Showstopper (6 page)

While Anya was in L.A., Liberty was in Hollywood, Scarlett and Gracie were in Orlando, and Bria was busy hitting the books, Rochelle was bored silly.

“You can't just lie around all day staring at your phone,” her mom said, prying the iPhone out of her hand. “Find something to do.”

“I was doing something!” Rochelle replied. “I was texting Scarlett. She's on the Dumbo ride. I never thought waiting in line for two hours to get on a flying elephant would sound appealing, but it does.”

“If you're bored, then why don't you clean out your closet?” her mom suggested. “Or entertain your brother? Or crack open a textbook?”

Rochelle pretended to yawn. “Boring, boringer, boringest.”

“Then how's this for a plan,” she said, handing her daughter her dance bag off the coatrack in the hall. “Head down to Divas and get in some extra practice.”

Rochelle mulled it over. Busting some moves while the studio was empty over the break didn't sound all that bad.

“Fine, I'll go practice,” Rochelle agreed.

“Thank you!” Her mom heaved a sigh of relief. “I was afraid your butt was going to become glued to that sofa!”

Rochelle had never seen the studio so deserted. All the rooms were empty and dark, though she could hear loud, pulsing music coming
from somewhere. She followed the noise down the hallway to Toni's office and pressed her ear against the door. She listened intently, straining to make out the song. It had a heavy beat and a cool rhythm but it also sounded a bit classical.

Suddenly, the door opened and Rochelle fell inside the office.

“May I help you?” Toni asked, clearly annoyed.

“Um, no, I was just . . .”

“Spying? Eavesdropping? Poking your nose where it doesn't belong?” Toni fired back.

She noticed her teacher was dressed in a pair of billowy pants and a crop top. Her hair was long and pulled back into a loose ponytail. Rochelle tried not to stare, but it was hard not to. Toni looked
strange
for Toni. She never came to class in anything but a leotard, ballet skirt, and bun.

“Are you doing hip-hop?” she asked her teacher.

“If you must know, it's a form of dance that I've never personally performed, and I'm trying to perfect my moves.”

Rochelle shook her head. “But that's just the thing. Hip-hop isn't ballet or jazz or even acro. There is no ‘perfecting' it. It's spontaneous and loose. It's just gotta come from the music.”

“Well,” Toni huffed. “Since you think you're such an expert, perhaps you'd like to come work with me in the studio and you can give me a hand.”

“Me? You want
me
to teach
you
hip-hop?” Rochelle gasped.

Toni handed her the boom box. “I'm still the teacher,” she reminded Rochelle. “Let's not forget that, shall we? I'm working with a new form of hip-hop—like a fusion of ballet and street—and I need to try it out on someone.”

Rock followed Miss Toni into studio 2, where they both quickly pushed the
barres
to
the back of the room. She pointed to a spot for them to take their starting position.

“You don't want to be too stiff,” Toni said, showing her. “Feet should be hip-width apart. But I want the arms and legs to be less lock and pop, more ballet. Get it?” She demonstrated a kick ball change while gracefully pumping her arms to the sides.

“You could also do this,” Rochelle suggested,
pirouetting
in her sneakers while crossing her arms in front of her chest. She rolled her shoulders and slid her feet across the floor in a series of lightning-quick steps.

“Exactly!” Toni said, “I saw Charles ‘Lil Buck' Riley jookin' and I was inspired.”

Rochelle's mouth fell open. “You follow Lil Buck?” she asked. “He's amazing! He does pointe in sneakers!”

“It's Urban Ballet,” Toni corrected her. “And I love it. It's very forward-thinking, very this generation.”

“It's very cool!” Rochelle said enthusiastically.

“So you're up for working it into your duet with Anya?” her teacher asked. “If we could fuse both of your styles, ballet and hip-hop, into one, I think your dance would take first place.”

Rock smiled. “You had me at hip-hop, but first place works, too.”

Meanwhile, Bria found a way to study and stay limber at the same time. She sat on the floor with her legs in a straddle and her English book on the floor in front of her.

“That does not look very comfortable,” her mom said, watching her stretch.

“It's not supposed to be comfy,” Bria insisted. “It's supposed to be good for my middle split.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Chang replied. “How's your term paper coming along?”

Bria sighed. “It's not. It takes me forever to read just one page of
A Midsummer Night's
Dream
. None of it makes any sense!” She held the book up. “Just look at this! Who talks like that?”

Her mom took the book and read aloud: “‘Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth!'”

“See what I mean?” Bria said, groaning. “It's gibberish.”

“Theseus is just saying he wants to throw a party,” her mom explained.

Bria sighed. “I just don't get it.”

Her mom nodded. “I think I have something that might help.” She held up a pair of tickets to the New York City Ballet. “They're performing
A Midsummer Night's Dream
tomorrow night. I thought maybe we could go together. Seeing it might help you better understand the story.”

Bria's face lit up. “You mean get out of the house and go see a ballet? Do something besides study?” She pulled herself out of her straddle and jumped to her feet. “I'm in!”

Mrs. Chang smiled. “When I was younger, I felt the same way about Shakespeare. Until
my father took me to see
Hamlet
at a local theater.”

“Did you like it?” Bria asked.

“I thought it was the most magical thing I had ever experienced,” she recalled. “The lines were spoken but they had a musical quality to them.”

Bria remembered that her mom studied violin for many years. “So thinking about Shakespeare like a song helped you get it?”

“Exactly!” her mom replied. “And I hope seeing
A Midsummer Night's Dream
as a dance will help you get it as well. Sometimes, it's stressful tackling something new. So you need to see it in terms you can relate to.”

Bria considered what her mom was saying. “That makes sense . . . I guess.” Her mom flipped through the book and found another line. “I think this one describes you,” she said with a smile.

Bria picked up the book and read Helena's quote: “‘Though she be but little, she is fierce!'”

Bria giggled. “I love it! Maybe that should be the Divas' new motto! I guess Shakespeare knew what he was talking about after all!”

Back to Ballet

While Bria and Rochelle were trying to find something entertaining in their time off, Anya was just looking forward to being lazy. She refused to set her alarm clock, and was annoyed when her mother knocked on her bedroom door bright and early.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” she called. “We have a fun day ahead!”

Anya opened one eye. “It's vacation. Don't I get to sleep late?”

Her mother opened the door. “Not if you
want to go see your old ballet friends at Dance Academy West.”

Anya groaned. “Mom, they have to be at 9:00 a.m. pointe class. I don't.”

“Well, I thought maybe you'd want to pop in before class. You know, chat with everyone in the dressing room? Say hi to Miss Natalya?”

When her mom got something in her head, she was like a dog with a chew toy. “Fine,” Anya said, sighing. “You're not going to leave me alone until I go, are you?”

“Nope,” her mom replied. “I made your favorite blueberry pancakes for breakfast. So up and at 'em!”

The studio was thirty minutes away in downtown L.A. “Look! Nothing's changed!” her mom said as they pulled up to the gray brick building.

“It never changes,” Anya said. “I stuck my
chewing gum under the bench out front when I was five years old and I bet it's still there.”

“But you had some great memories here,” her mom tried to convince her. “All those recitals, spring shows, that adorable butterfly costume . . .”

“It was a moth,” Anya pointed out. “A gray moth that flittered around Poppy, who was a flame, remember? And the costume was really itchy.”

“It was your first recital and you were precious,” her mom insisted. “You go say hi and I'll wait here in the parking lot for you.”

As she walked through the door of Dance Academy West, Anya recognized a few familiar faces.

“Anya! You're back!” a tall blond girl said, racing toward her.

“Well, just visiting, Amanda,” she replied, giving the girl a hug. “Do you know where Poppy is?”

Amanda pointed down the hallway. “She's
in a private right now with Miss Natalya. Go peek!”

Anya strolled down the carpeted hallway, stepping over the dancers sprawled on the floor stretching. She stopped to look into the studio windows. Each group wore different colored leotards: there were the tiny pink level 1s; the red level 2s; the green level 3s; and the purple level 4s. Level 5 and up wore black—which is what Poppy had on along with a pair of well-worn toe shoes. Anya looked inside the window of studio 4 and saw her old ballet teacher twisting her bestie's leg into a pretzel. She couldn't make out what she was saying to her, but she was sure it was the usual: “Nyet! Nyet! No! No!”