Avalanche Dance

T
here was a knock at the door. Gwen stayed in her chair by the living room window, hoping that Percy, upstairs in his room, would hear and answer it. He didn’t.

The knock came again, harder. Gwen pushed herself up and limped to the door, leaning on her cane. She opened the door.

There stood Molly, cheeks red, eyes blazing. Before Gwen could say a word, Molly took a step forward and pointed at Gwen’s chest. “You ratted on me!”

“What?”

“You ratted me out! Called the cops and got me in trouble.”

“I did not!”

“It must’ve been you. You’re the only one who was close enough to see!”

“It wasn’t me!”

“Who else could have–”

Gwen pointed back. “And what were you doing in the cabin, anyway?”

Molly ignored the question. “If it wasn’t you, then how did they know?”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me! I was in the hospital when it happened.”

Molly paused. “The hospital? What for?”

“I was in an avalanche.”

“Oh yeah, I heard about that.” Molly’s voice was softer now. “Heard your dad got banged up real bad.”

Gwen stiffened. “Yes.” She gripped the cane tighter.

Molly seemed to notice it for the first time. “You get hurt too?”

Tears stung Gwen’s eyes. She would not cry in front of her former best friend. As if Molly cared, anyway. Gwen nodded. “My leg.”

Molly didn’t answer, watching Gwen with her piercing green eyes. “Well, someone squealed. And now I have to come every day and do work for your family, to make up for the cabin.”

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

“Every day?” Gwen asked.

“Yeah. And that sucks.”

It does suck
, Gwen thought. She said, “It’s not my fault.”

Instead of replying, Molly turned away.

Gwen closed the door, hobbled to the living room, and slumped in her chair. She stared, unseeing, at the horizon.

This was terrible. It was bad enough with her mother and Percy and her friends hovering over her … but Molly too?

How was she going to hide from Molly?

M
rs. Truman clapped her hands. “All right, let’s run it again. Positions, everybody.”

Gwen took her place on the left side of the dance studio, facing the back wall, Carley to her right, Janelle behind her, the others gathered in a loose group.

“And five, six, seven, eight …” Mrs. Truman pressed play on the sound system, and the music started, a fast African drumbeat. Gwen took three steps back, then contracted her body, knees bent, lower back curved over, arms coming up in front, palms flat and pushing away.

“Contract –
unh! –
and release –
ahhh
…,” said Mrs. Truman. “Let’s see those fingers spread, Janelle. Give it some oomph. And step back-side-front …”

A woman started singing, chanting words that Gwen didn’t understand but that had a warm, celebratory feeling to them. Spinning around to the front, Gwen burst into a leap, arms raised.

“Step, step, prepare, and turn. That’s an outward pirouette, Carley,” said Mrs. Truman.

“Oops.”

Mrs. Truman stopped the music and gave Carley an exasperated smile. “You know this, Carley. Step left, step right. Now you’re ready for your pirouette, and the logical way to turn is … ?”

Giggling, Carley motioned to the left.

“Right,” Mrs. Truman said. She turned to Janelle. “And, Janelle, on that expansion, I want to see strong arms and hands. Gwen, can you demonstrate?”

Gwen bent her knees, arched her chest, and stretched her arms to either side, spreading her fingers as far as they could go. She felt the inhale of breath, the opening out.

“Beautiful, Gwen. Everybody, look. In other places, the movement is loose and free, but here I want that moment of strength. Let’s see it, Janelle.”

Janelle bent her knees and opened her arms, her fingers loosely spread.

“More!” Mrs. Truman urged as Janelle stretched her hands wider. “More! That’s it. Yes! Good. Feel that?”

Janelle nodded. Gwen knew it was hard for her. Years of ballet training had given Janelle beautiful technique but also a certain stiffness; she had trouble letting go. Gwen was the opposite, she thought ruefully; she had loads of passion but less-than-perfect technique.

“Thanks, Gwen.”

Gwen came out of the release, blushing. It was flattering that Mrs. Truman often called on her to demonstrate. She just
hoped the others didn’t think she was showing off.

“Let’s start again,” Mrs. Truman said. She turned the music back on, and Gwen fell into the familiar movements. After a while, a male voice joined the female one, adding a layer of harmony, and the drumbeat got louder. Gwen let her upper body then fall to the right, then swing to the left, fingers brushing the floor. She lifted up and suspended at the top for a breath-held moment, then fell and swung in the opposite direction. She loved that feeling of falling, sinking, giving in to gravity. That was what African dancing was all about, the connection to the earth, the knees bent, the upper body loose and free.

They moved into another leap, and out of the corner of her eye, Gwen watched Carley soar. Her friend might be absent-minded, but she was built like a willow, all arms and legs. And when she leaped, she stayed airborne for what seemed like an impossible time. Gwen had once asked her how she did it, and Carley had shrugged. “I just think
up,”
she’d said with a grin.

“Left arm. Right.
Oof!
Really punch it. That’s it, Janelle, you got it. Head left, right, and step, step, and throw the arms.”

They ran through the dance several more times. At the end of class, while the girls were mopping their faces and pulling on their jeans, Mrs. Truman called for attention.

“I have something exciting to tell you about,” she said.

Gwen, taking a drink of water, capped her bottle and turned to face her teacher. Mrs. Truman was holding a sheaf of papers.

“The University of British Columbia Dance Department is
holding a special workshop for young dancers this summer, with an emphasis on choreography. It’s called Dancemakers and it’s for teens aged fourteen to eighteen.”

Dancemakers
.

A shiver went up Gwen’s back.

Mrs. Truman held up the flyer. “It’s a three-week program. There are daily technique classes and choreography workshops with leading choreographers. It finishes with a recital showcasing student-composed dances.”

There was a buzz of voices. “Wow … . UBC … . Sounds amazing … . Think I could get in?”

Gwen clutched her water bottle, her heart pounding.

“Now, it
is
rather costly,” Mrs. Truman went on, “and I know that’s going to be a problem for some of you.”

“How much?” Janelle asked.

“Seven hundred fifty.”

Gwen gasped.

“Of course, that includes room and board and all your classes,” Mrs. Truman added.

“Count me out,” someone said.

“Like, that would be how many hours of babysitting?” another girl asked.

“Fourteen thousand,” someone answered, and everyone laughed.

Gwen pushed the money out of her mind, concentrating on what Mrs. Truman was saying next.

“You have to audition to get in. Auditions are in Vancouver, or you can send a video of a dance you’ve choreographed. Three minutes max.”

Three minutes
, Gwen thought. Three minutes to show them you deserved to be there.

“The competition will be stiff,” Mrs. Truman continued, walking around the room and handing out flyers. “But many of you, I think, have a good chance of getting in.” Her eyes rested on Gwen for a moment before she moved on. “And I’ll be happy to help you work on your dances.”

Amid a buzz of excited chatter, the dancers left in twos and threes. As Gwen finished pulling on her sweatshirt and boots, Carley and Janelle came over.

“Three whole weeks of dancing!” Gwen said. “Can you imagine? Making up dances, dancing day and night …”

“Amazing,” Carley said.

“Incredible,” Janelle added.

“You going?” Carley asked them.

Janelle sighed. “I’d love to. But we’re going to be away then. How about you guys?”

“I’d never get in,” Carley said. “I could make up a dance, but then I’d never remember it.”

Gwen laughed. “As long as you put lots of leaps into it, you’d be fine.”

Wrapping her scarf around her neck, Janelle said, “A girl I know in Kelowna went last year, and she said it was fabulous.
Killer classes, all-day rehearsals, but a great time. They stayed in a dorm and had a blast. And her dancing really improved.”

Gwen imagined it. She saw herself in a studio, the wall of mirrors, the windows, the space. Feeling high on exhaustion and covered in sweat. Getting critiqued by professionals. Piling a throng of girls into someone’s dorm room and chatting half the night.

“I’d kill to go,” Gwen said, and her friends laughed.
But I really mean it
, she thought.

Carley and Janelle waved good-bye and left as Gwen buttoned her jacket.

“Gwen?”

She turned.

“What do you think?” Mrs. Truman asked.

Gwen’s hands flew to her chest. “Oh, Mrs. Truman.”

“You’d have an excellent chance. I’m sure of it.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“You’ll make the age cutoff, won’t you?”

Gwen nodded. “I’ll be fourteen in June.”

“Skin of your teeth,” Mrs. Truman said.

Gwen giggled. Then she grew serious. “It’s so much money.”

“I know. I can’t offer to pay your way, Gwen, but anything else I can do, I’m here.”

“Help me with my dance?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks!”

Gwen tucked the flyer in her dance bag and left. Outside, she was surprised to see that it was snowing lightly. It had been raining when she went into class. But this was one of those crazy winters. Normally it only rained in Thor Falls, about sixty miles up the coast from Vancouver. Endless storms through November, December, January, February, winds pushing clouds off the Pacific, colliding with mountains, dumping one rainstorm after another on the coast.