I’m vaguely aware of Ms. Jennings looking back and forth between me and Mr. Rocchelli. I’m waiting for him to bust me, but he just continues to stare. Finally he holds the paper up and very slowly rips it in half. “But I have since changed my mind. I think Allegra needs my class. Actually, I know Allegra needs my class. I take back my permission for her to drop it.”
Ms. Jennings keeps glancing back and forth between us; then she shrugs. “Whatever you say.” She cranes her neck to look to the person in line behind me. “Can I help you?” she asks.
I step to the side but keep my eyes fixed on Mr. Rocchelli. He seems to be waiting for something. Probably an apology. He’s not going to get one.
“I guess I’ll see you in block seven then,” I say finally, turning and walking toward the door. I can’t help myself: I have to look back. He’s dropped the ripped-up paper into a recycling box, but he’s still watching me.
I leave the office and start walking down the hall. That’s when I notice how bad my hands are shaking.
The sharp smell of cleaning solution assaults me when I walk through the door. Something’s wrong. My mom is a lot of things, but a clean freak isn’t one of them. I find her in the kitchen, on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She looks up when she sees me standing in the doorway. “Well?” she asks, rocking back into a squatting position. “How was it?”
“It sucked.”
Mom sighs and rolls back onto her butt, her back leaning against a cupboard. “Why did it suck?”
“They’re making me take music theory. I don’t need it. I’ve done the work already. You know that.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Okay, so how were the rest of your classes?”
I just shrug. They were fine, actually, but that awful situation in the school office—getting caught forging that signature—well, the whole stupid thing unsettled me. “So what’s with you?” I ask, motioning to the floor.
“Your dad called. He’ll be home tonight.”
I should have guessed. Dad’s visits always throw her into a cleaning frenzy. It’s not that he likes a clean house—not at all. It’s just that his imminent arrival stirs something up in her, a weird kind of nervousness that she works off by cleaning.
Mom gets to her feet as I open the fridge. “Are you working tonight?” I ask. Mom landed her job with the orchestra about a year ago. It was a huge deal for her. Before that, she worked from home, teaching harp and piano. She still teaches but not as much.
“Just a rehearsal,” she says. “But there are five performances a week for the rest of the month.” She watches as I pour myself a glass of nonfat milk. “At least you’ll have your father for company.”
“How long will he be home?”
“Who knows?” She sighs.
I nod, heave my backpack over my shoulder and take my milk and an apple down the hall to my room. I drop the food on my desk and flop onto the bed. Rolling over, I stare at the ceiling. Like Mom, hearing that my dad’s coming home unsettles me too. The truth is, I really don’t know him that well. He’s been touring with his band since I was a small kid, and he’s on the road more than he’s here. I’ve come to think of his visits home as crash landings. He’ll sleep for most of the first few days, and then, as he emerges from his stupor, he’ll start glancing at me, shyly, more like a stranger than a father. I think he’d like to know me better too, but I haven’t figured out how to help him with that. He’s full of confidence when he’s onstage performing, dancing around, being goofy, but he’s like a self-conscious kid with me. He tries, I’ll give him that. When he’s home, he comes to a lot of my dance classes and sits in a chair watching hours of tedious barre work and exercises. My teachers at the studio let him hang out there because Sonia, the owner, is a big fan of his band, Loose Ends, and she gets seriously weird when he’s around. He’s rarely home for my performances, but he’s definitely seen the rigors of training.
Mom appears at my bedroom door. “I’m leaving,” she says. “I’ve got a ride. The car’s all yours, if you need it.”
I nod.
She turns to leave, then swings back around. “No dance tonight?” she asks.
“No, it’s registration night. Dance classes start up tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay.” She hesitates. “Well, then, I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yep.”
She studies me for another moment, blows me a kiss and is gone.
I spend the evening waiting. I do homework, eat, chat online with Angela, my friend from dance, all the while expecting to hear Dad come through the door.
I pace and peer out the window. I wish he’d carry a cell phone like every other parent does so I could phone him and see where he is. I try to plan what we can talk about when he does get here. Maybe I can tell him about my problems with Mr. Rocchelli. Not the forgery part, but what a stubborn jerk he is. Dad would get it. He wouldn’t have the time of day for a guy like Mr. Rocchelli. Dad is a self-taught musician and doesn’t believe in spending years studying music theory and all that. It’s a running joke between him and Mom. She’s classically trained, but it’s only recently that she’s found work performing. He’s been a performing musician for years.
One of the great things about Dad is he doesn’t question my desire to study dance, which Mom only let me take seriously once I’d completed the highest level of piano performance at the National Music Academy. It was the deal we had. Once I’d mastered the music, she’d support my dream of being a dancer. That’s how I ended up at a performing-arts school. It’s finally my turn.
The hours tick by. I take a long bath. I read. Eventually I give up waiting and go to bed. I don’t hear either of them come home.
Music theory is my second class on Wednesday morning. It’s the one class I can find easily, having been here just yesterday. I pause at the door, feeling nauseous, but force my legs to propel me into the room. I almost wish Mr. Rocchelli had busted me for the forged signature, because now I feel indebted to him, and that makes the whole thing even more awkward.
A quick glance around, and I realize he’s not here yet. The music stands have been shoved into a corner, and the chairs are arranged in a small circle. A few kids are already seated. I groan inwardly. It looks like he’s trying to create one of those intimate, “safe” places to learn. I just want to hide behind the rest of the kids, do the work and get out of here.
I sit in a chair away from anyone else. A moment later a backpack plunks onto the chair next to mine. Glancing up, I see that it belongs to Julia, the girl who was in line in front of me in the office yesterday. She’s chattering away to someone a couple of chairs over. She plants herself on the chair next to her backpack. Inhaling deeply, I slouch lower in my seat, staring at a point on the floor in the center of the circle, not wanting the others to see how uncomfortable I am about being here, not knowing anyone, and mad because I shouldn’t be in this class in the first place.
I let my thoughts drift back over my morning, and they settle on my mother’s strange behavior. When I got up she was already in the kitchen, putting coffee on. I noticed dirty wineglasses standing beside the sink. Two glasses. She must have come home and waited up for my father, or perhaps it was the other way around. As I popped bread into the toaster, I watched as she wiped the already clean counters. She was still on edge, for some reason. I’d have thought she’d be happy to have him home.
My thoughts are interrupted by Mr. Rocchelli’s arrival. The nausea I felt earlier intensifies, and I wonder if I might throw up. I glance about, wondering where the nearest washroom is.
Mr. Rocchelli takes the remaining chair and smiles at the circle of students. I won’t meet his eyes, keeping my gaze on the window behind him.
“Welcome to music theory,” he says. “I’m Mr. Rocchelli, your teacher. My friends call me Rocky. If you feel comfortable with it, you can call me that too.”
Despite myself, I look at him to see if he’s serious. Whoever heard of a teacher giving students permission to use
a nickname? Mr. Rocchelli must be even newer to the teaching profession than I’d guessed.
“We’re a small group,” he says, “which is awesome. It’ll allow ample opportunity for one-on-one instruction.”
I swallow a groan and sink even lower in my chair, noticing that Julia sits up a little straighter in hers.
“So, let’s get going,” he says. “I want us to build community in this room, and in order to do that I have some games for us to play, to jump-start us.”
The morning careens from bad to worse. I hate this touchy-feely stuff.
The first game is one I’m sure I played in third grade. We each have to tell two truths and one lie about ourselves, and the others have to decide which statement is the lie.
“I’ll go first,” Mr. Rocchelli says.
He thinks for a moment. “I have a collection of over a thousand vinyl LPs. I am a wannabe jazz musician. My father is a beekeeper.” He points to the guy on his left. “Well, which is the lie?”
We each take turns guessing. I go last and guess that he’s lying about the LPs. He smiles. “Those of you who guessed the LPs are right, though I do have over seven hundred.” A murmur runs through the circle. “Why don’t you go next?” he says to me.
I take a deep breath and spew out the first three things that come to me. “I was only three pounds when I was born, my dad is the bass player for the Loose Ends, and I have four brothers.”
Without exception, everyone guesses that the lie is my dad being the bass player for the Loose Ends. For some reason, when it’s his turn to guess Mr. Rocchelli passes and doesn’t say why. When I tell the class I’m an only child, I see looks of surprise and even disbelief cross a few faces.
“Are you serious?” a guy asks. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.
I just nod.
“That is so cool,” he says.
“It looks like Allegra got you all on that one,” Mr. Rocchelli says. “Well done. Julia, why don’t you go next?”
The game continues, and I have to admit, some of the truths are pretty interesting. One guy has actually swallowed a live goldfish, and the boy who asked if I was serious about my dad has the autographs of two hundred well-known musicians. I’m impressed.
When everyone has had a turn, Mr. Rocchelli explains the next game. He asks one of the boys to stand and then takes away his chair. “In this game, the person without a chair has to name one thing that they have never done. Everyone else who has never done the same thing has to get up and take an empty chair from someone else who has also never done it. The person who ends up without a chair goes next.” He looks around the group, then adds, “And please keep the activities clean and legal.”
“I have never eaten snails,” the first boy says. Most of us jump up and scramble to find a chair. My butt hits a chair at the same moment that Julia’s butt hits the same chair. She gives me a shoulder-check and I slide off, barely managing to stay on my feet. “Looks like you’re up next,” Mr. Rocchelli says to me.
“I have never owned a dog,” I say. A few chairs are exchanged.
“I have never worn braces.”
“I have never colored my hair.” Mr. Rocchelli jumps into the fray on that one and, not wanting to shove any of his students, ends up losing.
“I have never been fishing,” he says. About half of the group scrambles to get to an available chair.
“I have never been on a diet.”
“I have never broken my curfew.”
“I have never made my curfew.”
The game gets slapstick and silly, and even I find myself laughing. One guy keeps losing on purpose so that he can say ridiculous things. “I’ve never kissed a girl.” All the girls switch chairs while none of the boys move, despite the goading a few of them get.
“I’ve never cheated on an exam.” A surprising number of kids stay in their seats.
“I’ve never cheated on my girlfriend.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Mr. Rocchelli says, clapping his hands to get our attention.
Reluctantly, we settle back into our chairs, but the chatter continues. The game has prompted a lot of silly conversation. As I watch him hand out the course outline, I realize that the tension I’d felt at the start of the class has subsided. Maybe Mr. Rocchelli knows what he’s doing after all.
He goes over the units we’ll be studying, outlining some of the assignments, and then asks for questions.
“Rocky, what percentage of our grade will the final exam be worth?” Julia asks. “I’m, like, so bad at exams,” she adds.
I scan the faces of the other students, wondering if anyone else feels like rolling their eyes. The guy who looks familiar makes eye contact with me. That’s when I realize he’s the guy from the office yesterday, the one who was arguing with Ms. Jennings. Spencer. He smirks and nods in Julia’s direction. I nod in return, feeling a sense of silent camaraderie. Neither of us likes Ms. Jennings or Julia. After a few more questions, Mr. Rocchelli dismisses the class, but he adds, “Allegra, will you stay behind a moment, please?”
Oh man, I think. Here it comes, the lecture about how lucky I am that he hasn’t turned me in. I’ll probably have to apologize before he’ll let me leave the room. The relaxed mood brought on by the games evaporates in a single moment.
I remain in my chair, trying not to act as nervous as I feel. Spencer smiles when he passes by me, and I try to smile back, but I think it comes off as more of a grimace. When everyone is gone, Mr. Rocchelli goes to his desk and comes back with a file folder. He hands it to me and then takes a seat a couple of chairs away.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Open it up.”
I flip it open and read the words on the top of the page: Music Theory 11 - 12 . Final Exam. I look at him, confused.
“I forgot to mention,” he says, “that you can challenge the course. Take the exam early and be done with it.”
As the words sink in, I become angry. Why didn’t he mention this at the start? It would have saved me from embarrassing myself the way I did in the school office yesterday.
I guess he can see the flush working its way up my cheeks, because he leans forward and says, “I owe you an apology, Allegra.”
I still don’t say anything. I’m too dumbfounded at the direction this conversation is going.
“I should have told you yesterday that you wouldn’t have to redo all the work you’ve already done.”
I find my voice. “Yeah, you should have.”
He just nods.
“So all I have to do is write this exam and pass it, and I’m done with your class?”
“Not quite.”
I look at him, waiting.
He takes back the file with the exam. “You’ll be done with Music Theory 11-12. But you won’t be done with my class.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Like I told you yesterday, Allegra, this is not a dance school. If you pass the exam, I have another project in mind, one I think will challenge you to actually apply all the music theory you know. You may even want to call on your knowledge of dance.”
“Why won’t you just let me sign up for another class?” I know I’m whining, but I don’t care.
“I’ve read your file, Allegra. I know that both your parents are musicians. That’s why I said Pass in your round of the two-truths-and-a-lie game. I believe you do have a sound background in music. That said, I am committed to the philosophy of this school. We are about all the arts. I want you to push yourself in more areas than just dance. Believe me, it will help you bring even more to the dance studio.” He pauses and leans forward. “You have to trust me on this one, Allegra.”
For the first time all morning, I meet his gaze and stare back at him. I feel a sense of defeat.
“Your other option would be to take drama, I guess. Or painting.”
There’s not a chance I’m doing that.
“Well?” he asks when I don’t respond.
I sigh. “How
soon can I write the exam?” I nod at the file.
“Attagirl!” he says, beaming.
Despite myself, I notice how nice he looks when he smiles. “Whatever,” I say.
Three
Ms. Dekker teaches all of my dance and movement classes. She’s the one the girl from my English class told me about. During my first ballet class, I can feel her eyes assessing me during barre. I try to ignore her and focus on the exercises, but she keeps hollering out instructions. “Shoulders down, Allegra! Stretch your feet! Pull up, chest bones to the ceiling! Ribs closed, soft neck!” I try to do everything she says, but there are too many things to think about at once. When I’m thinking about my arms, I forget to point my toes, and when I’m worrying about my legs, my posture sags.
With a click of Ms. Dekker’s remote, the music stops and our exercise comes to an abrupt halt.
“Allegra,” she scolds, “I see that you’ve picked up some bad habits along the way. Where have you been studying up until now?”
“Turning Pointe,” I tell her.
“Well, the teachers at Turning Pointe should be ashamed of themselves,” she says. “Your feet are terrible and your turnout needs a lot of work.”
I stretch out my leg to do a grande rond de jambe and she bounds right over to where I’m working. Bending down, she grabs my inner thigh and rotates it upward.
“There,” she says, standing up and assessing my new position. “That is proper technique.”
It feels all wrong. My développé is overcrossed, and the way she’s twisted my leg makes my hip feel out of place. “Are you sure?” I ask. “It doesn’t feel right this way.”
“I’m sure,” she says. “And I expect to see you use your turnout from your hips from now on, not forced from the knees.”
In the mirror, I make eye contact with the girl from English class. She tilts her head, eyebrows raised in a question. I nod and decide that I might not avoid her in English after all.
Allegra Page 2
