Allegra

by Shelley Hrdlitschka

  “What’s the matter?” I ask Spencer. I hear the irritation in my voice. It’s not him I’m annoyed with, it’s my mother, but he doesn’t know that.

  “That’s what I came here to find out,” he answers, sounding equally pissed off. “Talia says you left her party without saying goodbye or anything. They’ve been phoning you, but you didn’t pick up. They asked me to come by to see if you’re okay.”

  I think about this. “Why did they get you involved?”

  “They’d been drinking. No one wanted to drive.”

  “So they phoned you in the middle of the night?”

  “They were worried, Allegra.”

  I sigh, and some of the anger escapes with my breath. “I’m sorry. Please let them know I’m fine. And I’m sorry you had to get involved.”

  Spencer peers over my shoulder. “Can I come in for a few minutes?”

  “No, my mom, she’s got…company.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Musicians?” he asks hopefully.

  Right then it hits me. An epiphany. My life is a total mess. This stuff with my parents, with my anxieties… Spencer would never get it. I step outside and shut the door behind me. I notice Marcus’s car parked at the curb.

  “There’s stuff going on in my life right now,” I tell him. “I need time. Alone.”

  “What are you talking about?” He looks genuinely puzzled.

  I fold my arms across my chest. “You need to go. Please tell the girls I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t move. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t. It’s not about you.”

  He just stares at me. I look down at my feet.

  “We had such a good time that night at the rehearsal,” he says softly. “What’s changed since then?”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Spencer. It’s other stuff.” I hear myself sigh again. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Why not? That’s what friends do.”

  “Not this stuff.”

  “Is it because of what happened…in the sound room?”

  I notice he can’t say the word kiss. “No, it’s not about you. Honest.” I look in his eyes again, willing him to believe me, but I can see only questions there. “I’ve got to go in.” I push the door open with my shoulder.

  “Allegra.” There’s a catch in his voice. I spin around and notice his creased brow and the clenching movement of his jaw. He shoves his hands in his pockets. His eyes narrow. “What is with you? I don’t get it. I’ve seen you dance…”

  “You have?” That surprises me.

  “Yeah, I’ve watched a couple of your classes.”

  I think about the large glass window in the dance studio.

  “I’ve never seen you.”

  “No, because you were totally into it, and you’re like…amazing. And your music…” He shakes his head. “My god, it’s so awesome, yet you…” He doesn’t complete the sentence.

  “Yet I what?”

  He shuffles his feet and looks away. “You’re distant. You put up a wall and don’t let anyone in. It’s like you’re… you’re protecting yourself from…from I don’t know what. You’re nothing like the girl who dances and writes music. I just don’t get it.” He turns and starts walking down the driveway. As he passes the mailbox, he kicks the post, but he doesn’t turn back.

  In the house, Marcus has put on a jacket and is clearly getting ready to leave. I guess I’ve spoiled their fun. I try to slip down the hall without being noticed, but Mom calls out my name. With a sigh I return to the kitchen.

  “Allegra, I don’t think you’ve met Marcus.”

  “Hi, Allegra,” he says. “That’s a lovely name.”

  He looks totally uncomfortable. Good. I nod but can’t find any words.

  “Is everything okay with Spencer?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah, just a…a misunderstanding. I’m going back to bed.” I turn to leave.

  “Nice to meet you, Allegra,” Marcus says to my back.

  I don’t reply.

  “Teenagers,” I hear my mom say apologetically. “You know how they are.”

  If Marcus responds, I don’t hear it. A few minutes later, I hear his car pull away from the curb.

  I lie in bed on Saturday morning thinking about what Spencer said. You don’t let anyone in.

  The counselor I went to as a kid had given me some suggestions for things to do when I was uncomfortable with other kids, but I’d always found it easier not to get into those situations in the first place. I still feel that way. Once again, I wonder how it is that I feel safe and confident performing, but put me in a social setting with kids my own age…

  I should never have agreed to go to that sleepover.

  When I finally get up, Mom is drinking coffee and reading the newspaper in the kitchen. I pull a loaf of bread out of the freezer and pop two slices into the toaster. I can feel her gaze on me as I rummage through the cupboard, looking for peanut butter. Finally she sighs, pulls off her reading glasses and pushes the paper aside. “Allegra, about last night…”

  I don’t let her finish the sentence and whirl about to face her. “You don’t ask me about my evening, and I won’t ask you why Marcus was here at one in the morning.”

  Her eyes flash and she looks away. “It’s not what you think…”

  “Right, Mom.” I decide I’m not hungry after all. Stomping out of the kitchen, I head straight down to the studio. I pull all my old piano books out of the cupboard and play one piece after another. I force everything else out of my mind and just play.

  When Dad calls, inviting me to have lunch with him, I tell him I’m not feeling well, which is only partly untrue. Being miserable counts as not feeling well, I figure. He suggests I invite my friends to that evening’s rehearsal in our music studio. I tell him I’ll think about it, which I do. In fact, I obsess over it; I want to call and apologize and invite them to the practice. But I’m afraid that they’ll be too angry and will turn down my peace offering. Or, even worse, that they’ll come and my anxiety will flare up again. Twice, I start to call them; twice, I don’t follow through.

  I spend the evening in my room, reading, while the band practices downstairs. I pretend to be asleep at the end of the session so that I don’t have to watch my dad leave with the rest of the band.

  I purposely arrive at my English class just as it’s about to start. I slide into my desk beside Talia and open my books. I know she is staring at me, but I don’t look at her. I can’t.

  When the teacher asks us to turn to page thirty in our textbooks, Talia takes the opportunity to toss a note onto my desk. I pick it up and unfold it in my lap. What happened to you?

  I pick up my pen and scrawl an answer. I wasn’t feeling well. I’m sorry. I wait until the teacher’s attention is elsewhere and pass it back without looking at Talia. Moments later the note is tossed back to my desk. Why didn’t you just say so????

  I crumple up the paper and push it into my pocket. I can feel my face burning. There’s no way I can explain. No one would get it. I pretend to focus on the lesson. At the end of the class, Talia collects her things and leaves without saying another word to me. It’s easy to avoid each other in ballet; in music theory, I isolate myself in the sound room before Spencer arrives.

  I eat my lunch in the portable and then spend the remainder of the time in the sound room. Other students are working on projects or practicing, so no one takes much notice of me.

  The week continues the same way. On Tuesday I run into Sophie and Molly in the hall between classes. I say hi, try to smile, mumble something about being sorry about the other night, then keep going. They don’t look mad so much as puzzled.

  Things at home haven’t changed much. Dad calls every day, but we’re back to being self-conscious with one another. I don’t have the energy or desire to dance, so I stop going to class. Angela calls, wondering why I’m not there, and I tell her I’m sick.

  I stay in the sound room after musi
c theory on Thursday, replaying my composition over and over. It’s just a mindless kind of activity. I’m not inspired to change anything or add to it; I just keep clicking Playback. It’s lunch hour, and I have nowhere else to go.

  I hear the door open behind me, and I swing around. The four of them are standing there: Talia, Molly, Sophie and Spencer.

  “I think you owe us an explanation,” Talia says. She folds her arms across her chest.

  “I told you, I wasn’t feeling well. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Right, but you haven’t said why you didn’t say something before you left.”

  Sweat breaks out on my palms. I feel like a cornered animal, trapped in the sound room.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to say something?”

  I can only shrug and stare at my feet. A wave of dizziness passes over me.

  “Is something the matter here?” I look up and see Mr. Rocchelli standing behind our small group. He’s craning his neck to see into the room. Our eyes meet briefly before I look down again.

  There’s a long pause, and finally Spencer says, “No, nothing’s wrong. We were just having a chat with Allegra.”

  “Let’s go,” Talia says.

  I hear them move away, and then the door to the portable opens and closes.

  My heart is beating fast now, and dizziness overwhelms me. I bend over and put my head between my knees.

  “Allegra, what is it?” Mr. Rocchelli has put his hand on my back. I can only shake my head. He leaves, but moments later he’s back in the room. “Here’s some water.”

  I reach out and take the glass from him. My throat is dry, and I gulp the water down.

  “Do you want more?” he asks.

  Finally I can sit up again, but I don’t look at him. I’m too embarrassed. “No, thanks.”

  He eases himself into the other chair in the cramped little room and leans toward me. “Want to talk about it?” he asks.

  I shake my head again. I’m struggling to fight back tears. It’s all so humiliating.

  We sit in silence for another moment. Then his chair creaks as he gets to his feet. “I’m a good listener,” he says. “Anytime you want to talk.”

  I nod, still staring at my feet.

  He stands there. His foot taps the floor a couple of times and then he leaves the sound room. A realization washes over me: it has taken me less than a month to totally screw up my fresh start at a new school. Combine that with the situation at home and my anxiety flaring up, and, well, things couldn’t get much worse.

  I get up, shut the door and then click Playback on the computer. For the remainder of the lunch hour, I listen to my composition over and over again.

  Eleven

  “C’mon, Allegra, watch your turnout. How many times have we talked about that? And stretch your feet.”

  I stretch them.

  “Harder!”

  Ms. Dekker’s been hollering corrections at me for the full hour of ballet. I don’t know why she’s decided to pick on me today. There must be somebody else who’s less than perfect.

  Finally the hour is up, and I tug sweatpants on over my ballet tights. I can’t wait to get out of this room. Out of this school.

  “Allegra, could you stay behind for a moment, please?”

  I glance over at her, puzzled. She’s sitting in a chair, making some notes in a book and not looking at me. This is not a good sign.

  Pulling on my hoodie, I slide into street shoes and grab my dance bag. She keeps writing in her book. One by one all the other dancers leave. I slump against the wall. Finally she looks up at me. Her expression is kinder than I expected, given the way she spoke to me in class.

  “Have a seat,” she says, motioning to a chair beside hers.

  I feel her studying me as I sit down.

  “Is everything okay, Allegra?”

  The question startles me. What’s she getting at? What does she know?

  “Yeah, fine. Why?”

  She tilts her head and stares at me for another moment, as if trying to come to a decision. I hold her gaze, even though it’s an effort. “When you first began taking my dance classes in the fall, I could see something in your dancing. An energy, a spark. Something rare and, well, yes, exceptional.”

  I almost fall off my chair. “Are you serious? All I remember is you telling me about all the bad habits I’d picked up at Turning Pointe.”

  “Well, yes, you did. And you still have them.”

  “So…I don’t get it. I have bad technique but you like the way I dance?”

  She smiles. “Yes. Something like that.” Crossing her legs, she continues. “Allegra, a dance teacher can teach just about anybody good dance technique, and most people can learn it. But the rare student, like you, has an intrinsic gift. You don’t just perform the dance, you feel it. It comes from inside. Think of Karen Kain, or Michael Jackson, for that matter. They were more than just good technique and great choreography. They became the dance.”

  I wait, stunned that she’s putting me in the same league as two of my favorite dancers.

  “But something has changed in the past week.” My heart sinks, and I look down at my feet. “Your energy and spark have evaporated. You’re going through the motions, but that’s about it. Now all I can see are the bad habits.”

  I don’t know how to respond, so I just continue staring at my feet.

  There is a long silence, and then she speaks again. “Maybe evaporated is too strong a word. But for some reason, your talent seems to have gone into hibernation for a while. I know it’s still there. That’s why I think something must be going on.”

  I just shrug, still trying to digest the fact that she thinks I have natural talent. Until two minutes ago, I was sure she thought I was a hopeless case.

  “There are counselors available at the school if you need someone to talk to.”

  I glance at her, relieved that she hasn’t asked me to spill my guts to her. She’s studying my face. “Okay, I am dealing with some stuff, but I’ll be all right,” I lie.

  The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll be all right. I’m feeling numb inside. No, worse than numb. Dead. No wonder she picked up on it.

  “I’m sorry to hear that you’ve got problems, Allegra, but here’s the thing. You say you want to dance professionally after you graduate. Professional dancers have problems too, but they dance through them. You’ll be out of work in a New York minute if you allow your personal life to affect your dancing.”

  I nod but don’t tell her that it’s not that simple. I’ve danced through problems before. In fact, dance was the perfect stress-buster, but not this time. The dancer me feels likes she’s gone.

  “You need to come to class and put everything else out of your mind,” she continues. “Try to arrive early and sit in stillness for a bit. Let all your worries float away. Then, when we start warm-up, you’ll be able to set that dance spirit of yours free.”

  She’s dead, I want to tell her but don’t.

  Ms. Dekker pushes her chair back and stands up. I guess our meeting is over. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Allegra. And I hope it’s the professional dancer who shows up to class.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “That’s a start.”

  Mom has a night off on Monday, and she suggests we do something together.

  “Like what?” I ask. I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “Well, anything. See a movie, go for a swim.” Her eyes light up. “How about a pedicure?”

  I recall how the girls were going to give each other pedicures at Talia’s sleepover. “I have a lot of homework.”

  She tilts her head. “You don’t look too busy to me.”

  “I’m just taking a break.”

  She stands in my doorway, staring at me. Finally she speaks again. “Your dad called earlier.”

  I don’t respond. What is there to say?

  “He says you haven’t been attending your dance classes. He’s been showing up to watch, but you h
aven’t been there.”

  “I haven’t felt like going.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” she says gently, “if you’re not sick, what’s going on? It’s not like you to miss the opportunity to dance.”

  I flip over, putting my back to her. “It’s none of your business.”

  How can I possibly tell her that her behavior is a big part of my problem?

  I can’t see her, but I can hear—loud and clear—the change in her tone. “I’m paying for those classes, Allegra. If you’re not going to attend, then I’d like to know so I can quit writing the checks.”

  I don’t answer. I really don’t know if I’ll be going back.

  “You sure you don’t want to do something tonight?” she asks, her tone softening. “I’d really like to get out.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be fine.” I expect she’ll end up doing something with Marcus, but I don’t say anything.

  I hear the car pulling out of the driveway a short time later. I try to do some homework, but I just can’t concentrate. Same thing in the studio, working on my composition. The ever-present numbness keeps any creativity from sparking in my brain. As well, the studio reminds me too much of my dad, and when I think about why he’s not here, it just makes me sadder. And madder. Eventually I turn on the TV and scroll through the channels.

  I must have nodded off, because the next thing I know, Dad is sitting on the couch beside me. “Good show?” he asks, nodding toward the TV.

  “Where did you come from?” I ask, sitting up.

  “Through the front door.” He picks up the remote and turns the TV off. “I went to the dance studio again, but you weren’t there. Obviously. You’d think I’d learn.”

  “Sorry. I should have told you.” But then I would have had to explain why I wasn’t going to dance, and I’m not sure that I can.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I just haven’t felt like dancing.”

  “That’s not like you.” I can feel him studying me, but I can’t look at him.

  “Just going through a bit of a slump, I guess.” Major understatement.