by Charis Marsh
Kaitlyn glared out the window and wiped her eyes. “I hate you.”
“You could have won everything,” Mrs. Wardle said, ignoring her. “You are a million times more talented than anyone in that room. You are almost fifteen years old now. You need to get your priorities in order.”
“I did work!” Kaitlyn exploded. “Okay? I don’t know what happened, Theresa just doesn’t like me.”
“That woman is a disgusting psycho,” Mrs. Wardle stated. “I can’t believe that you didn’t warn me about this earlier! Kaitlyn, even Angela is skinnier than you.”
Kaitlyn sat back in her chair, confused. “What?” She didn’t even consider Angela competition. At five-foot-nothing with a soft body, a too-large head, and short legs, Angela was nobody’s idea of a ballet dancer. In fact, Kaitlyn didn’t even think she was doing festival at all.
“You need to work harder. You need to get your focus back. Concentrate on you, ignore everything else.”
Kaitlyn nodded.
“Don’t just nod at me! I’m serious. You have been all over the place this year. Do you know what this is going to do to your reputation? What do you think everyone is going to say about this, Kaitlyn? You haven’t lost anything before! I remember when you were three and you won first for that piece, the one where you were the little girl at a party, in that purple dress, do you remember?”
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t gotten anything but first since! Do you have any idea how fast everyone is going to know that you lost today?”
“I know! I’m sorry, okay?”
“Well, fix it. Get in that studio and start working. Show them what you can do. Don’t worry about trying to make friends with these people. They’ll be friends with you if you are better than them.”
“I know!”
“Kaitlyn, I mean it. If you don’t start getting better, what are you going to do? You’ve already lost Swanhilda and this, what more do you have to lose before you decide to work?”
“Mom! Stop it.”
Cecelia wiped her eyes. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. Do you remember when you were young? You were so cute, and so skinny — that is who you are. You have to get that back.”
“I know.”
“Today is a new beginning, okay?”
“Fine.”
Mrs. Wardle pulled up in front of the academy. “Good luck.”
“Bye,” Kaitlyn mumbled, getting out of the car.
“Kaitlyn?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you, sweetie.”
Kaitlyn turned and left, walking toward the studio. She looked at her cellphone — she had fifteen minutes to get changed and warmed up for her first private with Mr. Moretti. I hate her. I wonder how many people saw her crying today? Why couldn’t I have just gotten that scholarship?
Kaitlyn quickly got changed and then started to put on her pointe shoes. She tied her ribbons, tucked them in, and then stood up, rolling up and down to try and warm her feet. She felt her left foot crack and breathed a sigh of relief. One more — and yes, her right foot cracked, too. She slid into the splits and briefly did them all three ways before standing up and cracking her back. She looked up at the large clock in the academy’s lobby. One minute. She grabbed her bag and went into the studio where her private had been scheduled. The studio was still empty, Mr. Moretti wasn’t there yet. Kaitlyn stood at the side for a moment, basking in the feeling of having the large airy studio all to herself instead of being one of many sweaty bodies taking class in it. She walked over to the CD player and put her disc in, getting it set up, and then walked to the centre of the studio. She grinned and prepared; “Ichi, ni, san!” she counted herself off in Japanese. And then she was turning. She started off with a triple pirouette, and then began to fouette, doing a single fouette, then a double, repeating the pattern. She managed to continue the pattern for a full set of thirty-two, and then landed with a hop at the last second.
She grinned at her own reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t wait until she was a principal with a ballet company and could do the black swan coda for real. Of course, she would be skinnier then. She glanced at the clock: Mr. Moretti should have been there already, it was seven minutes past. She went to the CD player and turned it on, beginning to run through her variation. She had decided that she wanted to do Grande Pas Classique. It had lots of turns, she liked it, and she knew that there was a beautiful tutu in the academy’s costume room that she could rent for it. After she had run through her variation once, she looked up at the clock. Ten minutes past. Had he forgotten he was scheduled to coach her today?
Grace walked in, and paused, surprised. “Oh, sorry. Do you have a private here?”
“Uh, yeah,” Kaitlyn said. “It says so on the schedule.”
“Oh. I didn’t hear anything, so I thought it was just you practicing. Who’s coaching you?”
“Mr. Moretti.”
“He’s not here yet?”
“No.”
Grace looked up at the clock. It was twelve minutes past. “Well, mind if I rehearse in here until he gets here?” Without waiting for an answer, she set her bag at the side and walked over to the CD player, changing the music to her own. In a moment the sound of Swanhilda’s first act variation from Coppelia started playing. Kaitlyn frowned, watching Grace run through the variation.
“Are you doing that for competition?” Kaitlyn asked as Grace finished.
“No,” Grace said, smiling. “This is for a presentation. Mr. Demidovski wants me to dance it for the Russian ambassadors when they come to visit the school.”
Kaitlyn bit her lip. If Mr. Demidovski had gotten Grace to do this solo for the presentation, it sort of sounded like he had already given her the part of Swanhilda in the academy’s production of Coppelia for June. Which meant it would be even more difficult to get her role back. She looked at the clock; it was fifteen minutes past now. Where was Mr. Moretti? She went into the hall and into the office, leaning on Gabriel’s desk as she waited for him to notice her. “What can I do for you, Kaitlyn?” Gabriel asked, turning around and smiling after he had shifted his papers for long enough to realize that she was not going away.
“I’m supposed to have a private with Mr. Moretti,” Kaitlyn explained. “But he’s not there, so I was wondering if maybe he called in sick or something.”
Gabriel shoved his glasses back as he thought, sitting his large Norwegian body back in the small chair. “No, no, I don’t think so,” he assured her. He picked up a bag of yogurt-covered raisins that were sitting beside him. “Want some?” Kaitlyn shrugged and took two out of the bag, popping one in her mouth. Gabriel leaned toward her to whisper, “They are Mrs. Demidovski’s.” Kaitlyn’s eyes widened, and she felt like spitting the raisin out.
“Won’t she mind?” she asked.
“No. Not if we don’t tell her,” Gabriel assured her.
They both turned around as they heard the main entrance door close with a bang, and muffled curses in Italian. Kaitlyn shoved the raisin back in the bag and passed it back to Gabriel, but it was too late, Mr. Moretti had turned the corner and was peering in the office, his tall frame almost completely covered in a green tarp-like poncho that sprayed water all over the walls and floor every time he moved. “What are you doing?”
“Uh.” Kaitlyn’s mind went blank. “I was just checking with Gabriel that — um —”
“You should be in the studio rehearsing!” Mr. Moretti said angrily. “What, I am not here, so you don’t need to practise? It is not for me that you become a ballet dancer, it is for you. If you manage, which is highly doubtful.” He strode over to the studio and wrenched open the door. Inside Grace was still practising, and she ignored them. “See? This is what a good student does. Now go, warm-up — I cannot coach you cold like this.”
Kaitlyn walked into the studio as Mr. Moretti went into the office to complain about his last paycheque. Grace looked over at her, and Kaitlyn felt the scorn she felt for herself reflected in Gr
ace’s eyes. She looked at the ground and began to stretch, her cheeks red.
At half-past, Mr. Moretti finally showed up, and Grace quietly exited. Mr. Moretti didn’t bother to say anything to Kaitlyn, instead walking over to the front of the room and setting his stuff down. He pulled off his grey sweatshirt that said VIBA Nutcracker 2011 on the back, and set it on the chair.
Kaitlyn waited, nervously shifting. She had stopped rehearsing when he came in. As he tuned to look at her, she began to practice her triple pirouette en dehors. Mr. Moretti cracked his back idly as he watched her. “You are frightfully lazy baby, aren’t you?”
Kaitlyn smiled, not sure how to respond.
Mr. Moretti walked over and put his hand on Kaitlyn’s forehead. “No fever. Just lazy.” He walked back and leaned on the mirror. “All right. Let us see how big of a mess this is, yes? Begin.” He pushed Play on the remote control.
As Kaitlyn finished her solo, she fought to breathe. The studio was starting to heat up with her sweat already.
“Are you pregnant?” Mr. Moretti asked as she held her closing position.
“No.”
“Well, it looks it. If you are not the old fat Grandma, you should not look it.” He walked over to her, poked her in the stomach with one finger, and ran another up her spine to make it lengthen. “Like this.”
He bent his head down to hers and looked in the mirror, stretching out her arm and then his, comparing the two. “Your port de bras, it is like ice. Blocks of ice moving through space. It is so ugly, even in Titanic they did not show such lumps. Look at my arm, it is beautiful. If the old grandpa can do it, you can. Do it once more, just the arms. Bend.” In one swift motion, he grabbed both of her arms by the wrist, causing them to hang down. “Look,” he commanded, pointing in the mirror.
Kaitlyn stared at the mirror. She was bent forward, and her arms flopped in front like a doll in the Nutcracker that has not come alive yet. On her back she could only see muscle and her spine: all of her little bones were covered by smooth skin.
“Soft,” Mr. Moretti said, disgusted.
Kaitlyn nodded and quickly stood up.
“From the beginning. Just the arms. No legs.” Kaitlyn ran back to the corner and waited. Mr. Moretti’s finger hovered over the button on the CD player. “Actually,” he said, turning around, “I don’t think this variation is quite the thing for you, baby.”
Kaitlyn stared at him. This variation was perfect for her, it was a largely technical variation, and she could smile her way through it. She’d already been rehearsing it, too; there wasn’t enough time before competition for her to change.
“I think,” said Mr. Moretti, looking through the index on the back of a variation CD that had been left in the studio, “that we can find something a little bit more suitable. Something that will challenge you. Make you grow.” He stopped, having found something. “Why not Flames of Paris?”
Kaitlyn opened her mouth and then closed it again. There was no way she was going to win with that variation! “Okay …”
Mr. Moretti turned to show her the version he wanted her to do, and behind him Kaitlyn obediently learned the steps. It’s okay, she told herself. It’s just one private. My mom can explain to him that I wanted to do the other variation later.
Chapter Seven
Taylor Smaylor Audley
So exited to perform at the asembly tom!! And nervus :p :0 :D
Taylor lay her head on her desk, trying not to attract her teacher’s attention. It was futile. “Taylor? Ms. Audley?” Mrs. Flowers called. “What do you think?”
Taylor sat up and stared at her blankly. “Um — I think that — you know, that the watersheds are — well, we need water, and, like, they make us have water, so that’s good and people shouldn’t make it dirty, right?”
Mrs. Cowley nodded like Taylor had just said something terribly insightful and turned back to the slides she was showing the class. Technically since they were in grade nine, they should have been learning about the medieval age, not watersheds, but Mrs. Flowers was the Environment Club’s sponsor and she wanted to make sure that they knew enough about the environment that they would at least think about helping out. Taylor turned over her BlackBerry on her knee and checked it.
“Taylor, I hope I don’t see you doing what I think you’re doing,” Mrs. Flowers called. Taylor sighed and put the phone back.
“I’m not doing anything,” she told Mrs. Flowers, putting both of her hands back on the table.
After class, Taylor got up first to leave. Mrs. Flowers stopped her. “Taylor, are you doing okay?” she asked, as the last of the students left the classroom.
“Um, yeah, why?” Taylor asked. She felt put on the spot, and didn’t appreciate it.
“Well, to be honest, you haven’t been putting the work in that you could for your assignments, and I was wondering if there was anything you wanted to talk about.”
“No, everything’s good. Just busy with dance.”
“Right. Well, if you ever need anyone to talk to —”
“Thanks, Mrs. Flowers.”
“Well. You can go then — I look forward to seeing your performance at the assembly today!”
“Thanks!” Taylor left the room, seeing Kaitlyn and Jessica out in the hall. They began to walk downstairs.
“What’d she want?” Kaitlyn asked curiously.
“Oh, she just thought that I looked like something was wrong or something,” Taylor brushed it off. “You know what teachers are like.”
“Yeah,” Jessica agreed. “Like, you know Ms. Bueller, the English teacher? She was always annoying me last year, about did I need counselling for my problems?”
Taylor looked at Kaitlyn, and they both started to giggle: Jessica definitely did need help for her problems.
“It’s all because of that stupid nurse who gave us shots,” Jessica said, frowning. “I’ll go around calling her anorexic. Except she was really fat.”
The bell for second class rang. “I have to go get ready!” Taylor exclaimed.
“For sure, good luck,” Kaitlyn said. Taylor gave them both a hug and made her way to the downstairs washroom.
The halls emptied as everyone else went to their class, and the washroom was soon empty. Taylor got changed into her contemporary outfit and put on some more makeup, eyeliner, a bit of blush, and some lipstick. Stupid bathroom lights … There wasn’t a single bathroom in McKinley that had good lighting. Taylor reached in her bag and patted around: there, she did have her CD. She left, going to the theatre to warm up and look at the stage.
The lights were already on, and she could hear laughter above her. The tech club must already be up there, she thought. She stepped onto the stage, and a teacher she didn’t recognize stopped her. “Taylor Audley?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay — dancing, right?”
“Yup.” Taylor looked behind him, at the wings. There were a couple rhythmic gymnasts, a small boy she thought might be a pianist, and a girl who she knew was an opera singer. “Do you want my CD?”
“Sure. Actually, could you please take it up to the students up there?” He pointed overhead to the tech booth.
“Sure.” Taylor began walking in the direction he had pointed, and ended up in front of a partially closed door with laughter emanating from it. She knocked, and there was sudden silence and then a burst of giggling. Taylor backed away from the door.
“Who goeth there?” a boy asked in goofy accent.
“Me,” Taylor called back.
“That is very descriptive, Me,” the voice remarked. “Have we perchance met before?” The boy opened the door and looked at her. He was very skinny and pale. He opened the door a little farther to show off the rest of the occupants of the room, who were all staring at her. Taylor suddenly wished she wasn’t just wearing her costume with a Lululemon jacket over top.
“The teacher down there said to give my CD to you guys,” she explained.
“Awesomola, my Sharona,” he answered, s
taring at her. “Do you go to our school?”
A snort came from a red-haired girl sitting on a chair in the back doing something odd with a Buffy the Vampire Slayer doll.
“Uh, yeah I do,” Taylor answered. “But I’m in the Super Achievers program.” She handed him a CD and started to leave. Behind her she could hear a discussion.
“All the Super Achievers girls are bitches, Zack,” a voice said.
She could hear Matt answer: “Dude. Emily was not every Special Achievers girl. She wasn’t even a representative example.” Taylor heard a crash and a stream of creative expletives. She walked slowly, waiting to see if they were going to say anything more about her, but they appeared to be busy dealing with the results of the crash.
Taylor bobbed up and down in the wings, both nervous and excited. She could hear the students in the audience, closer than a regular theatre and louder. She’d found that she had to do her solo with bare feet instead of pointe shoes because the floor of the stage was not made for pointe work, to say the least. It was so slippery that Taylor had almost put rosin on her bare feet before deciding not to experiment. She could hear the principal, Mr. Grant, talking at great length about how McKinley Secondary School was a much better school than any other school in Vancouver, and how Super Achievers was one of the reasons why McKinley was so much better.
“And the next talented McKinley student I have great pleasure in presenting,” she heard Mr. Grant say; “is a grade nine in intensive dance training at the Vancouver International Ballet academy. Taylor Audley, performing her contemporary piece ‘All I Ever Wanted.’ Let’s hear a round of applause for Taylor, everyone.”
Taylor heard her music began to play, and winced. She was supposed to start on. Her CD had been labelled with ‘Starts on.’ Why were they doing this to her? “Starts on” meant that they were supposed to start the music once she was on the stage and ready, not still waiting in the wings. Had they even bothered to look at the CD?
