “So, the guys are off doing their own thing until later,” she meant Dad and Mr. Mike, “how about we get some lunch and then start getting ready for tonight?”

  We head off to Ms. Parker’s favorite deli near the theater complex, not wanting to walk too far and tire out my legs. The noise and smells of the city aren’t nearly as overwhelming now as they were when we arrived on Monday. Looking around as we skirt Central Park, I imagine myself living here. Already, I feel more confident as we cross streets and push through the crowds, less like a tourist.

  Sandwiches in hand, we circle back to some tables and chairs in the park, taking the opportunity to sit outside in the nice weather, knowing we’ll be inside the theater for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

  “Are you ready for this afternoon, Hannah?” Ms. Parker asks before taking a big bite of her sandwich.