My Seventh-Grade Life in Tights (18 page)

“Well, the first thing you’ll need to learn is what a real dancer performs in.” Mr. Baldy’s eyes were scanning a page in front of him. “Do you not have any dance tights?”

I looked down at my football pants. One of the knees had a little tear in it. Perfect. Stains, holes, rips…I was about to show my stuff in front of the most prestigious dance academy and I’d come in looking like a hobo.

“No. Not yet. I usually just dance in jeans.”

“We usually advise against that. Jeans don’t allow for a lot of movement,” Mrs. Smiley said.

“Yes, ma’am, I figured that out. But my crew said I needed to wear them.”

“Oh, you’re on a crew?”

A lump in my throat instantly swelled to the size of a football. Yeah, I was on a crew. Once. “Not anymore. I just got too—busy. Football and stuff.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Smiley said. “And what style of dance do you perform?”

“It’s, um—contemporary.”

Mrs. Smiley leaned back in her chair. “Well, we look forward to seeing what you can do, Dillon. Are you ready to get started?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay. When we cue the music, you can begin.”

I
walked to the middle of the room and did a quick checklist.

No kicks. No punches. No jumping. No fake sword-fighting.

Basically most of what my body was used to. I slid my feet into first position, mentally running through my routine while I waited.

Mrs. Smiley motioned to a girl who looked young enough to possibly be a Dance-Splosion student. She pushed a button on a small iPod dock. A wave of music I’d never heard before filled the room. But at least it was classical just like Sarah had said.

I closed my eyes and let my body do its thing.

I let every note, every melody, pour into my brain. The song soaked into my muscles and bones, all the way down to the tips of my fingers and toes. With one last big inhale, I was off.

Sissonne, step, step, spin.

Core tight, spot. Land.

I didn’t fall. My body rocked to the side a little, but I stayed on my feet.

Next, I leaped forward, forcing my toes down as hard as I could. A reach to the left, swing the arms right. I realized my fists were clenched. I shook them loose, playing it off like I was flapping my arms like wings. Or maybe doing jazz hands.

My arms wanted to fly out into a barrage of chops and slices so bad! But those were on the Do Not Perform list. And to make things worse, I’d forgotten the next move. I was supposed to get from a long reach to the right to me on the floor reaching to the left.

So instead, I swiped my arms through the air. Graceful, feathery, relaxed. Just like Sarah had taught me.

I rolled to the floor, making sure my body was as stiff as a board. It felt terrible. Like I’d been dipped in glue and I couldn’t bend.

With a quick hop, I was back on my feet. And totally lost. The music was different. My moves were different. I had to dance my guts out for those judges, but I couldn’t let go like I usually did. Sarah wasn’t kidding when she said there were rules to dance. But with all the pressure of the competition running through my veins, my body just didn’t want to obey them.

I’d barely done anything and I was already out of breath. But if I was gonna win this thing, I had to give every ounce of energy I could. I had to dance so hard I’d collapse into a puddle of dance awesomeness at the end.

Then the music stopped.

Not ended—stopped. As in someone cut it off.

I turned to look at the judges, sweat flying off the end of my nose.

“Dillon, you said you were learning some new moves?” Mrs. Smiley said.

“Yeah. I mean, yes. I’m still trying to get them right, but I’m a hard worker. I swear.”

“I’m sure you are. But what about the dancing I saw in your video?”

I shook my head. “I don’t do that style anymore. I promise.”

“That’s a shame. What’d you call it when you
did
dance it?”

There was no getting around it. I had to say it. “I called it ninja freestyle.”

Someone snorted behind me. The
W
with the jerky face.

“But I’ve been learning some new moves. Like spins and retirés and lots more.”

Mrs. Smiley leaned over to Mr. Baldy, whispering behind her hand. Whatever she was saying, he didn’t seem to be a big fan of it. After he huffed out an annoyed “Fine,” she turned to me. “Do you think you could show us some of that? The ninja freestyle? I was intrigued by your style when I saw your video. It’s why I made you my top pick as one of the finalists.”

Every inch of my body screamed,
YES! Ninja-freestyle your way into solo greatness RIGHT NOW!
I glanced behind me at Avery and Kenton. I’d never seen them dance, but I would’ve bet their technique didn’t have any punches and kicks.

I remembered what Sarah had told me. About control and discipline and rules. About lines and grace and weightlessness. About how I had none of that when I was dancing the way I’d taught myself.

And especially about how she’d find out what happened here, because she had spies or minions or something.

“I don’t dance like that anymore.”

The words felt sourer than an entire mouthful of Warheads. But I was there to win. I was there to become a real dancer.

Mrs. Smiley leaned forward. “I really wish you’d reconsider.”

If that room had been a stage, every spotlight would’ve been pointing at me as they waited for an answer. A word, a move—
anything
!

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Baldy mustered up a smile that looked like it was hurting his face. “Thank you, Dillon. We’ve seen enough.”

I walked to the back of the room and slid down the wall, feeling about as crummy as the football locker room floor. Avery was picking at the frayed edge of her ballet slippers. Her eyes were glued to the judges. They were whispering, hiding their mouths with their hands. I stretched my neck forward, trying to hear them.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know what they’re saying,” Kenton said, flipping his surfer hair out of his eyes.

“You don’t have to be mean,” Avery said.

“Just being honest.”

I picked up my sweats and laid them across the butchered knees of my football pants. “It’s not the music I’m used to. Plus the floors in there are way more slippery than—”

He smirked. “You don’t have to make excuses.”

“I’m not!” I snapped, my face feeling hot. I looked at the judges, but they were still talking.

Kenton put his hands up in
Calm down, dude
mode. “Look, you’re obviously not as trained and it shows.”

I didn’t need some turd with expensive tights to tell me that. Right as I opened my mouth, hoping a really good comeback would pop out, the iPod girl walked over.

“They’d like to see you, Kenton.”

He tossed his earbuds in his bag and jumped to his feet. “Might want to take some notes.”

Kenton followed the girl to the middle of the room. His feet snapped to first position. Even his feet looked jerky. Who knew, maybe I’d get lucky and he’d sprain a leg. Maybe he’d have his own blowout and get kicked out of the studio for showing everyone his crack.

I shoved the thoughts away. Dancers probably didn’t go around wishing horrible things to happen to other dancers. So I sat there just listening to him pop off his answers like he’d been practicing them for weeks. Mind cleared. No wishing.

But if he did happen to face-plant halfway through his routine, I wouldn’t complain.

“Don’t listen to him,” Avery said, her mouth lifting into a sympathetic smile. “He’s just trying to get into your head is all.”

I wondered why she was so nice. Compared to Sarah and Kenton, she was a Disney princess. Too bad I couldn’t have
her
tutor me all year.

After Kenton answered all the judges’ questions, the music started and he began his solo. I should’ve known by his shoes that he was a ballet dancer. They looked a lot like Sarah’s except they were black. As soon as he moved, a heavy weight grew in my stomach.

He was good.

And his legs were a pair of springs.

The guy did a double spin in the air and landed without even making a single sound. Every leap was a mile long. In fact, most of his moves were some sort of jumping. He didn’t do a whole lot of other stuff. At least I had rolled to the ground once.

After a couple of minutes, the music stopped, just like it had with mine. I perked up. Mr. Baldy was giving him a halfhearted thanks while shuffling through a stack of papers. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe nobody got through an entire routine.

Kenton walked toward the back of the room and sat down, popping his earbuds in. He scowled at the two of us. “What?”

Avery shrugged and looked at me, giggling. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. I smiled back.

“At least I didn’t show up in a bunch of hand-me-down junk,” Kenton grumbled.

The smile on Avery’s face disappeared. “It’s not hand-me-down—”

“Just regular junk, then. Okay, I get it.”

Avery hugged her legs against her chest. She sat there, eyes glued to the floor, until iPod Girl walked over.

“Avery Yates? You’re up.”

When she stood, a loose thread from her legging got stuck under her foot. She took a step and the top of it split open.

“Whoa, wait,” I said, but as I reached forward, Kenton pushed my hand back.

Avery glanced over her shoulder, the hurt from Kenton’s last comment still fresh on her face. “What?”

Kenton gave his head a quick shake. I knew why he wouldn’t want me to say anything, but that wasn’t my style. Then again, it wasn’t like my style had been doing me a lot of good lately.

You’re here to win. Even if that means stepping on a few toes,
I thought.
And letting your competition trip over their own.

“Just…good luck.”

“Thanks.” She smiled and found her spot in front of the judges, the loose legging thread trailing behind her.

I’d sent her off to dance with a legging that was primed for malfunction. I wasn’t just stepping on toes. I was kicking shins and taking out kneecaps, too. I sank back against the wall, my insides cramping up.

Her audition questions were the same as everyone else’s. I learned she’d been dancing since she was four. She’d gone to a studio in Illinois, but recently her family had had to move down to Georgia. She’d been looking for an academy, but couldn’t find one that her dad could—

She stopped. She looked down at her shoes. So did I.

And that’s when I got it. Her tights with the tiny rip in the knee. Her leggings with the string hanging out. Her shoes with the edges all scuffed up. Maybe she wasn’t going for the
I’m an angry punk girl dancer
look. Maybe that’s all she had. A bunch of clothes that she’d nearly danced into threads.

If there was anyone who knew how clothes could sabotage a routine, it was me. I leaned forward, trying to get her attention.

Look behind your foot. Just turn around and look behind your stupid foot!
I chanted it over and over in my head. Because I couldn’t bring myself to actually say anything. Not when I knew she was one of the dancers standing between me and Dance-Splosion.

Mrs. Smiley asked if she was ready to dance. Avery said she was, and a few seconds later the music began. It was the same music I’d already heard twice, but for some reason it sounded a million times sadder than before. Avery floated around the floor, reaching toward the judges, quick-stepping into a spin, leaping through the air and landing into a roll. She was incredible. The thread whipped around behind her and for a while I thought it might stay out of her way.

But I was wrong.

Avery planted her feet. The end of the thread was caught under her left foot. She raised her arms to the side. I knew exactly what move she was going for. The sissonne. Which would’ve been easy enough, except that—

“Aaah!”

She fell to the side as soon as she lifted her knee. Her legging tore all the way down to her ankle, falling open like a banana peel. She hit the ground hard.

Kassie.

For a split second, that’s all my brain would register. Kassie’s solo. Maybe in this same room. When she choked. Maybe in that same spot.

Avery looked back at me. I gave her a wide-eyed nod to say
Just keep going!
She couldn’t quit. She was too good.

But her eyes, jumping from one person to the next like she expected one of us to start pointing and laughing, filled with tears. She darted out of the room with one legging trailing behind her.

The music stopped and Mr. Baldy leaned over, whispering something to Mrs. Smiley. Kenton had his earbuds out and had this half smile plastered on his face like he couldn’t believe what’d just happened. He gave me an up-and-down glance. “Looks like it’s down to the two of us, then,” he said, and went back to his music.

I should’ve been happy. No, thrilled. Half of my main competition had just thrown away their spot, and I was one step closer to winning that scholarship.

So why did I feel so bad?