It’s not like I’d be jealous or anything. Everyone knows it’s a disaster to hook up with someone you’ve been friends with since third grade. A person you had to inform, at age twelve, that deodorant is a rather useful invention. Somebody you know goes commando on hot days and you don’t even find it gross anymore. Put simply, Jacy and I have WTMI: Way Too Much Information about each other.
Whatever. By the time I enter Moving Arts, the line of tutu-skirted preschoolers waiting to check in for Fairy Tale Dance reaches halfway across the studio’s air-conditioned lobby. The din is deafening, which is why I stamp at least fourteen class cards before realizing what should have been obvious.
What’s the worst thing that can happen?
With the stunt he pulled out on the street, Jeremy Carl Strode clearly avoided having to come up with an answer.
That’s when I decide there’s a new question of the day.
What—or maybe who—is Jacy hiding?
Chapter 2
I’m in the middle of organizing class cards when I feel a presence at the other side of the reception desk. Lynette Williams, the studio’s owner and a former professional dancer herself, points to the clock.
“If you’re taking Quentin,” she says, “go change. Lord knows you’d better be on time.”
I hurry down the hallway. Another perk of working at the studio is that I have my own locker in the teachers’ changing area. That means I don’t have to get undressed in front of a million people. Baring my privates to a bunch of gossipy girls is not something that floats my boat.
Alone in the small room, I throw on my dance stuff and twist my hair into a bun. Its waviness comes from my mom. Although born in Puerto Rico, my mother and her family moved to Baltimore when she was a baby. After nursing school, Mom married a musician who was a mixture of Italian, African-American and, he claimed, a bit of Cherokee. They followed his dream to Brooklyn but he left town a year or so after I was born.
The mixed-salad heritage gave me almond eyes, full lips and a button nose—an “exotic look” my friend Clarissa says is “hot right now.” Long legs help make battements, straight-legged kicks, my specialty. The Ballet I teacher used to call me “the Battement Queen.” Jacy, however, thought I said “Batman’s Queen.” For years after, whenever we played superhero, my special power was the lightning-fast kick-to-the-villain’s-head. Jacy picked laser fingers that could burn any object.
Right now, however, I wish I had the power of invisibility. Class has already started by the time I slip into Studio A.
“Nice of you to join us, Ms. Ruffino.”
Quentin Carlyle, Modern IV’s oh-so-fabulous teacher, is a Brit with a rep. It’s mainly because he used to perform with Martha Graham’s company, although it’s obvious he had a lot of ballet. That’s why he insists that everyone taking his class have enough classical training to keep up, which is fine with me. I started with ballet when I was little, before my mad love for Modern kicked in.
Quentin has short gray hair, a flexible body and a disapproving glare that tightens the muscles of even the best dancers. Definitely old-school, the Cranky Brit will bite the head off anyone who calls what he teaches “Contemporary.” He always choreographs an unbelievable duet for the winter concert. The female part is the Moving Arts dream role.
“Back row.” He points a slender finger. “Make it quick.”
Samantha gives me her “poor baby” look—her concern so fake it’s laughable. She’d gotten there fifteen minutes earlier to warm up on her own. Her parents are rich, so she doesn’t have to stamp class cards and replace toilet paper before taking class.
Sam’s practically anorexic, with silky hair that would make her a perfect choice for shampoo commercials—except for one thing. Her eyes. Not only are they two different colors—one is dark brown and the other ocean-blue—but the blue eye is almost double the size of the brown one. It’s like God was playing Mr. Potato Head when she was created, got distracted by an earthquake or something so He pulled eyepieces from different sets.
Shooting her a “no problem in my life” smile, I settle between Keisha Watson, so shy she practically rents the last row, and “Check Out My Guns” Blake Russell. Blake’s worried that someone will question his manhood. He works out—and flirts—constantly. He gives me his “you’re so bad” wink, but I ignore him to concentrate on Quentin.
I live for this class. Even though the Cranky Brit’s an obsessive-compulsive drill sergeant, hurling insults left and right, it’s not only my technique that improves after every session. When I nail one of his combinations, the surge of confidence it gives me is unreal. It’s as if Quentin has reached inside, pulled everything I’m good at and laid it right out there for all the world to see.
The floor warm-up ends. As we move to the round, wooden barre attached to the back wall for a series of parallel leg lifts, I glance at the mirrors lining the front of the room. Already, tendrils of hair have escaped my poorly twisted bun to curl into sweaty ringlets.
Quentin snaps his fingers. “Muscles adore heat, luvies. Streeetch.”
After the barre, I down some water and watch him demonstrate the day’s combination. Its quick leap comes out of an off-balance turn. It flows beautifully but is, I soon find out, extremely tricky.
Chaîné, coupé, jeté. Quentin choreographed the opening turn in bended-knee plié, not the half-toe lift a ballet teacher would choose. It gives the combination a grounded beginning, so that the off-balance coupé, coupled with the big leap, is more of a surprising contrast.
But it’s hard. The room fills with the musky odor of hard work and quiet concentration.
“Alicia!” Quentin’s bark startles me. “You look like an elephant. Shoulder toward your throwing leg, then bend deeply as you land. And don’t look at your feet! Demonstrate, Samantha, that’s a luv.”
Her effortless leap ends with an elegant landing that barely whispers against the wood. She gives me an oh-so-concerned smile. “Do you want me to show you again?”
“I got it, thank you.” My voice matches hers—poisoned honey.
Quentin gives the rest of us the knotted-together, bushy-eyebrow glare. “Same arm as leg, dancers. Right arm reaches for the right leg!” Lightbulb-popping “ohs” circle the room as several people make the adjustment.
He raps his knuckles on the mirror. “Fours across the floor. There’s room for three sets, back to front on the diagonal. And don’t forget. Make it your own or you’ll never get out of the corps!”
Make it my own? I’m still having trouble making it correctly. I slink into the last group alongside Keisha. With her long neck and perfect cheekbones, she looks like Ethiopian royalty. She’s also way too talented to hide in the back. Then again, Keisha’s several years younger than the rest of us, so that might explain why she’s such a shrinking violet.
She and I mark the combination while the quartets travel across the floor. “Down, down, turn,” I mumble as each group starts. When it’s our turn, I start off fine but somehow screw up so I end behind the beat.
