Authors: Thalia Kalkipsakis
I smile back. ‘We’ll just have to make sure we don’t.’
My backpack always feels heavy at the end of a Friday. I shift the strap and lean on a locker door.
‘I’ve booked a studio,’ I say to the back of Paige’s head. ‘Want to stay back?’
‘Again?’ She turns to me, pushing a strand of hair off her forehead. ‘Aren’t you wrecked?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Hey, ladies!’ calls Grant from the other end of the hall. He makes his way towards us, beaming like a male lead that just stepped onstage. ‘We’re going to catch a movie tomorrow night. Want to come? Last chance to, you know …’ He flicks a hand dramatically. ‘
Live
a little before rehearsal season.’
I can’t resist a dig at Paige. ‘I don’t know. We’re
really wrecked
.’
She glares at me before turning to Grant. ‘Is Tadpole going?’
I bump her with my hip and receive another glare.
‘Hey,
Tadpole
!’ Grant calls down the hall. ‘Coming to the movies?’
A hand shoots up above the heads, thumb extended.
‘I’d say that’s a yes.’ Grant winks at Paige.
It would be comical if it wasn’t so sweet, seeing someone as tall as Paige trying to shrink herself away.
‘Cool,’ I say.
‘Great! Six o’clock at the Complex. We’ll grab a bite first.’ Grant does a flourish with one hand and leads into a graceful curtsey.
I can’t help laughing, straight into a deep bow.
When he’s gone, Paige sighs. ‘Well, I’m going home. Some of us humans need to rest.’
For a moment we look at each other, and I smile. Paige slips an arm around me and squeezes. Then she heads off towards the bus stop. I wander through the noise of the hall to the studios at the back, feeling adrenaline spike over the tiredness.
The noise outside disappears with the click of the studio door. Quiet settles around me. I drop my bags and slip off my shoes. Twirl an ankle, crunch my toes, preparing. Love the way that feels.
At the sound system, I press through a sequence of buttons that I’ve used a million times before. I run to position at the side of the studio, shoulders square and head high, opening myself to the phantom audience. Quiet is replaced by the energy of electric violins, and I begin.
The steps come easily, soft in places, strong in others, smooth and seamless in between. I don’t need the mirror to know which parts are working. These days it’s all in the feel.
The ending comes quickly – a leap into a kneeling hold. Quiet returns to the studio. For a while I stand, hands on hips, thinking my way back through the piece.
For a solo assignment it’s fine, but for an audition piece it needs work. The opening is okay but the second half seems flat. Repetitive. Or is that because I’ve gone through it so many times?
No, there’s more to it than that. I move to the centre of the floor and pick up from the middle of the piece, adding an extra head flick, and swapping a simple kick for a harder combination. It works. Should I try a triple turn instead of a double near the end? It would be risky. But I’ll just practise until it isn’t a risk anymore.
When I am satisfied with the changes, I press play on the sound system and begin again. I’m sweating when I finish. For a third time I hit play and make changes. Only two this time. Each takes me closer to where I want the piece to be.
I’ve just finished yet another run-through when stars creep in from the edges of my sightline, and I know I’ve had enough. I move to the barre and lean my forearms on it, waiting for the tingling blackness to recede.
Outside the streetlights are on and rain is falling in car headlights. Didn’t realise it was so late.
I turn away from the window and check my phone. Damn. Two messages from Mum. I call her back and she answers in one ring. ‘Scarlett. Where are you?’
‘Sorry, I’m still at school. Lost track of time.’
‘Do you want me to pick you up?’
‘Just meet me at the bus stop?’ I ask.
‘Okay.’
Rain comes in with me when I slide into the front seat. It’s a relief to shut the door. I drop my gear at my feet and zhoosh up my hair, wondering if I’m getting any water on Mum. Whether she’ll get annoyed.
‘Tights again?’ she says, looking at my outfit. ‘You think they’re appropriate for the bus?’
It’s not a question I can answer without starting a fight, so I just shrug. I like looking like a dancer. ‘At least I’m wearing street shoes,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. She doesn’t react.
Mum checks the mirror before pulling away from the curb. ‘How’d it go today?’
I shift in my seat. ‘Good.’ There’s no way I’m telling her about the audition. ‘Wish they’d let us use the studios on the weekend.’
I feel her look at me then back at the road.
‘You already work too hard.’
‘Says who?’ She’s not a dancer so I don’t expect her to understand.
After a while Mum sighs and glances at me again. ‘Just try to keep it in perspective. That’s all I’m saying.’
So I say, ‘Okay,’ because everything
is
in perspective. Dancing’s not just something I do, it’s who I am.
I should wait until we’re home, I know, but I pull the seatbelt away from my neck so that I can look at Mum properly. ‘So, today? Jack said that I should totally audition for the NBC.’
Mum keeps facing the road as she drives. In the dim light I see her neck lengthen, her face harden. ‘We’ve been through this,’ she mutters.
‘Actually,
you’ve
been through this.’
‘Scarlett …’
‘It’s one of the world’s top ballet companies. Why won’t you at least let me try?’
‘I’ve told you already,’ she snaps. ‘There are other companies. I won’t let you waste your life chasing a ghost.’
‘Chasing
a ghost
?’
‘Scarlett, please.’
That’s not even the real reason; it’s just what she says. This is about
her
ghosts, not mine. She can’t handle anything that reminds her of the accident. Anytime something makes her think of Dad she turns away, nursing a wound that never seems to heal.
For a while the only sound is the swishing of the wipers. I flex my foot, feeling a twinge, and think about classes today. Jack.
Talk to her.
After a while, I take a breath. Another try. ‘Look, I know it hurts. But it’s my life. It should be my choice.’
‘Scarlett, that’s enough!’
‘No, it’s not enough.’ She has no right to keep doing this. ‘You never let me talk about him.’
‘Because there’s nothing to say.’ Mum grips the steering wheel with both hands as we stop at a light.
‘But he was my father! He was a principal artist at the NBC. You never tell me anything –’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Mum’s head whips around towards me, her face half in shadow. ‘How bad it was after his shoulder injury?’
‘No. I don’t mean –’
‘The roles he missed out on? Or do you want to hear about the accident? The way his car wrapped around the power pole?’
I shrink back. ‘Stop it! I don’t mean that!’
The lights turn green and Mum fumbles with the gearstick, crunching into first and swearing under her breath. Our words echo between us.
He was my father.
There’s nothing to say.
I rest my head against the window, watching light fall on the glass before disappearing and returning again. I’ll stand up to her about this, but not tonight. Not until I know how to change her mind.
‘Want some pasta?’ Mum asks when we get home. It’s a peace offering.
‘Nah thanks,’ I say, but the look on her face makes me add, ‘I’m too tired. I’ll just grab a yoghurt.’
She hovers as I choose a tub from the fridge, then disappears into the living room.
I’m hungrier than I realised and I end up sneaking a handful of almonds and then slurping a whole tomato as well. It wakes me up again and I worry that I won’t sleep. But after a hot shower I sink into bed, and the only sensation in my body is heaviness.
The next morning, I’m lifted out of sleep by the notes of a rising piano scale. For a while I let them carry me, eyes closed, knees to chest. When the scale changes I sit on the edge of the bed. Crack my neck. Crunch my toes. I pull on denim shorts from under my bed and choose a T-shirt that I’ve had since I was ten. Still fits, though tighter.
In the kitchen I boil an egg, aware that Mum can hear water in the pipes and must know that I’m up. I never go in when she’s teaching. The noise that we make is our conversation.
I take a glass of water upstairs and slip the registration form out of my bag. It’s easy to fill in. At ‘Date of Birth’ I drop the year back by two but keep the day and month the same. Under ‘Professional Experience’ I let my pen hover then write, ‘none.’ I can lie about my age but not about my dancing.
Then I place the sheet to one side and pull out my books. Mum and I have an agreement – I stay at the Academy only as long as I keep up my grades.
I’m in the middle of a French grammar exercise when an image of the audition tomorrow comes to me. Messing up. Missing my triple turn. I must be hungry.
Downstairs I pull open a tin of tuna, eating straight from the can and listening to stilted attempts at
Ode to Joy
. Sounds like a new student. I return to my books and work for another couple of hours before reaching a brick wall, the limit of my concentration.
Now there’s nothing to distract me from the audition and it becomes impossible to sit still. I get busy organising my gear, music, water. It’s not until ten o’clock tomorrow, but I’m ready three times over and still the adrenaline is pumping. Dancing’s the only antidote for the way I feel now. I spend the next hour stretching, marking out the steps, moving through the nerves.
It’s a relief when the clock finally clicks over to five-thirty. I throw my phone and a few other things into a bag and head downstairs.
Mum’s sitting out the back, a newspaper open on the table.
I stick my head out the door. ‘I’m going out. Back by ten.’ It’s worth a try.
Her eyes lift. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Just the movies. With Paige, Izzy, Grant, Tadpole … you know, usual crowd.’
‘All right.’ Mum peers over her glasses at my tight T-shirt, my bare legs. That frown again. ‘After you change into something more appropriate to wear in public.’
For a moment I glare at her. She’s never happy with what I wear, but I grit my teeth. ‘Okay.’
Upstairs, I look in the mirror and fluff up my hair so that it falls thick and full around my shoulders, flaming red.
Ever since I can remember, my hair has attracted glances. It’s like a light that’s always switched on. So I use it to my advantage. Big hair, a bit of cleavage, a lot of leg. I know how it works. When you look a certain way, you get what you want.
That’s unless you have a mum like mine.
I strip down to bra and undies then head out of my door, across the landing and into Mum’s bedroom. The reinvention takes only a few minutes. It’s just a dress-up game, rated M.
I make my way downstairs and pose just the right way at the back door. ‘How’s this?’
I wait as Mum turns to take it in. I’ve had my eye on this red dress for years, cut to the thigh, with a revealing neckline. Plus stiletto heels. Mum’s clothes, all of them. She can’t complain about my choice this time.
‘Too much?’ I ask.
Mum barely reacts, a parting of her lips is the only hint that I’ve landed a victory. The dress is too small for her now, but I’ve seen it in photos. I look way better in it than she ever did. It hugs my body in all the right places. I know enough of the world to know what these clothes would say to the right kind of guy.
Mum knows it too.
‘The shoes? They’re too much?’ I swivel, showing off the lines, and then glance up to see the impact.
Mum sighs.
‘I’ll change them,’ I say after a while.
‘Good,’ is all that she says.
I make my way up the stairs, feeling her eyes track my steps. I slip out of my heels and replace them with flats, then layer the red dress with a black top.
Back downstairs I place a hand on the doorknob and call goodbye. Her reply comes when I’m already outside.
Of course, I’m late to the Complex. Everyone’s talking about auditions for our graduation performance.
‘What about you, Scarlett?’ asks Izzy, as I slip into a seat. ‘How’s your solo coming along?’
I look across at Paige. ‘Yeah … actually, I’m pretty happy with it so far.’ She returns my gaze with a slight nod.
Izzy groans and f lops dramatically in her seat. ‘Gawd, Scarlett, I hate you
so much
…’
‘Thanks, Izz.’ I grin. ‘I hate you too.’
The conversation stays on the grad performance for the rest of the meal and moves to exams during the ads before the movie. Talking only stops once we’ve been shushed a few times.
‘Anyone for a coffee?’ asks Grant when we’re all standing around outside after the movie.
Izzy nods, while Tadpole does his usual thumbs up. ‘I’d kill for an espresso,’ he says.
Everyone turns to me and Paige as we exchange a look. Paige shakes her head slightly and I’m glad that even Tadpole isn’t enough to keep her out this late.
We say goodbye and head for the buses. Suddenly there are no distractions between now and the audition tomorrow.
‘I’ve checked the timetable. We can catch the 9.35 train straight to the MPG Studios,’ Paige says once we’re nearly at the stop. ‘It’ll make us a bit early.’
‘Great.’ I hug myself against the breeze. ‘So we’ll meet on the steps at, what … a bit before nine-thirty?’
‘Yeah. What are you going to tell your mum?’
I shrug. ‘That I’m hanging out with you. It’s not even a lie.’
We’re quiet for a while after that, but I feel the excitement coming from Paige as she rocks from one foot to the other. After a while she stops. ‘Man, I feel sick.’
‘Having second thoughts?’
‘No way.’ She tilts her head and the corners of her mouth curl up. ‘What about you?’
‘Nope.’ I grin back. ‘I can’t believe we haven’t tried this before.’
It takes us ages to reach building six at MPG Studios, not because we get lost but because the place is so big. We walk in silence and at speed, not wanting to look out of place even though we feel it. I’m aware of Paige’s contained energy beside me, but it’s not until she touches my shoulder and points that my heart really kicks into gear.