Showstopper (4 page)

The minute Anya told her mom about the week off, she jumped on her computer and booked two plane tickets to Los Angeles.

“Your father is going to be so happy,” she told Anya. “He was just complaining that he wouldn't get to see us until spring break in April.”

To Anya, it felt like forever since she'd seen her brother and dad. Technically, it was two whole months—they had both flown in to see her perform in
A New Jersey Nutcracker
in December. Anya had hoped they would stay
for Christmas and New Year's, but Alexei had midterms to study for, and her dad had an endless amount of dental emergencies to tend to.

“You wouldn't believe how many people chip a tooth on holiday fruitcake,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “An oral surgeon's job is never done.” He could see the disappointment in Anya's eyes. “I'm sorry, honey, but we can't stay more than a week.”

That was the only part she didn't like about being a Dance Diva—living 3,000 miles away from her home. The small apartment she shared with her mom in Scotch Plains, New Jersey, was barely big enough for a tabletop Christmas tree. She knew her father would be decking the trees in their front yard with colored lights and blowing up the giant seven-foot-tall inflatable Frosty the Snowman.

“Aren't you too old for that stuff?” her mom had asked when she griped that their apartment had no chimney for Santa to make his grand entrance on Christmas Eve.

“There's no age limit on Christmas,” Anya said. “I love Frosty and leaving Santa cookies and milk.”

Her mom held up a box of vanilla ladyfingers. “Think Santa would be okay with these?” she asked. “Or I could make some tiramisu if you're trying to impress him.”

Anya knew her mom hadn't been much in the holiday spirit those days and not even a visit from Santa could fix that. Every time her dad called, she went on and on about how cold it was and how many feet of snow was on the ground. Rochelle and her family had invited them over for Christmas Eve dinner, and they said yes, but it just wasn't the same.

“My mom makes the most awesome sweet potato casserole with mini marshmallows on top,” Rochelle had announced, passing Anya the dish around the dining room table.

Mrs. Hayes blushed. “I'm sure Anya and her mom make a lovely Christmas dinner, too.”

“We do! We have sushi,” Anya piped up. “And borscht—that's cold beet soup.”

Rochelle pretended to gag. “Eww. Raw fish and beets for Christmas?”

“I'm from Malibu and my husband is from Moscow,” Mrs. Bazarov tried to explain. “We combine our cultures. The kids love it.”

Anya nodded. “I love eel and California rolls.”

“Well, I hope you won't be too disappointed,” Rochelle's dad added. “I'm afraid all we have is honey-glazed ham, no eel.”

“That's okay,” Anya said, helping herself to a slice. “This is yummy, too.”

“Save room for dessert,” Rochelle reminded her. “Apple pie and ice cream.”

Rochelle's baby brother, Dylan, clapped his hands together in his high chair. “Icy cweam!” he squealed.

“After you finish your peas, Dylie,” Mrs. Hayes said, spooning a few in his mouth. “Veggies first, then ice cream.”

When the table was cleared, Anya carried in a platter of Russian tea cookies she and her mom had baked from scratch.

“It's my babushka's secret recipe,” she said, waving the powdery, white doughy circles under Rochelle's nose. “They melt in your mouth. And I love how they look like snowballs.”

Rochelle sampled one and her eyes lit up. “Amazing!” she said, licking the sugar off her fingers. “Babushka can bake!” She popped another—and another—in her mouth. “What's a babushka?”

Anya laughed. “My grandma from Russia,” she said. “I know it's a silly name.”

Rochelle shook her head. “Not that silly. We call my grandpa Pappy Hee-Haw,” she volunteered.

“Not to his face,” Mr. Hayes said, chuckling. “His name is Herman.”

Rochelle was fascinated. “What other Russian words do you know, Anya?”

Anya thought for a moment. While her dad was fluent, she only knew a handful of Russian expressions.

“I don't suppose you know how to say ‘let's eat'?” Mr. Hayes asked, trying to wrestle the plate of cookies away from Rochelle. “Rock is hogging them!”

“I think your Christmas sounds cool,” Rochelle said. “Eel and all.”

“It is,” Mrs. Bazarov said with a sigh. “Which is why we miss it so much. It's the first Christmas we're not together as a family.”

“But you're with us.” Mr. Hayes raised his glass, trying to brighten the mood at the table. “And we're lucky to have you. Cheers!”

Anya raised her water glass and clinked it with Rochelle's. “Thanks for inviting us, Rock,” she said. “If I can't be in L.A., there's no place else I'd rather be.”

Home Sweet Home

C U Soon Anya texted Alexei. As she packed her suitcase, she daydreamed about hitting the waves with her big brother.

Her brother read her mind. Surfrider Beach first? he replied.

“You almost forgot your pointe shoes,” her mom said, coming into her bedroom and tossing them on top of her pile of clothes.

“Why? I thought this was supposed to be a dance-free vacation?” Anya asked.

“Just in case you want to go pay Miss Natalya a visit,” her mom replied.

Until Toni, Anya had never met a dance teacher as tough as Miss Natalya. She made Anya practice for hours at the
barre
, until every muscle ached and she was drenched in sweat. She remembered how demanding her ballet teacher was, but also how she pushed her to be a better dancer.

“Your
frappé
—it is no good!” Miss Natalya would scold her. “It needs to be like a match, striking the floor, yes?”

Anya had tried to picture how she would swipe a match to light it: the action was fast, firm, direct, explosive. She did the same with her foot, flexing it then extending it out in front of her. This time, her
frappé
was quick and strong.

“Da! Da! Yes! Yes!” Miss Natalya cheered.

All Anya ever wanted to hear was those words, so she worked her hardest to please her. When Anya decided to give up ballet for competitive dance, Miss Natalya had been very disappointed.

“We spend all these years together and then you leave your studio for what? Some team?”

“It's not just a team. It's a competitive dance team,” Anya had tried to explain. But she didn't expect her ballet teacher to understand how excited she was to showcase her talent somewhere beyond the
barre
. “They go all over the country! Last week they were in Baltimore.”

Miss Natalya hung her head. “And Baltimore is exciting to you? When you could be a prima ballerina one day? You throw that away?”

Anya was determined. “I am not throwing my ballet away. I'm just expanding my horizons.”

Her teacher turned her back and walked away, muttering some words in Russian that Anya couldn't make out.

“I'm sorry, Miss Natalya,” she called after her, “but this is what I want to do.”

During her first few months with the Shooting
Starz team in L.A., she had won a handful of Teen Solo trophies. Then Justine spotted her at a competition and asked her to join City Feet in Long Island.

“It's really a no-brainer,” the dance coach had told Anya and her parents. “My team wins. All the time. Do you want to dance with the winners or the losers?”

It meant quickly relocating to the East Coast and getting a tutor. But from the moment she met the rest of the City Feet girls—Addison, Phoebe, Mandy, and Regan—she understood
why
they racked up so many first-place trophies. They were
that
good and
that
determined.

“I can't even do a cartwheel,” she complained, watching Mandy, the team's “Tiny Terror” execute a flawless acro combination without even breaking a sweat.

“Well, you better learn,” Justine insisted. “Everyone on my team is expected to toe the line.”

“She means either keep up or drop out,” Addison translated. “No excuses.”

So Anya worked day in, day out, learning to master City Feet's trademark moves. In only six weeks, she was performing explosive hip-hop routines, whirling
fouettés
, and flawless back handsprings. She even picked up a perfect chin stand.

“You're catching on,” Miss Justine complimented her. But she also knew that Anya was their secret weapon when it came to the Solo division.

“I'm going to have you do a classical ballet routine
en pointe
,” she told her. “Should be a breeze for you, right?”

What she didn't tell Anya was that she was entering her in a category that was below her age. When the judges found out that she was thirteen and not twelve, Anya was disqualified, points were deducted from City Feet's score, and Justine was issued a warning for “unsportsmanlike behavior.” It was embarrassing but
also a wake-up call: Anya realized that City Feet would stop at nothing to win.

“This isn't what we signed up for,” Mrs. Bazarov told Justine. “We don't teach our daughter to be dishonest.”

Justine shrugged. “It was a misunderstanding. These things happen.”

But her mother stood her ground. “Maybe, but not to us. We're going back to L.A.”

That's where she was when Toni first flew out to meet with her. Her parents had called Toni shortly after the City Feet fiasco and begged her to put Anya on her team.

“Please let me join the Divas,” Anya pleaded when she met with Toni. “All I want to do is help you beat City Feet.”

“Really? Because if that's all you want to do, then my answer is no,” she said.

“What? I thought you hated Justine?”

“Hate is a strong word,” Toni insisted. “Let's just say I want to win just as badly as Justine
does—but I won't sink to her level. Is that clear?”

Anya nodded. “I don't want to lie or cheat either.”

“What
do
you want to do?” Toni asked.

Anya thought for a moment. “I want to dance. I love it more than anything, and I want to be the best dancer I can be.”

“Good,” Toni said, extending her hand to shake. “Then we have a deal. Welcome to the Divas.”

It had taken several weeks to convince Scarlett, Liberty, Rochelle, Bria, and Gracie that she wasn't just a spy for the opposing team. But eventually, she won them over. Now, none of them could imagine the team without her—and she couldn't imagine being without them.