Authors: Wendy Potocki
“Well, I wouldn’t want to put her
that out!” she teased, noting Grant’s appreciative smirk.
“Then there’s the public transportation. They don’t stop at the school, proper—nearest stop is about a mile or so from here. It’s a bit of a hike, but they run regularly, but not after 10:30 PM. Just as well, you wouldn’t want to be walking around here at night.”
The casual remark set her radar off. His statement like the woods outside, it was full of dark blanks quickly filling in by intuition.
“What does that mean?”
“Mean? Nothing. Well, probably nothing. Just don’t like the thought of ladies, especially young ones wandering around in the dark. You know, it’s a cop thing. Or relative-of-a-cop thing.”
“Sorry. I thought you were implying that something happened.”
“In the Holybrook Woods? No, of course not!” he unequivocally avowed. “Well, at least nothing for quite a while.”
The suspicions that were dying on the vine were stoked.
“Then something did happen? What? I’d like to know, please.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m scaring you for no good reason. It was years ago—before I was born. It’s a safe little town. Forget I mentioned it.”
Relaxing a bit, one incident happening before he was born was an aberration. It was ancient history, and every city, town, and village had at least one horrific crime wedged in its past. He was only being paternal in bringing it up. It was tantamount to being reminded to look both ways before crossing the street.
“I understand. Protective type, huh?”
“Exactly. You know, you girls all look so fragile. I get worried.”
“I’ll be fine. And you're right. Nobody should be strolling around in the woods at midnight, but the distance to the bus stop sounds fine. I love walking. Helps me think.”
“No kidding? That’s what Todd always says. Course his kind of walking is usually pretty fast.”
“Then you're referring to running?
“Perceptive little tyke, aren't you?” he joked, Melissa giggling at the quirky humor. “Yup, I meant just that. He lettered in track in high school. Entered a few marathons.”
“That’s great. Always wanted to try one, but there's the time factor, and overdoing it. Injuries can really set training back.”
“I can imagine. Well, we’re here,” he said, diving in between the metal arches of the open iron gate. “I’ll drop you at the main house. It’s where the dorms are and where I took the other ones.”
Others? Referring to her competition, she’d momentarily deluded herself into believing she was the only one that had shown up, but there was Grant confirming she wasn’t.
Pulling up in front of the building, he retrieved her bags, setting them down on the walkway. Emerging outside, she stood uneasily, blinking at the woods lining the property. Giving her a queasy feeling, it wasn’t like her to be spooked by a bunch of trees. A nature lover, she was more often apt to run into them than run away from them screaming. Hurriedly swiveling around, she stared blankly at the double door. She’d been so sure that someone had been looking.
“You want me to help you inside with these? They’re kind of heavy and you’re such a little bit of a thing.”
“No, I’ll be fine. I’m stronger than I look,” she answered, sliding her backpack into position, “And here. For the ride and good conversation.”
“Thank you, Melissa,” he said pocketing the money, and walking away. Hesitating, he turned back around. “Say, Missy. Hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but I noticed how you looked when I talked about the other girls. I just wanted to tell you to have confidence in yourself. You don’t have anything to worry about. You’re special. I could see that even with you sitting in the backseat of my beat-up cab. You got the look of eagles and can take this all the way. Okay?”
Was her insecurity so obvious that even cab drivers were calling her out on it?
“Okay,” she replied quietly, hoping that the doubt didn’t invade her statement.
Smiling, he trotted back to his cab. With a reassuring wave he was gone. Picking up her bags, she hesitated before the old doors. Despite the kind words running through her head, she was feeling uneasy—a premonition overshadowing her mindset. The grand building aided in that imagery. The door seemed an entrance to a lion’s den. Large enough to swallow her whole, she was convinced that Velofsky’s would eat her alive.
Chapter Three
Gripping her suitcases, Melissa crossed the vestibule. Stopping in the office, she was given a warm greeting by Tracey Gehrling, the school’s manager. Handed a packet that included class schedules, general information, a list of do’s and don’ts, she found out her room assignment. No elevator installed, she climbed t
h
e three flights of stairs, checking the three-digit number against the ones on the line of doors. Exuberant sounds of newly-paired roommates ringing out in the air, she hoped her pairing was as successful.
The creep factor was escalating. Checking behind her, she finally reached the end of the hall, the gold letters on the door reading, “332.” Matching the number written on the piece of paper shoved in her anorak pocket, she shifted her bag, placing her ear against the wood’s surface. Listening for sounds that the room was occupied, muffled steps and a sharp bang of a closing drawer told her it was. She knocked on the door. Standing uncomfortably, she waited for a response. Raising her hand to knock again, the door was flung open before she had the chance.
An attractive young girl stared back at her, an
“I’ve seen it all”
expression on her fresh face. Her blue eyes giving Melissa the once-over, she was sizing up the competition.
“Well, come on in. It’s your room, too, or so they tell me,” she said too callously to befit her age. Not possible for anyone to be that jaded in such a short amount of time, it held true for even a ballet dancer.
Missy entering with trepidation and a tremulous grin, the room was small, but more than adequate to make downtime pleasant. Two twin beds running parallel against opposing walls, two high-boy dressers were fitted into each corner. A huge bureau dominating the center space, a deep purple chair was tucked under a desk. The walls were coated in a muted yellow making it was hard to tell if it was a deliberate color choice or if the paint had merely faded.
Dropping her bags, she dismissed the less than jubilant welcome. Sensing this girl was putting on an act, she hoped her instincts were right. If not, it was going to be a long 12 weeks.
“Hi, I’m Melissa,” she said, gently closing the door. “Melissa Solange. And you are?”
“Brandi with an ‘i.’”
“Brandi?”
“Yes, you know. Like the stuff you drink. Brandi Cappella.”
“Cappella?”
“Yeah, as in ‘a Cappella.’ You have trouble hearing or something?”
Taking the last bit of clothing out of the nearly emptied suitcase, Brandi made another trip to the dresser.
“Sorry, I just wanted to get it right. We are going to be roommates and all …” she explained, suddenly self-conscious about behaving like an idiot.
“Whatever. These two drawers are yours,” the petite blonde said, flicking her long hair away from her oval face. “Along with this top one. I’m taking the right-hand side of the closet and this bed,” she explained. Flinging herself down on the twin bed closest to the door, she crossed her arms as if anticipating an all-out war.
“Cool,” was Melissa’s casual reply. After all, Brandi had been the first to arrive, and accordingly, had semi-judiciously divided the space. So what if she’d kept the lion's share? Still seeming fair, the extra two drawers weren’t worth a fight. Tossing her bag onto her bed, she unzipped her anorak, heading to the closet to hang it up.
“Neat freak, huh?”
Glancing at Brandi, she seemed more relaxed. Lying on her side, she had propped her head up on her hand. Guessing that the mellowing in temperament meant she’d passed some sort of test, perhaps Brandi had expected her to be difficult about the arrangements. Since on bad days, everyone involved in ballet seemed high-strung and unreasonable, Melissa dubbed it the “diva syndrome.” Only a small minority involved in such unprofessional, disruptive behavior, it was there—just like slippery spots on the new designer dance floors.
“Listen, if you want another drawer …” Brandi offered, making a concession that proved her first instinct right. A decent person, she was covering it up with a false bravado used to drive the carnivores away. The guise dropped, the floodgates opened. Both girls were freed to be themselves.
“No, don’t be ridiculous,” Melissa responded. “This is fine. And, I don’t know if I would categorize myself as a neat freak …” she replied, a smile playing on her lips, “but everyone else sure does.”
“I knew it! You just look really precise and perfect. And those feet! Arggh! Banana feet, right? That’s something I’ll never have,” she said lifting her right leg à la seconde and pointing her foot in the air. Melissa cast a knowing eye.
“Yeah, like you have anything to complain about. Miles of gorgeous leg and no thigh or butt in sight. Can you really tell what kind of feet I have in these boots? I thought they made them look like Frankenstein or something.”
“Yes! You’d have to be freakin’ blind to miss those arches! Or not involved in dance. I’m telling you some of my friends are so dense. Trying to get me to fatten up at lunch. I'm talking school friends not dance friends. They actually try to tell me I’m too thin. What am I supposed to say to that? It’s the way it is ... if you ever expect to work that is.”
“I know what you mean,” Missy
said not understanding at all. Naturally thin, she did nothing to keep her weight down. Knowing others did have to battle, she decided not to rub salt in the wound—especially since she was going for bonding and not controversy. “I guess they just don’t understand …”
“And never will!”
Melissa laughed, “Yup! They’ll have a normal life and be able to stuff their faces while we’re …”
“Starving … and all hungry … with our noses pressed against the bakery window!” Brandi teased, acting out the scenario. Collapsing back on the bed, she tucked the pillow under her head. “All for the chance to be on stage in a tutu and pointe shoes,” she sighed.
“Yeah, wearing pointe shoes that give us blisters and make us wince in pain. I swear I was the only kid in high school worried about getting bunions. It’s still an honor though. Dancing is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do,” Missy confessed, getting serious. A far-off look in her eyes, it was the same look she always got when she discussed ballet.
“I know what you mean. I’ve always known I wanted to dance,” her new acquaintance confided with a giggle, “but, I think my parents would have been happy if I’d taken a little more time out to study. But I passed! They should be happy about that. A big high school certificate to fall back on! Don’t tell me I’m not prepared in case I fail at this!”
“You won’t. You made it here didn’t you? You’ve got to be good. I mean, look who showed up for that audition.”
Brandi slapped her hand on her cheek. “Oh, yikes! Don’t remind me! That audition was so brutal!”
“Tell me about it.”
Brandi sprang up to her feet. “Did you have to do this?” she asked. Executing a quick series of moving entrechats. the room's boundaries stopped her less than stellar demonstration. “I mean, how the hell?”
“What about this one,” Melissa said getting up and starting to do a grand en l'air. Her foot knocked noisily into a dresser. “Oops, guess this room isn’t dance friendly.”
“No, it’s designed this way to either torture us in not being able to practice, or protect us so we don’t wear ourselves out,” Brandi responded, still laughing. “I really am expecting the worst. Russian teachers! I swear they know every horrible exercise in the world!”
“I know. I've crossed paths with some during my summer intensives. So where’d you audition?”
“Chicago. I live in Wisconsin though. I flew in especially for it. You?”
“New York. My teacher drove me. I live outside Baltimore, but I knew they weren’t going there!”
Melissa unzipped her suitcase, Brandi walking over to her side and inspecting the contents.
“Yup, your friends are right.”
“About what?”
“About you being a neat freak.”
Melissa broke out in a case of the titters. “Is it really that obvious?”
“You’ve got plastic around everything—even your toothbrush container! I mean, why? Isn’t the case protection enough?”
“No, not really. The plastic is necessary—especially for the leotards. You know how you look in your drawer and can’t tell which leotard is which? Like this one?” Picking up one plastic-wrapped packet, she held up the tight square. “Is this a cami? A long sleeved? A ¾ sleeved? A cap sleeved?”
“You can’t tell until you unfold it.”
“Exactly! That meant rummaging through my drawers every single day, and messing everything up to find out! Not my idea of fun so I did this,” she explained, pointing to a small picture of herself in the leotard affixed to the upper right corner. “I just browse through the pictures by lifting the right corners.”
“Oh, my dear God! We are
so
not going to get along!”