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  An iced latte might perk me up. The men who had ogled Petra were waiting for their drinks. Mustached and leathery-skinned, they tried to catch my eye. I ordered, then pretended to be lost in thought.

  “You from around here?” one of them said.

  I couldn’t ignore a direct question. I nodded.

  “We’re just visiting from the States.”

  You don’t say.

  “You a ballet dancer?” the other one said.

  That made my head turn. “How did you know?” For a second I thought maybe they recognized Petra.

  The ham-fisted tourist reached over and patted the bun of hair at the back of my head. I ducked and twisted away from him, protecting my head and neck with both hands.

  “How about introducing us to your friend?” the other one said.

  Adrenaline flooded my veins and my face felt hot. I was on the verge of telling them to fuck off when the barista rolled her eyes in sympathy and passed me my drink. She had made mine first. “Thank you so much.”

  “Anytime.”

  I plunked too much money on the counter and didn’t wait for change.

  It took me a few cool sips to recover. That jerk had some nerve patting my head. Petra agreed. The men passed us on their way outside to the smoking area. We pretended they didn’t exist.

  When I got home, Lisa called. She urged me to stay in the show. “It may be our last chance to perform together!” she said. “Besides, you love Petra’s piece.”

  Mom overheard me talking to Lisa and got pretty worked up. “Who does that woman think she is? She has no right to expel you from a single class, let alone threaten to cut you out of a piece in the show. I should get your father to call her up and remind her of how much money he’s poured into her school over the years. Of all the nerve!”

  Mom gets fired up about injustice. It makes her want to fight back. But my fighting spirit is broken, at least where Ms. Kelly is concerned. So tomorrow I’m sleeping in.

  Tuesday, July 20th

  This morning the phone rang as I was shuffling into the kitchen, barely awake. Mom was taking a shower. I thought about letting the machine pick up, but habit won. I answered.

  “Natalie, is that you? It’s Ms. Kelly from Dance-Is.”

  My system jolted into high alert. “This is Natalie.”

  “I’m sorry for losing my patience yesterday. Of course I want you in the jazz piece. I just want to see a bit of the old Nat—the old fire. Deal?”

  I held my breath and looked at the calendar above the phone. Four days to go.

  “Okay?” I detected desperation in her voice.

  “I talked to Petra,” I said.

  “Yes? And?”

  “And I’m going to keep working with her.”

  “That’s great.” She paused. “But we need you in the jazz piece too. Forget what I said yesterday.”

  My stomach swirled and my knees trembled. I planted my hand on the kitchen counter as a word sliced across my mind. “No. I’ll do Petra’s class and her rehearsal, but that’s it.”

  When I hung up, my head swam. It reminded me of the caffeine rush after a latte.

  “Who was that?” Mom walked into the kitchen in her bathrobe.

  “You can’t fire me, I quit!”

  Mom toweled her hair, looking puzzled.

  Wednesday, July 21st

  I’m lying on my bed in shorts and a tank top with the window open. The air smells the way a glass of water tastes when you’re really thirsty. A slight breeze tickles my bare arms and legs. My quilt is bunched up to one side. I’m waiting to see how much cooler it has to get before it’s more comfortable to pull the covers over me than to lie here without them. The cordless phone rests in my palm and I keep twirling it. I can’t decide whether or not to call Sasha.

  Things between us aren’t as bad as they were that day in the change room when she refused to speak in my presence, let alone to me. We say hi to each other. She doesn’t seem very happy, though. The family obviously wasn’t getting along that well before Kevin’s accident, and now tensions must run that much higher. Aside from the drunk driving, Kevin wasn’t even supposed to be living there this summer. He had planned to be up north making money so he could move out in the fall. I remember Sasha telling me how much she was looking forward to that. It’s pretty tight quarters in their town house, and I think she and Kevin fight a lot.

  He was so mellow when we rode our bikes together. He wasn’t even smoking or chewing anything. When we watched the sunset, I wanted him to hold me. Other memories—the lake memories—make my heart race, whether from excitement or fear, I can’t tell. Maybe both. Maybe I am “old enough.” I’ve had my period for a whole year. That means I’m biologically a woman, right?

  God, what am I saying? See, this is why I can’t phone Sasha’s house. I don’t know what I might get myself into if Kevin answers. It’s much too scary. If we’re going to make up, it will have to be at the studio.

  Thursday, July 22nd

  Tonight we went to the closing softball game at Paige’s summer camp. Mom’s friend Marine came along. When Paige invited her to watch a game that day at the library, I didn’t expect her to take it seriously. She must be pretty hard up for entertainment. On the other hand, she obviously loves the sport. Every time anyone on Paige’s team hit the ball, caught it, or advanced to the next base, Marine led the cheers. Paige looked great in her blue and white costume—I mean, uniform. When her team won, we jumped to our feet, waved our arms, and yelled.

  In a diner after the game, Paige and I claimed one side of the booth, Mom and Marine the other. Kids versus grown-ups, the way we used to sit when Dad and Mom were married. Now, though, I don’t seem to fit on either side of the table.

  Paige ordered a veggie-burger platter. While I was picking at my green salad, I stared at her fries. Their edges were jagged as though cut with pinking shears, and I wanted to feel the hot, greasy ridges on my tongue, to taste the pulpy potato inside. Puberty hasn’t struck Paige yet. Her skin remains pimple-free, her body unbloated.

  For dessert, she ordered a banana split. It came with four spoons so that we could all share it. Maybe I shouldn’t have cared, since I’m not performing in the jazz number this weekend, but I kept visualizing myself in that scarlet unitard. I imagined the ice cream particles traveling directly to my chunky calves and saddlebag thighs and taking up permanent residence. Mom didn’t help. She said, “Dig in!” like a crazed archaeologist and thrust a spoon at me.

  To distract myself, I asked Marine about her name. She lit up as if that was her favorite question.

  “My parents named me Maureen, but I changed it because I like the sea and the color blue.” Check: she was wearing a turquoise blouse with a white collar, a white breast pocket, and large white buttons. Her blunt haircut and wing-shaped glasses echoed the angular patterns on her clothes. I had to admit, the lady had style.

  “Your blouse is funky,” I said.

  Marine beamed. Mom looked over, a spoonful of ice cream hovering in front of her mouth, then glanced away, as if she didn’t want to jinx the moment. I realized that I could avoid eating my portion of the sundae by taking an interest in Marine.

  “Did you make it yourself?”

  It turns out that Marine makes and sells clothes, and she’s also a painter. She teaches art at an alternative school, where they don’t give grades. She encourages her students to express themselves and doesn’t evaluate or judge. Now that I’m working with Petra, Marine’s ideas don’t sound so dumb.

  Marine swallowed a spoonful of ice cream. “This banana split is bliss.”

  I thumped my water glass on the table and glared at Mom.

  “Sorry, Nat.”

  Marine darted her eyes back and forth from me to Mom. “Did I say something wrong?”

 
; “It’s okay,” Mom said. “It’s just—we avoid that word.”

  Marine set down her spoon and looked at the sundae. “Banana split?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, bl—the other b word?”

  “That’s the one. I’ll explain later.”

  I glared at Mom again. I didn’t want her talking about me behind my back. Dad’s selfish pursuit of “bliss” didn’t deserve any more air time, either.

  “No need to explain,” Marine said. “From now on, I banish that word from my vocabulary. Poof! Gone. Didn’t need it anyway.” Her tone was so reassuring that I relaxed and lounged against the booth.

  Friday, July 23rd

  Almost time for dress rehearsal. Ms. Kelly’s going to find out that I’m not half, but twice the dancer I used to be. Of course, Petra’s piece will probably look messy and unfinished to her. There’s not much unison, we work in turned-in positions, the lines of our arms and legs are often soft, not sharp—we actually try to look like spaghetti at one point, an image Ms. Kelly only ever uses as an insult. Also, we’re performing in wide-legged pants. She’ll sniff and ask us if we’re supposed to be at a pajama party. But I don’t care. I bet Mom will like it.

  Saturday, July 24th

  The good, the bad, the ugly.

  Backstage (that is, in the high school locker room) before the show, all the other senior girls were pulling on their red unitards for the jazz piece. The modern piece was in the second half, so I kept my sweats on. I was taking time with my makeup and trying hard not to feel left out. I had never missed out on a piece before. Lisa was keeping me company, though she had pulled a hamstring and was a little preoccupied. I offered her some tiger balm, and the smells of menthol and camphor spread as she rubbed it into her leg.

  A few lockers away, Sasha was talking quietly to Jamie, with her back to me. Jamie kept darting glances at me.

  “Pee-ew, smells like moth balls in here,” Sasha said over her shoulder.

  I concentrated on applying eyeliner.In the mirror, I saw Sasha turn around.

  “I think Ms. Kelly realizes that some people just shouldn’t wear unitards. They’re not flattering to everyone,” she said. “It’s so easy to put on five or ten pounds, but unitards don’t let you get away with anything. You’re so lucky you don’t have to wear one of these, Natalie.”

  I gave her a fake smile. How come I never noticed how catty she is? I used to play along, of course. I hate to think of how many times we would phone each other up and say, “Did you see what so-and-so was wearing today? Doesn’t she know that people with olive skin can’t wear pink? And how about that lipstick? Talk about fire-engine red. It totally clashed with her sweater!”

  I was still searching for a comeback when Lisa spoke up. “Having us all wear identical unitards is supposed to create a group identity. From a design perspective, it’s supposed to unite us, not divide us.”

  That was much better than I could have done. Lisa rocks.

  “How does your leg feel, Lisa?”

  “Warm and tingly. Thanks for the balm.” She wiggled her hips and swung her leg back and forth in its socket.

  Jamie grabbed Sasha and the two of them pranced by. Sasha hooked Lisa’s elbow. “Come on, Lisa, we’re on soon.”

  Lisa squeezed my hand and looked me in the eyes.

  “Merde,” I said.

  “Merde.”

  I found a spot in the wings so that I wouldn’t be around when the jazz piece ended and the girls came streaming back into the change room, giggling and complaining: “You stepped on my foot!” “Could you believe that guy hooting in the balcony?” “What the hell happened to the CD? Did it skip, or what?”

  I stayed there throughout the junior girls’ jazz number, Jamie’s solo, and the junior girls’ ballet number, stretching and bouncing to keep warm. When the time came for the modern piece, I joined the other girls on stage. As the music started and the curtain rose, I disappeared into the piece. For eight and a half minutes, I melded with the movement, the other dancers, the wooden boards under my feet.

  We lay intertwined as the lights came up. Slowly, we began to rustle and shift. Crouched in a ball, one girl raised her back into a cat arch and let it fall. Another lifted an arm and let it drift back down. On my stomach, I snaked in a wave, then pushed into a downward dog pose—hands and feet pressed into the floor, head down, hips high. Gradually, the others rose and began a repetitive motion—Jamie held both arms together as if wielding an ax and swung them down, her arms parting at the bottom of the stroke and smoothing the air to touch Sasha’s head. Half squatting, half kneeling, Sasha rolled back on herself to stand up. Her left arm reached overhead and drove down as if dunking a basket. Lisa made a circle of her arms, caught the impulse, and spun. I joined in. Backed by a soundtrack of major chords, we formed a kind of assembly line.

  The lights brightened, and our movement expanded. One by one, we took solos along an arcing pathway in front of the group. While each girl claimed center stage, the rest of us bore each other’s weight, then let ourselves be supported. Everyone worked together. To finish, the soloist rejoined the line at the opposite end. Her arrival cued the next dancer to peel off. We adjusted our spacing to fill in the gap that each left.

  During Sasha’s solo, the music changed. It pulsed and sped up, became more frenetic. In response, she jerked her arms and head and jumped erratically. Soon her solo time had elapsed, but she didn’t return to the line. The music turned into noise—shattering glass, thunderclaps, distorted voice-overs like military orders. The group splintered. In spokes, we tumbled, rolled, leapt, and dove. We narrowly missed colliding until one by one our pathways led us into the wings.

  In twos, threes, or alone, we crisscrossed the stage. In pairs, girls pushed, shoved, and tripped each other. In a trio, two ganged up on the third, either trapping her or shutting her out. When I crossed the stage alone, I staggered, disoriented, searching the ceiling. Loneliness welled to the surface and sapped my strength. My legs weighed me down. I was rooted to the spot, barely able to move. This wasn’t choreographed. I was wrecking the dance. I lagged behind the music until, with a panicked surge of effort, I propelled myself to the other side.

  A change in music renewed my energy. All of us entered and circled each other. We picked up speed and started to race. What would happen if someone couldn’t run with the pack?

  Lisa tripped and fell. The survivors scattered and kept circling. A sparring match broke out between Sasha and Jamie. The rest of us clapped like an audience at a cock fight until Jamie knocked Sasha down.

  I knelt over Sasha, held her head, and helped her pull herself into a crouch. With my arm to support her, she rose to her feet, and Jamie backed away. Sasha and I returned to Lisa, who revived at our approach and climbed into a chair we made by joining our hands at the wrists. She rode on our stretcher/throne. All of us returned to center stage to rebuild the opening tableau. We changed positions and reversed the gestures. Lisa slid to standing and assumed center stage. She planed the air, grazing my head in a caress, and then swept her arms overhead into a cone shape. Her palms touched each other in prayer.

  My heart was pounding by the time the curtain fell. The crowd was hushed. They seemed in shock and had to rouse themselves to applaud. This wasn’t the packaged entertainment they were used to. It was art. We held hands to take a bow. For a few seconds, Sasha and I stood hand-in-hand. But even before the curtain fell, she shook herself free.

  Petra rushed backstage afterwards. I couldn’t look at her. She was going to be so disappointed in me for screwing up the timing on my solo crossing. I hung back as she moved through the ranks, giving hugs and shaking hands. “Well done, Lisa! Way to go, Sasha!” I kept turning so that I faced away from her, but finally she ducked in front of me. “Nat, what’s wrong?”

  I covered my face with my hands. “I’m sorry abo
ut the crossing. I don’t know what happened.”

  She rested her hand on my shoulder. “You were phenomenal, that’s what happened!”

  I peered at her through my fingers. “Seriously?”

  “Nat, the entire audience was holding its breath at that moment. You made us feel the struggle. Do you know how hard that is? Most professional dancers never get there. It’s one thing to be pleasing to look at; it’s another thing to move the audience. You moved us.”

  I threw my arms around her. It’s not that I believed her. But it was obvious that she wasn’t mad at me. I was so relieved that I wanted to cry.

  Petra corralled everyone into the lobby for group photos. After a few formal shots, we struck poses. I was making a blowfish expression—cheeks puffed out, eyes bugged—when I met Sasha’s eyes and my face went slack. Her look was so bitter, it chilled me.

  A friendly looking, gray-haired man stood next to Petra. She introduced him to me as Lance Irving. He wasn’t very tall, but when he turned his attention on me, he seemed much larger. His deep blue eyes made me feel understood. He gripped my hand. “Lovely work.”

  I blushed. “Thank you.”

  “Natalie, Lance is moving to Victoria. He plans to teach modern here this fall,” Petra said.

  “If there’s enough interest, that is,” Lance said.

  “You would love his class,” Petra said. “I can’t recommend it highly enough. I wouldn’t be who I am today without Lance.”

  Lance hid his face. “Oh, stop.” But when he moved his hands, his eyes were shining. I could see that, deep down, he accepted her praise.

  “You can count on me, I know that,” I said. “And I’ll spread the word.”

  He tilted his head and nodded. “That’s very kind.”

  Behind Lance, Ms. Kelly was greeting parents. Just then, she turned and saw me. She hesitated, then squared her shoulders and lunged in Lance’s direction, her hand outstretched. I gave her a wan smile and turned away.

  Mom and Paige approached and gave me a homemade bouquet of bluebells and daisies. I hugged them both. “I’ll get changed and then we can get out of here,” I said.