Freestyle

by Bea Paige

  “This is bullshit. I’ve got a letter of invitation! Here,” I growl, pulling out the crumpled audition letter and slamming it on the counter.

  The receptionist sighs, taking it from me. “So you do. But you’re not on the list and I have very strict instructions from the principal not to let anyone audition unless they’re on the list…”

  I’m close to throwing a fit right here in the middle of the prestigious Stardom Academy atrium when Clancy steps up beside me and rests her hand on my arm.

  “There must be a clerical error. Pen has the letter of invitation to audition. I’m sure Madam Tuillard would hate it if a potential student was turned away because someone hadn’t done their job properly.”

  Clancy gives my arm a squeeze and I get the feeling she’s willing me not to go apeshit. I take a deep breath and in the calmest voice possible, ask the receptionist to check again.

  She looks down her list of names one last time. “Oh, wait,” she eventually says, “There’s a Penelope Sott right here on the list…”

  “That’s it. Must’ve been a typo.” Clancy smiles sweetly at the receptionist who nods her head and gives me a tight smile.

  “Yes, must be. Studio 14, second floor, third door on the right.” With that she dismisses us both without an apology. Fucking old hag.

  “You’re all here today to audition for a scholarship at Stardom Academy. We have just thirty places open and over two hundred dancers auditioning today. You lucky few have myself and my business partner as judges. Make this count, because another opportunity like this won’t come around again,” a tall, elegant looking woman announces to the room. There must be about thirty dancers in here, though I’m not paying much attention to them, honestly. I need to focus.

  “Who’s that?” I ask under my breath.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  I pull a face. “Should I know her?”

  Clancy shakes her head, eyeing the graceful ballerina who is currently talking to a guy who looks like a cross between Ne-Yo and Usher. He’s hot and vaguely familiar, though I can’t seem to place why. The pair together are polar opposites. Elegance and grace versus edgy and street. I like that.

  “She’s Madame Tuillard, founder of the academy and the principal.”

  “I thought Madame Tuillard was ancient?”

  “Nope, not exactly ancient, she’s forty. Set this place up five years ago. She was a prima ballerina for some of the most famous ballet companies in the world. Danced with the greatest. Have you ever heard of Luka Petrin, he stopped dancing when his wife committed suicide? Rumour has it that she killed herself because he was such a manwhore. Madame Tuillard danced with him too, perhaps they shagged…”

  “Awesome,” I cut in, not particularly interested in ballet and even less so in some famous dancers’ sex lives. Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate ballet and its place in the world of dance, but it’s just so… controlled. Every step has to be perfectly executed. A ballet dancer has to have perfect toes, perfect hands, perfect legs, perfect posture, perfect face, perfect body, perfect everything.

  Perfect, perfect, perfect.

  I like to move my body in a different way. I like the imperfection of hip-hop, of break dance, even contemporary allows for it. I like the freedom those dances allow me, and the fact I can improvise in those dances without pissing off someone like Madame Tuillard who epitomises perfection with her willowy figure and coiffed hair. I like the way I can express myself through those dances.

  “And the guy?”

  “Ah, that’s Duncan Neath, or D-Neath to the dance world at large.”

  “He’s D-Neath? Fuck!” I glance back over at the guy and a thread of nervous energy lashes through my stomach. That explains why he’s vaguely familiar. I can’t believe I’m about to audition in front of the D-Neath.

  “You’ve heard of him then?”

  “Heard of him? He’s a bit of a legend where I come from. He grew up not far from where I live. The guy’s known in all the illegal underground dance clubs. Believe me, his reputation precedes him, and it isn’t all about dance either.”

  “So I’ve heard…”

  “You have?”

  “Yup. My dad’s a lawyer in a big law firm in London. They represented him. Got his sentence down from fourteen years to just five for drug racketeering.”

  “How come he’s here then?”

  “He was released a year ago. Apparently they’re fucking…” Clancy explains, her eyes widening with glee as she looks between D-Neath and Tuillard.

  “Shut-up! Those two?”

  “Opposites attract and all that…” Clancy’s voice trails off as Madame Tuillard coughs, her pretty grey eyes falling on us both. She arches a brow and we both shift uncomfortably under her stare.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” she says, glaring down her nose at both of us.

  Nervous energy ripples beneath my skin as she picks up a clipboard and runs her fingers over the list of names before her. Around us, the chatter dies down and everyone holds a collective breath as they wait to be called.

  “First up is Zayn Bernard,” she says, looking up from her clipboard and towards the back of the studio.

  “What the fuck?” I whisper-shout, my whole body going rigid. Next to me Clancy flinches, my abject horror startling her.

  No.

  Fucking.

  Way.

  “What is it?” she hisses, but I can’t answer her. All I can do is shift my gaze to where Madame Tuillard is staring.

  “Why? How?” I grind out, my mouth drying up as I watch the boy I once loved unfurling from his spot in the furthest corner of the room. I hadn’t noticed him when I entered, too distracted with my residual anger at the receptionist and that stuck up bitch Tiffany, but by the look on his face, he sure as fuck noticed me. He’s scowling, a sneer pulling up his lip as he stares directly at me and unzips his black hoodie. Shaking it off, it falls to the studio floor at his feet, and all I can do is stare open-mouthed at his muscled physique and tight black t-shirt. Both his arms are covered in multicoloured tattoos that work their way up from the crook of his elbows to his shoulders, disappearing beneath the material. The last time I’d seen him he didn’t have any tattoos. None. He wasn’t as broad or as tall either. He was a boy on the cusp of manhood. All four of them were.

  Zayn, Xeno, Dax and York were my Breakers and I was their girl.

  Was being the operative word.

  Now Zayn’s a man. A man who’s looking at me like I’m an enemy, not a long-lost friend.

  A shiver tracks down my spine as my stomach curdles with anxiety and long held pain.

  “Do you know him?” Clancy presses.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her check him out. In fact, every damn female in the room is unable to take their eyes off him, Madame Tuillard included. He knows it too. He’s always had this kind of magnetism, and he oozes confidence. I’d admired that once. Now I can barely look at him without wanting to sprint from the studio and throw away my chance of a future in dance. It takes every ounce of strength to remain seated.

  “Yeah. We’ve met before,” I say vaguely, not willing to elaborate further. I can’t. It hurts too much. Looking at him hurts. His hair is the same shade of dark brown, his eyes still a deep black and his mouth just as plump and as kissable as it was three years ago when I last saw him and the others…

  Stop it.

  “He’s hot,” she states, matter-of-factly. “But can he dance?”

  “He can dance,” I confirm with a whisper, wrapping my arms around my legs and hugging myself tightly as I watch him move out into the empty space. “He can most definitely dance…”

  As if he heard me, Zayn meets my gaze and winks, reminding me of the first time we met six years ago. Except this time his wink isn’t followed by a warm smile and the possibility of friendship.

  Now there’s nothing but hate in his eyes.

  2

  Six Years Ago

  “Yo! What ya do
in’?”

  I turn around, my arms dropping to my side, my body stilling as I look at the boy standing behind me. He’s tall, like a foot bigger than I am, maybe even as tall as my older brother, David, who’s eighteen and towers over my Mum now. Apparently, I don’t have the tall gene. We’ll see.

  Crossing my arms over my chest and breathing in deep, I look at the boy with dark hair and dark, dark eyes. They’re like the sky at night without any stars. If it weren’t for his amused smile that makes his lips pull up into a crooked grin, I might have been more wary of him.

  “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m dancing,” I retort, rolling my eyes.

  Obviously.

  A bead of sweat slides down my forehead and I swipe at it with the back of my hand. I wonder how long this kid has been standing there watching me. My skin heats. I don’t dance in front of anyone, and the only reason I’m here in this playground is because no one on my estate uses it. The place is a fucking dump.

  “Yeah?” he winks, sitting down on the rusty swing in front of me, that smile getting broader. He has really white, straight teeth, except for one which has a chip in it. There’s a little piece of his front tooth missing, and I find myself wondering how he did it.

  “I haven’t seen you around here before,” I state, giving him a once over as I cock my hip, planting my hand there. He’s wearing beat-up, black Nike trainers and grey baggy joggers with his boxer short strap showing above the waistband, and a white t-shirt rolled up at the arms making his skin look tan against it. He’s kinda cute, but I’m not really interested in boys. Especially not ones who spend their time hanging out on street corners and causing trouble for the rest of the people living on the estate. Boys like my brother, David, who wears a cross around his neck like he’s one of God’s disciples even though he belongs to the fucking Devil himself. I’ve never understood it. My mum’s a church going, religious nut, and pretends she’s holier than though when really she’s worse than those nuns you hear about beating the shit out of kids in orphanages.

  “That’s because I just moved here a couple weeks ago. Just scoping the place out…” he looks around the playground, unimpressed. “So, this is shit.”

  The curse word rolls off his tongue with ease. I mean, I’m not shocked or anything. Everyone swears around here. I swear too, but mostly under my breath or in my head because my mum would give me a slap if she caught me. Not that she needs an excuse to hit me, she does it often enough without reason.

  “Like really shit,” he emphasises.

  “Yep,” I agree, popping the p.

  He’s right, this playground is shit. There’s one swing, which he’s sitting on, a rusty see-saw and a slide that’s seen better days. The frame is covered in graffiti that isn’t proper graffiti, just a bunch of cuss words and images of dicks and tits. Totally unoriginal and nothing like the graffiti by Bling and Asia that’s dotted around Hackney. Those are real works of art.

  “Did someone set a moped on fire?” he asks, jerking his chin towards the pile of rubble just over the other side of the iron fence surrounding the playground.

  “Couple weekends ago. Stolen.” By my brother. Though I don’t say that part out loud. What’s worse than someone who snitches? Someone who’s blood and snitches. I keep my mouth shut. Telling on David would be a death sentence. A literal one. I have no doubt that my older brother is a certifiable psychopath.

  “Figures.” He rolls his eyes, jaded by the environment just as much as I am.

  “None of the kids who live on this estate ever come here,” I explain, untying my long brown hair and shaking it out a little. I’m not sure why I decide to take it down, maybe it’s because Mum says it’s my best asset with a face as plain as mine. It’s the only backhanded compliment she’s ever given me. She doesn’t think I’m pretty. I don’t think I’m pretty. I push that thought away. “Most of them hang out on street corners, smoking weed.”

  “Yeah, noticed that. So you come here to practice your dance moves?” He gives me a once over and I feel suddenly shy at his ogling. I don’t think he’s being creepy, just interested. I checked him out, he’s checking me out. I guess we’re even now.

  “Where else am I supposed to dance?” It’s not like we’ve got any room at home. I share a bedroom with my little sister, Lena. She’s eight, annoying, and takes up all the room with her dolls.

  “I know somewhere… Want me to show you?”

  I bark out a laugh, almost doubling over. “You gonna offer me a sweet next in exchange for a blowjob?”

  “What?! Fuck no!” he splutters, dragging his heels over the ground so that he’s no longer swaying, but still.

  “So you’re not some weirdo, preying on young girls then?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest and trying to look all badass when inside I’m giggling like a freak because I made him so uncomfortable. He’s not a weirdo, I can tell.

  “No. I swear…” he scrapes a hand through his thick, dark hair and grins when I burst out laughing. “I’m just making friends, and I dance like you. Thought we could hang out.” He shrugs.

  “Show me…” I challenge him. I wasn’t born yesterday. He might not be a pedo, but he still might have an ulterior motive. I’ve not met one person around here who hasn’t. “Prove to me you’re not a pedo.”

  “Fuck, man. I’m not a pedo. I’m fifteen. Besides, you’re not really my type.”

  “I don’t hook up with boys,” I say haughtily. Thou shalt not covet dangerous boys with chipped teeth and black, black eyes. Nope, definitely not.

  “Fair enough. How old are you anyway?” he asks, getting to his feet. I have to look up to meet his gaze. This kid is tall for fifteen, and broad. By the looks of his arm muscles, he can probably throw a wicked punch too. He’s not quite as filled out as my brother, David, or as scrawny as some of the guys on this estate, he’s kinda in between. His face is the same… in between. Like, he’s not really a kid but not really an adult either.

  “Fourteen,” I answer.

  “And your name?”

  “Pen.”

  “You’re called Pen?” He grins again, snorting with mirth.

  “Short for Penelope. I hate it. So call me Pen, got it?” I scowl a little, hating the fact he finds my name so amusing. I like Pen. I don’t like Penelope.

  “Yeah, got it,” he retorts, holding his hands up in mock defence, watching me with his night-time eyes.

  “Good.” No one’s gonna make me feel small. Besides, I’m used to kids throwing their weight around. It’s kinda what we do here on my estate. You either show the bullies that you’re a badass or you let them walk all over you. Despite my lack of height, I’m not a victim. Never will be. Besides, I’ve had plenty of practice dealing with shitty people, my brother’s the biggest bully on the estate and he takes great pleasure pushing me around. Blood might be thicker than water, but it means jackshit in my house. I hate him.

  “Are you gonna tell me your name then?” I raise my eyebrows, waiting.

  “It’s Zayn.”

  “Zayn?” I snort with laughter, immediately thinking up rhyming words. “Zayn, the pain… in my arse.”

  Zayn scowls. “I could be a real big pain in your arse if you say that again.” He steps forward, puffing out his chest and staring down at me, the smile gone. For a moment, his black eyes don’t look so friendly. Now it’s me who’s backing off, though I don’t think he’d actually hit me like some of the arsehole’s my brother hangs around with would.

  “Whoa, just kidding. Chill, man.”

  “I am chill…” He seems to shake himself. “Just don’t take the piss, and we’ll be good. Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  He makes a funny grunting sound that only makes me bite back another laugh. “So, Zayn, you were gonna prove to me you’re not some weirdo coming onto me, and can actually dance…” I say, standing back and folding my arms across my chest.

  “What, right now?”

  “Yeah, right now. It’s only fair.”

>   “There’s no music…”

  “And?” I question. “You don’t see me wearing fancy headphones, do ya? I can remember a beat well enough. I got all the music I need up here,” I shrug, tapping a finger against my head.

  To prove my point I start tapping my foot, swaying my body in time to the rhythm in my head. Filthy by Justin Timberlake starts to sound in my mind. When the first beat drops I lift my arms up and slide my foot across the floor, folding my body over as I turn my head to face Zayn. Giving him a quirk of my eyebrow, I make quick, jerking movements, keeping my hips still and torso stiff whilst moving the rest of my body robotically. Occasionally, I’ll intersperse my jerking movements with a smoother flow, my head rolling on my shoulders, my arms floating in the air as I spin on the ball of my feet. This is a dance I’m perfecting. A mash-up between contemporary and hip-hop, I guess. Well, at least I think it is given I only have YouTube to go by. Zayn watches me, a sudden light flashing in his eyes as he bops his head in time to my movements.

  “Sick moves,” he says appreciatively.

  “Thanks,” I respond, grinning back. Apart from my little sister, no one has ever complimented my dancing. Mum thinks it’s a waste of time and my non-existent father doesn’t even know my name; let alone the fact I love to dance. My brother, David, he just mocks me any chance he gets, all the while holding onto his fucking cross as though that absolves him of all his sins. Urgh. “Come on then, start moving…”

  Zayn swaggers towards me. “Alright, Pen. Demanding, ain’t ya?”

  I stand my ground as he lifts onto the balls of his feet then shifts back onto his heels as he moves from side-to-side. He smirks then flicks his right arm out to the side in a wave that undulates back up his arm across his shoulders and to his left arm, his body following the movement.

  “That’s all you got?” I question. It’s customary to provoke another dancer, and something about the arrogance he’s showing makes me want to do just that. I can already tell by this one simple movement that he’s a good dancer, he has rhythm. I just ain’t gonna let him know that.