My Seventh-Grade Life in Tights (9 page)

I
karate-chopped my way all through the weekend.

I was the Kung Fu Kid.

And I was feeling better than I had in a long time. Things were finally getting back to normal.

Me and Austin texted back and forth, sending each other pictures we took using an app called Zombify Yourself. He sent me one of his dog, so I spent most of Sunday afternoon trying to get good candid photos of Mom and Dad. They probably would’ve just let me take one of them, but it was more fun to be sneaky about it.

On Monday, I was walking toward first period when DeMarcus nearly scared me to death.

“Hey, Dillon, wait up.”

I spun around. “Me?”

It wasn’t like there were a ton of Dillons at Sunnydale. I was just surprised he’d want to talk to me. Then surprise turned to worrying whether he was jealous that I’d been hanging around Sarah. Or maybe he knew about our plan. Fear finally took over. My armpits instantly went sweaty at the thought of the quarterback getting our offensive line to shove me into a locker.

“I promise she’s just helping me with dance. That’s all,” I blurted out.

His face scrunched up like he was confused and then he laughed. “Oh, Sarah? No, I don’t care about that.”

“Oh. Okay.” My pulse slowed to normal speed.

“It’s about—” He grabbed my arm and led me over to the water fountain. “It’s about that dance team thing you’re on.”

“I quit it. I swear.”

“But you’re still friends with them?”

I glanced around, trying to find Sarah. She must’ve sent him to pry the truth out of me. I chomped down on my bottom lip.

DeMarcus rolled his eyes. “Calm down, I’m not gonna go tell on you.”

“Okay,” I said, swallowing.

“Cool. So, they don’t have, like, any weird rules, do they? Like ones about dating football players or  something?”

I almost laughed. But before I could, it hit me. The tallest, most popular guy in school was asking about Kassie. Of course she didn’t have any rules about who she could date, but I wasn’t about to tell
him
that.

“But you’re dating Sarah.”

He shushed me quiet. “I know that. I’m just asking.”

“Oh. Well, um, I—I think Kassie does have a rule about dating athletes.” It was a lie, sure. But I was sort of desperate.

“Gotcha,” he said. “So is that, like, a team rule? For everyone?”

“Well, she’s the only girl.” A tiny laugh sneaked past my lips. “So unless you wanna go out with Carson—”

“Hey!” DeMarcus took a step toward me. “I didn’t say anything about him, did I?”

“No,” I said, shrinking back. “I’m sorry.” There I was, squished in between the water fountain and the wall while the entire school went by totally unaware that I was probably two seconds away from being turned into ground Dillon.

But DeMarcus never threw a punch. To be honest, he didn’t even look mad. He just stared at the ground for a few seconds, rubbing his hands together.

“I didn’t mean anything. I promise,” I said.

“Huh? Oh, uh, just—just forget about it.” Then he left. Leaving me wedged in the corner and completely confused.

After the last bell, I got changed into my dance gear (Sarah made me stop calling them football pants) and went to the gym. We ran through our stretches and I did a few extra foot rolls to make sure my calf wouldn’t go all traitor on me.

“I hope you’re ready to work today.” Sarah pulled out her phone and started playing a soft stringy song with no lyrics. It sort of sounded like slow Christmas music. “Because you’re learning your choreography.”

“Are you serious?” I asked. “I’m dancing to this?”

“No. But you’ll be dancing to something like it, I’m sure. When you make it to the top three—”

“You mean
if.
”

“No, I mean
when.
We have to stay positive. Now,
when
you make it to the top three, you’ll have to perform an improvised solo for the judges.”

“Um—you do realize
improvised
means I make it up as I go, right?”

Sarah put a fist on one of her hips. “Um, you do realize you can’t dance, right?” She went into first position. “Now, we’ll focus on your strengths. Which you don’t have a ton of. But your leaps aren’t all terrible, so you’re going to start out with a
sissonne.
”

“A see-saw?”

“See-
sown.
” She huffed and showed me how to do it. She hopped to the side and landed on her right foot.

I tried one of my own and was pretty sure I’d nailed it.

“Point your toes!” She smacked her hands together with each word. “And keep your right leg straight!”

Or maybe I didn’t.

“Do it again. And please try not to look like a total spaz.”

I did it again. And again. And about five hundred times more. Finally she let me go on to my next move. A step-step-spin combo.

I fanned my shirt, glancing around to make sure there was nothing close enough for me to run into.

“You remember how to step, at least?”

“Uh-huh.” The stick-up-the-butt stiff-legged walk.

“Good. Now you’ll take two of those and start with a single pirouette.” She double-stepped and brought her right leg up to her left knee to start the spin.

“A retiré! I remember that from last week!”

Sarah spun once and her arms floated back down to her sides. “Now let’s see you try it.”

I attempted the move a few times. The first was beyond awful. The times after that weren’t any better. The more I tried, the more worried I got. All the good feelings I’d felt after the first practice were gone, buried under the fear that there was just something wrong with me. Like maybe the dance chunk of my brain was broken or something.

“Don’t shrug when you move. Try to make your neck longer,” Sarah said, stretching hers out, looking like someone posing for the front cover of
Snob
magazine.

I tried to do the same thing.

“No, don’t pull your shoulders down. Just relax.”

So I did.

“You’re slumping. Straighten your back.”

I did that, too.

“You’re tensing up.
Relax.
”

I threw my hands in the air. “I
am
relaxing! I just can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can. Now come back and—”

“No, I can’t! I guess I’m just not made to dance like that.”

Sarah stopped the music. “Did you expect to learn it on the first try?”

I just stood there, my chest burning from breathing so hard.

“Look, Dillon, you’re not going to win this thing if you give up as soon as it gets tough. Let’s run it again.”

“This is stupid! All you care about is rules and form and having body parts in just the right spot. It’s starting to not even feel like dance anymore.”

Sarah stomped toward me so fast I thought she might tackle me. “You want to know why I care about that stuff so much? It’s because that’s what separates the amateurs from the pros. That’s what it takes to be the best, Dillon. It takes commitment. It takes drive. It takes doing whatever you have to do to make sure you come out as number one. Even if—” She took a deep breath. Almost like she didn’t want to finish. But she did. “Even if it hurts more than you think you can handle.”

We stood there in the world’s most awkward silence for a long time. Then she ran her hand through her ponytail and looked at me. “Look, maybe I
have
been a little hard on you. But I promise it’s for your own good.”

“Yelling at me is for my own good? I hope you realize the more you break a lung screaming at me, the more I think maybe Kassie’s right.” I wiped the sweat off my brow. “Or was. When she hated studios, I mean.”

“You can drop the act,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes. “I know she didn’t send in a video.”

My chest tightened, forcing a sound out of my mouth. Somewhere between a grunt and the word
Huh?

The
Then why are you helping me?
plastered across my face must’ve been obvious. “It doesn’t matter why I’m helping you,” Sarah said. “I have my reasons. Now reset.”

She knew. And she was still keeping me around. A tiny prickle of worry inched across my skin. Something wasn’t making sense.

Sarah smacked her hands together. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Not until you tell me why you’re helping.”

“Like I said. That’s not important.”

“It is to me! What if you’re teaching me all kinds of stupid moves on purpose so I’ll look bad when I win?”

Sarah smiled. “You said
when.
Good. And these moves are not stupid, by the way.”

“How should I know?”

“Listen, Dillon. I’ve totally got the upper hand here. You want help? I’m giving it. I don’t have to tell you why. If you don’t like it, you can walk out. I don’t care.” She flipped her ponytail back over her shoulder. “So what’s it going to be?”

I stood there for a few seconds, thinking. Really thinking. All the yelling and making fun of my dancing? And for some secret reason she wouldn’t tell? I wasn’t sure it was worth it. Not even a little.

So, yeah. I thought. Hard.

In the end, though, I walked back to the middle of the gym and scooted my feet into first position, already regretting my decision.

Sarah gave me a quick little nod and started the music. I went into my first move.

The sissonne.

Sarah didn’t yell, so I turned, flowing into the double step.

I waited for her to scream something about my toes, but it never came.

So I pushed off with my foot and spun.

Not once.

Twice.

I planted my feet, catching myself before I fell. Sarah paused the song and stared at me. My entire body clenched, ready for the verbal bashing to start.

A tiny bit of me was hoping she’d really let loose. That way I could just look her in the eye and tell her
I quit.
Sabotage the whole competition right then and there. That way I could just go back to Kassie and apologize for ruining her plan and keep on being the dancer in the crew who couldn’t actually dance.

Sarah’s mouth went into a hard line like she was thinking.

“Well,” she said.

Here it comes,
I thought.
Be ready for it.

“That was actually good.”

My face went totally slack. “What?”

“It wasn’t perfect, but it was a lot better.”

I couldn’t believe it. A compliment. About my dancing. From
Sarah.

All the junk she had said before was still ringing in my ears. But it was getting quieter and quieter every second. Slowly being replaced by those two words.

Actually good.

I unclenched my fists, looking down at the little indentations my fingernails had made.

“Ready to learn the next part?” she asked.

More screaming. More trying to figure out her angle. More torture.

But also…

More moves. More technique. More real dancing.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled.

And decided maybe I’d stick around a little while longer.

W
e finished practice with me learning the rest of my routine in small chunks.

Sarah recorded herself running it and messaged it to me later on. As soon as I got home, I ran to my room and played it. I had a mountain of reading homework I needed to get finished, but I couldn’t stop watching her dance.

Thinking for a second that she was teaching me stupid moves was beyond idiotic.

The moves were incredible.

And the more I did them, the more incredible
I
felt.

It was starting to make having to say goodbye to it all in a raging inferno of
Ha! Take THAT, Dance-Splosion!
if I made into the top three even worse.

Over the next couple of days, I spent every second of free time at home practicing my routine. By Thursday I knew it by heart. Our football game that evening was an away game, so Sarah couldn’t come. Hallelujah. She probably would’ve been yelling at me from the bleachers to quit slouching, shoulders down, long neck. Unfortunately, my friends weren’t there, either. The only familiar faces in the stands were Mom and Dad.

So I kept my butt permanently attached to the bench. I wasn’t really even paying attention to the game. All I could think about was the routine and how awesome it was.

The music would blast through the speakers during breaks and I ran through the steps in my head. The cheerleaders would kick and point toward the field and I pretended they were warming up for some sassy dance-off. The football players lined up for a play and I imagined they were posed, ready to bust out a choreographed routine.

But then DeMarcus would yell, “Hike!” and they’d all just fall over each other like they usually did. Which reminded me of all the times I’d nearly broken something on me or someone else during crew dance practice.

I glanced up at the scoreboard. We were losing pretty bad. Coach Bear had warned us about Oakdale. And DeMarcus hadn’t been kidding when he said the defensive end was a giant.

“No way that guy’s in eighth grade.” DeMarcus fell onto the bench beside me. “He’s like three inches taller than last year.”

“He’s got a beard, too,” I said, then remembered that the last time we spoke, I was sure I was going to walk away with a smashed nose. DeMarcus leaned forward, shaking the sweat off his face, and I moved down the bench as slowly as I could.