Silhouette

by Thalia Kalkipsakis

  Mum keeps facing the road as she drives. In the dim light I see her neck lengthen, her face harden. ‘We’ve been through this,’ she mutters.

  ‘Actually, you’ve been through this.’

  ‘Scarlett …’

  ‘It’s one of the world’s top ballet companies. Why won’t you at least let me try?’

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ she snaps. ‘There are other companies. I won’t let you waste your life chasing a ghost.’

  ‘Chasing a ghost?’

  ‘Scarlett, please.’

  That’s not even the real reason; it’s just what she says. This is about her ghosts, not mine. She can’t handle anything that reminds her of the accident. Anytime something makes her think of Dad she turns away, nursing a wound that never seems to heal.

  For a while the only sound is the swishing of the wipers. I flex my foot, feeling a twinge, and think about classes today. Jack. Talk to her.

  After a while, I take a breath. Another try. ‘Look, I know it hurts. But it’s my life. It should be my choice.’

  ‘Scarlett, that’s enough!’

  ‘No, it’s not enough.’ She has no right to keep doing this. ‘You never let me talk about him.’

  ‘Because there’s nothing to say.’ Mum grips the steering wheel with both hands as we stop at a light.

  ‘But he was my father! He was a principal artist at the NBC. You never tell me anything –’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ Mum’s head whips around towards me, her face half in shadow. ‘How bad it was after his shoulder injury?’

  ‘No. I don’t mean –’

  ‘The roles he missed out on? Or do you want to hear about the accident? The way his car wrapped around the power pole?’

  I shrink back. ‘Stop it! I don’t mean that!’

  The lights turn green and Mum fumbles with the gearstick, crunching into first and swearing under her breath. Our words echo between us.

  He was my father.

  There’s nothing to say.

  I rest my head against the window, watching light fall on the glass before disappearing and returning again. I’ll stand up to her about this, but not tonight. Not until I know how to change her mind.

  ‘Want some pasta?’ Mum asks when we get home. It’s a peace offering.

  ‘Nah thanks,’ I say, but the look on her face makes me add, ‘I’m too tired. I’ll just grab a yoghurt.’

  She hovers as I choose a tub from the fridge, then disappears into the living room.

  I’m hungrier than I realised and I end up sneaking a handful of almonds and then slurping a whole tomato as well. It wakes me up again and I worry that I won’t sleep. But after a hot shower I sink into bed, and the only sensation in my body is heaviness.

  The next morning, I’m lifted out of sleep by the notes of a rising piano scale. For a while I let them carry me, eyes closed, knees to chest. When the scale changes I sit on the edge of the bed. Crack my neck. Crunch my toes. I pull on denim shorts from under my bed and choose a T-shirt that I’ve had since I was ten. Still fits, though tighter.

  In the kitchen I boil an egg, aware that Mum can hear water in the pipes and must know that I’m up. I never go in when she’s teaching. The noise that we make is our conversation.

  I take a glass of water upstairs and slip the registration form out of my bag. It’s easy to fill in. At ‘Date of Birth’ I drop the year back by two but keep the day and month the same. Under ‘Professional Experience’ I let my pen hover then write, ‘none.’ I can lie about my age but not about my dancing.

  Then I place the sheet to one side and pull out my books. Mum and I have an agreement – I stay at the Academy only as long as I keep up my grades.

  I’m in the middle of a French grammar exercise when an image of the audition tomorrow comes to me. Messing up. Missing my triple turn. I must be hungry.

  Downstairs I pull open a tin of tuna, eating straight from the can and listening to stilted attempts at Ode to Joy. Sounds like a new student. I return to my books and work for another couple of hours before reaching a brick wall, the limit of my concentration.

  Now there’s nothing to distract me from the audition and it becomes impossible to sit still. I get busy organising my gear, music, water. It’s not until ten o’clock tomorrow, but I’m ready three times over and still the adrenaline is pumping. Dancing’s the only antidote for the way I feel now. I spend the next hour stretching, marking out the steps, moving through the nerves.

  It’s a relief when the clock finally clicks over to five-thirty. I throw my phone and a few other things into a bag and head downstairs.

  Mum’s sitting out the back, a newspaper open on the table.

  I stick my head out the door. ‘I’m going out. Back by ten.’ It’s worth a try.

  Her eyes lift. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just the movies. With Paige, Izzy, Grant, Tadpole … you know, usual crowd.’

  ‘All right.’ Mum peers over her glasses at my tight T-shirt, my bare legs. That frown again. ‘After you change into something more appropriate to wear in public.’

  For a moment I glare at her. She’s never happy with what I wear, but I grit my teeth. ‘Okay.’

  Upstairs, I look in the mirror and fluff up my hair so that it falls thick and full around my shoulders, flaming red.

  Ever since I can remember, my hair has attracted glances. It’s like a light that’s always switched on. So I use it to my advantage. Big hair, a bit of cleavage, a lot of leg. I know how it works. When you look a certain way, you get what you want.

  That’s unless you have a mum like mine.

  I strip down to bra and undies then head out of my door, across the landing and into Mum’s bedroom. The reinvention takes only a few minutes. It’s just a dress-up game, rated M.

  I make my way downstairs and pose just the right way at the back door. ‘How’s this?’

  I wait as Mum turns to take it in. I’ve had my eye on this red dress for years, cut to the thigh, with a revealing neckline. Plus stiletto heels. Mum’s clothes, all of them. She can’t complain about my choice this time.

  ‘Too much?’ I ask.

  Mum barely reacts, a parting of her lips is the only hint that I’ve landed a victory. The dress is too small for her now, but I’ve seen it in photos. I look way better in it than she ever did. It hugs my body in all the right places. I know enough of the world to know what these clothes would say to the right kind of guy.

  Mum knows it too.

  ‘The shoes? They’re too much?’ I swivel, showing off the lines, and then glance up to see the impact.

  Mum sighs.

  ‘I’ll change them,’ I say after a while.

  ‘Good,’ is all that she says.

  I make my way up the stairs, feeling her eyes track my steps. I slip out of my heels and replace them with flats, then layer the red dress with a black top.

  Back downstairs I place a hand on the doorknob and call goodbye. Her reply comes when I’m already outside.

  Of course, I’m late to the Complex. Everyone’s talking about auditions for our graduation performance.

  ‘What about you, Scarlett?’ asks Izzy, as I slip into a seat. ‘How’s your solo coming along?’

  I look across at Paige. ‘Yeah … actually, I’m pretty happy with it so far.’ She returns my gaze with a slight nod.

  Izzy groans and f lops dramatically in her seat. ‘Gawd, Scarlett, I hate you so much …’

  ‘Thanks, Izz.’ I grin. ‘I hate you too.’

  The conversation stays on the grad performance for the rest of the meal and moves to exams during the ads before the movie. Talking only stops once we’ve been shushed a few times.

  ‘Anyone for a coffee?’ asks Grant when we’re all standing around outside after the movie.

  Izzy nods, while Tadpole does his usual thumbs up. ‘I’d kill for an espresso,’ he says.

  Everyone turns to me and Paige as we exchange a look. Paige shakes her head slightly and I’m g
lad that even Tadpole isn’t enough to keep her out this late.

  We say goodbye and head for the buses. Suddenly there are no distractions between now and the audition tomorrow.

  ‘I’ve checked the timetable. We can catch the 9.35 train straight to the MPG Studios,’ Paige says once we’re nearly at the stop. ‘It’ll make us a bit early.’

  ‘Great.’ I hug myself against the breeze. ‘So we’ll meet on the steps at, what … a bit before nine-thirty?’

  ‘Yeah. What are you going to tell your mum?’

  I shrug. ‘That I’m hanging out with you. It’s not even a lie.’

  We’re quiet for a while after that, but I feel the excitement coming from Paige as she rocks from one foot to the other. After a while she stops. ‘Man, I feel sick.’

  ‘Having second thoughts?’

  ‘No way.’ She tilts her head and the corners of her mouth curl up. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Nope.’ I grin back. ‘I can’t believe we haven’t tried this before.’

  THREE

  It takes us ages to reach building six at MPG Studios, not because we get lost but because the place is so big. We walk in silence and at speed, not wanting to look out of place even though we feel it. I’m aware of Paige’s contained energy beside me, but it’s not until she touches my shoulder and points that my heart really kicks into gear.

  Ahead of us is a building with a massive ‘6’ at the top. A figure with the unmistakable poise of a dancer stands beside a wide door, smoking. We’re close enough for Paige to grimace at the smell. I know what she’s thinking. How can any dancer do that when her body is her whole life?

  It’s not just that she’s smoking but the relaxed way she holds it. Hiding it from teachers or parents is the last thing on her mind.

  Of course it is. We’re all adults here.

  Inside we follow a ‘Registration’ sign down the hall to a wide carpeted space. Paige tugs my arm and I follow her to a guy wearing a headset and sitting behind a table. With a hand on either side of her registration form, she holds it out like a sacred offering. I squash my lips together as the guy scans down, flips a page. I brace myself for … I’m not sure what. Something that will give us away. Somehow he’ll see that we’re not meant to be here.

  But we’re given numbers just like everyone else. Paige is sixty-one and I’m sixty-two. The audition had been a stunt. But now, it’s real.

  We find a space, slip off our street shoes and begin warming up. It feels good to stretch out the tension, move my body through the nerves. Beside us, a woman in black raises her leg to the side and I immediately register details about her turnout, flexibility, extension. A simple backwards arch from someone else shows solid core strength and good expression. In only a few minutes I have a snapshot of all the talent in my sightline.

  When I next glance at Paige, she raises her eyebrows and mouths, They’re good. She’s been doing the same as me.

  I mouth back, Fuuuuuck! just to make her laugh. She does, and I’m glad to see her shoulders relax, her eyes crinkle. I’m only half-joking, though. I hope we’re not about to make monumental fools of ourselves.

  Soon we’re told to put on dancing heels and form a line in number order. The first twenty disappear into another room. Almost straightaway, a dark-haired woman with a number ‘1’ sticker on her chest comes back out, packs up and leaves. Soon someone else comes out, and another. I count the trickle: ten, eleven, twelve. There hasn’t been time for dancing, surely, so what’s going on in there? I check each face that passes, watching for clues. One woman is holding her breath and another looks like she’s about to throw up.

  I feel a tickle of hair on my arm. ‘What’s going on?’ whispers Paige.

  As I shrug, the woman in front of Paige smiles at us. She’s turned side-on and isn’t looking at us directly, but I get the feeling she’s been watching us.

  My eye catches hers. ‘Let me guess,’ she says. ‘First time?’

  I detect the condescension in her tone.

  ‘How can you tell?’ asks Paige.

  ‘No reason!’ the woman laughs. ‘It’s just the look in your eyes, your …’ She moves her arms out, searching for the right words. ‘Your energy. Don’t worry, it’s a good thing.’

  Paige takes a breath and shifts her weight. She never looks comfortable in dancing heels. ‘When do we do our audition pieces?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t need audition pieces, sweetheart.’ The woman’s head tilts in sympathy. ‘You’ve been primed for dance companies, have you?’

  I look down, embarrassed, trying not to show it. I’m glad when the woman disappears with the group before us – numbers forty-one to sixty.

  Our group is next, and Paige is first in line. I concentrate on my breathing in … then out … but no matter how slow I make it go, my heart still wants to bolt. My mouth is dry and I have a sudden urge to pee.

  ‘Numbers sixty-one to eighty,’ calls the headset guy, and I see a kind of regal calmness come over Paige. She seems to grow even taller as she walks into the room ahead of me. I take it all in – bright lights on a green backdrop with three huge cameras trained on a white cross in the centre. I count four other figures in the shadows, behind the cameras.

  ‘Sixty-one,’ yells the guy.

  Paige steps forwards. She’s tall, majestic and clearly terrified.

  To one side, the guy lifts a hand to his headset. ‘Yeah?’ he looks down, listening to whatever is being said. ‘A’right.’ Then he turns to Paige. ‘Sorry, too tall. Number sixty-two!’

  Paige’s mouth opens slightly and I feel her pain. She steps out of the light and our eyes meet.

  It’s hot under the lights, glary and exposed. My heart is thudding but I enjoy the rush, holding my chin down, one hand on a hip.

  ‘Yeah?’ The headset guy is just beyond the edge of the lit area so it’s difficult to make out any expression. His voice comes hurried and careless. ‘Thanks for that. You can go.’

  I can’t help feeling gutted. We risked so much just being here, too much to be kicked out this soon.

  As I turn to go, the headset guy calls out, ‘Hold on,’ and puts a hand to one ear. ‘Yeah?’ He looks down, listening, and then glances at me.

  Still holding myself for the cameras, on show, I fight the urge to grab one of those earpieces and listen to what’s being said.

  ‘So what should …’ The guy stops, listening to something that makes him raise his eyebrows.

  The next thing I know, he’s walking my way. ‘Lucky you.’ He’s smiling as if we’re both in on the same private joke. ‘Through that door,’ he says, pointing to the opposite side of the room from where we came in. ‘Second studio on the left. Angelo will take you from there.’

  Slowly I move off, trying to maintain my poise. What just happened?

  ‘Sixty-three!’ calls the guy.

  Paige is standing just beside the door we came in. When she sees me peering across the room, she lifts a hand to her ear, thumb and pinkie extended. Call me. I match her signal, nodding, before she pushes through the door.

  I head through the door on the opposite side of the room. It’s like stepping over an invisible line.

  The atmosphere in the next studio is thick with focus, a whole new level of pressure. Everyone pauses when I slip through the door, then immediately returns to work. The woman who spoke to me and Paige in line is there, but barely manages to return my smile before looking away.

  It’s okay. I get it. Until I made it through that first part, we weren’t even competitors. The audition hadn’t begun. Until now.

  Angelo’s is the only friendly face in here. ‘Try pick up,’ he says and I smile at his strong accent. ‘Then I show from start.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I keep my shoulders square and move across the front of the room. I find my place and copy Angelo’s moves.

  The steps come naturally. It’s all ebb and flow, sucking in and pulling back. The style is different from any I’ve known, but my training helps me pick it up.<
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  More dancers come in. I keep count: fourteen … fifteen … Some of them pick it up straightaway. Others have trouble.

  Soon the studio feels crowded and Angelo amps up the sound. Moss Young’s voice fills the air. It’s strong, and sexy as hell. My moves respond to the music; slower here, a breath there. Only now does each step make sense.

  As we dance, the whole room seems to breathe in time.

  Is it possible to fall in love with a voice?

  I think I just did.

  Lunch is only fifteen minutes. I’m starving, but my brown rice tastes drier each time I swallow and I stop after a few mouthfuls. I just want to fill up on water. Can’t risk a bloated stomach. When a group of camera guys head out, I follow them to a cafe and buy myself a coffee. I don’t usually drink it but I need something to get me through.

  After lunch, we’re called into the main studio, working in groups of four and performing for the cameras. It’s hot work, with little rest. The headset guy continues his routine of listening and relaying instructions, placing us in different combinations and positions. A blonde dancer who keeps messing up the timing is asked to leave. Others are told they can go. Soon a hot, crowded studio just feels hot.

  There are eight of us left.

  ‘Okay, hold on,’ says the headset guy. He nods at Angelo and hands the headset to him.

  A dancer with awesome afro hair flops to the floor just beyond the heat of the lights, so I do too. I just want to shut my eyes.

  ‘You no like?’ asks Angelo into the mouthpiece, looking down and rubbing the side of his face. ‘Okaaay,’ he says before handing it back. ‘He come down,’ he says to the headset guy.

  Who come down? With a collective inhale we stand up again. I feel a fresh rush of energy.

  From the back of the room comes the click and thud of a door. The voice reaches us before the person does. ‘It’s that bit where they’re all in the middle.’

  It’s Moss Young, in the lights already. Brown-blond hair, sexy sideburns, black jeans stopping at bare feet. He breaks into the lyrics. ‘She’s everywhere, ooh … a taste, a cry, a touch, a sigh …’ His voice is amazing. ‘And then the chords begin to build and you go like this,’ he says, making a dodgy attempt at the move, ‘and it doesn’t look right.’