by Alex Ko
But just two weeks after I returned to the show, Kenny Ortega was coming to see me. He was the man who choreographed Dirty Dancing, and he directed and choreographed the High School Musical franchise. In other words, he was a very big deal. We’d met a few times in the past—he had actually started to become friends with our family over the past couple of years. But now he was coming to see me and I wanted to impress him.
Stephen had been urging me not to pursue a career in dance. He said I should keep up with ballet, but focus on my education or something else that didn’t have such a short life span. Dancers were prone to injury, as I’d already learned, and even without accidents to cut their careers short, most were finished by their thirties. I knew Stephen was right, but impressing Kenny Ortega was important to me. He’d flown all this way to see me back in the show. Even if I didn’t want to dance forever, I wanted to dance my best right now!
As I warmed up before the show, I tested my knee. It twinged a little, but no more than it did after a normal workout.
I’m fine, I thought. I’ll do the real thing, just this once, then I’ll go back to the new version Kate choreographed.
“Got anything for Dollar Friday?” asked one of the stagehands, pulling me out of my worries. He had a huge jar filled with ones and fives. Every Friday, anyone who wanted could put a bill in with their name on it. At the end of the show, a winner was drawn and received the whole pot. I liked playing—it was one of those things that made the show seem like a family. But not tonight.
“Sorry,” I said, patting my costume. “No real pockets.”
And besides, I had enough to worry about tonight. I took some aspirin as a precaution to help with the swelling, and made sure my new brace was on as tightly as possible. I performed most of the show as expected, and when Act I finished, I felt fine. I knew, without a doubt, that I could pull off my acrobatics tonight. But I also knew I was going to be in trouble if I did. I watched the monitors during intermission, checking out the audience and trying to spot Kenny, but I couldn’t see him. I was nervous about Act II, because that’s when Billy’s really big number happens, “Electricity.” It had been five and a half months since the last time I’d done the gymnastics routine full out, and I hadn’t even tried an aerial cartwheel since. What if I didn’t hit my tricks? What if I fell? What if I embarrassed and reinjured myself? That would be the worst-case scenario.
As we came closer and closer to “Electricity,” I ran through the routine in my head. I kept coming to the same conclusion: I could do it. I could do the whole thing. I could do a back layout and an aerial cartwheel, and I could probably hit the landing.
As the music to “Electricity” began to swell, the woman playing the judge from the ballet school asked me (as Billy) what it felt like when I danced. I shot a final look at the audience. The house was full and Kenny was out there. I had to do it. I had to show him what it felt like when I danced.
I put all of my heart into “Electricity” that night, because I knew I had to make up in enthusiasm and energy for what I was missing in practice and endurance. As the music built to a crescendo, I prayed.
Please let this work.
Then I hit the floor.
Cartwheel, handspring, back handspring, backflip—I hit every single trick, including the back layout and aerial cartwheel and stuck the landings. The crowd went wild. The front row jumped to their feet. The applause was deafening. And best of all, I was winded, but my knee felt fine. All those hours at PhysioArts had paid off.
As I stepped offstage to change for my next scene, I knew I was in trouble.
“You. Me. Afterward,” said Tom, who was filling in for Kate that night.
He looked furious.
My stomach dropped. Surely, once I explained, he would understand, I rationalized, and I would call Kate and explain to her too. But I knew she was going to be mad regardless.
Kenny Ortega came backstage as soon as the show ended.
“Alex!” he said, grabbing me into a hug. “That was fantastic. Really, fantastic.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
“I can’t stay long—and it’s probably past your bedtime anyway. But next time I’m in New York, why don’t you, your mom, and I all get dinner?”
“We’d love to!”
“Great,” Kenny said. “And tell your mom hi for me!”
When I saw Kate the next day, her voice was cold and stony. “You risked your health to impress Kenny Ortega.”
When she put it that way, it sounded much less reasonable than it had in my head.
“Kate, I’m sorry. I really am. But I knew—”
“No,” Kate said. “You didn’t know. You can’t know. What if you had slipped? What if someone left a prop in the wrong place, and you tripped over it? What if your knee re-tore? Do you know how many promising careers I’ve seen destroyed by tricks like the one you pulled last night?”
“I know, but . . . that didn’t happen. It worked out fine.”
My excuse sounded thin, even to me.
“Alex, you are fourteen years old. A serious injury now won’t just end your career. It could stop you from growing properly.”
Kate paused and ran one hand through her hair. In that moment I saw all the fear and worry that were behind the anger. Guilt struck me like a slap across the face. Kate was trying to protect me. I felt ungrateful and childish.
“I’m sorry, Kate.” I wished I could sink into the floor and disappear. “I promise you, this won’t happen again.”
“I know it won’t,” she said. “Because if it does, and you reinjure yourself, you’re out of the show. If you cannot, or will not, take care of yourself, we will do it for you.”
“I’m really sorry, Kate. I didn’t think about what I was doing, and I won’t do it again.”
I felt like I was going to cry. I’d let down someone who trusted me, and I’d put my own health in danger. This wasn’t the kind of person I’d promised Dad I would become.
Kate hugged me.
“You know I’m only mad because I’m worried for you?” she said.
“I know.” I tried not to sniffle.
“Good. Never do this again. See you tomorrow.”
With that, Kate left. I sat in my dressing room for another minute, thinking about the previous night. What I had done was stupid and careless, and I was lucky to get off as lightly as I had. From now on, I swore to myself, my health would come first.
Besides, Kate was right. I could do permanent damage to my body. If I handled it right, Billy Elliot would be just the beginning of my career. In more ways than one, I needed to start thinking about what I was doing next. There was no way this job was permanent. If I didn’t injure myself, I’d age out, or the show would close. I had to start planning ahead.
But for the moment I was back, and I was ready to finally enjoy my life as a Broadway star. True to his word, Kenny Ortega returned to New York frequently, and he took me out nearly every time. The funny thing about meeting celebrities is that it never happened the way I would expect. It was always offhand, accidental, and nonchalant, like the time I spoke to Jennifer Grey.
Kenny, Mom, and I were at Joe Allen splitting nachos and guacamole and talking about life in New York. I was telling them about my thoughts about my life after Billy, how I wanted to continue studying ballet while I applied to college, when suddenly Kenny’s phone rang.
“Sorry,” he said, looking at the number. “Gotta take this. Jennifer! Hey! Great to hear from you.”
He paused just long enough to snag a nacho from the tray.
“I’m having dinner with some friends. Actually, you should talk to one of them. This is Alex. He’s a dancer, and he’s on Broadway right now.”
He put his hand over the mouthpiece.
“Jennifer Grey,” he mouthed. “From Dirty Dancing.”
As though I didn’t know who Jennifer Grey was! I might not have been born in the eighties, but I don’t think there�
�s a dancer alive who hasn’t seen that movie.
“She wants some advice,” Kenny said, thrusting his cell at me. “Help her out.”
With no other choice, I took the phone.
“Hi?” I said, unsure what useful advice I could possibly give Jennifer Grey.
“Alex, I’m Jennifer,” she said sweetly. “Great to meet you. Kenny says you’re a dancer?”
“Ballet, mostly,” I told her. “But I’m on Broadway right now. In Billy Elliot.”
“So cool!” she said excitedly. “Congratulations. You’re just the person I need.”
“Really?” I said, confused. “How can I help you?”
“I’m on Dancing with the Stars right now, and it’s been a long time since I’ve danced this much. What do you eat to keep your energy up? It’s so tiring!”
“Well,” I said, shocked that she’d actually asked a question I could help with, “I usually have a Clif Bar and a banana at intermission. That’s my power snack.”
“Cool,” she said. It sounded like she was taking notes. “And how do you warm up?”
“Jumping jacks, running . . . a little bit of everything really. I just try to do stuff that’ll loosen me up.” I thought for a second, and something occurred to me. “Don’t do it on concrete, though. You could injure yourself. Watch out for your knees.”
“Awesome,” she said. “Do you watch Dancing with the Stars?”
“I will now,” I told her, and we laughed.
“Well, wish me luck if you do. Say good-bye to Kenny for me—I’ll let you get back to dinner.”
With a click, she was gone.
“Kid’s a natural,” Kenny said to Mom as I stared at the phone. Had I really just given advice to Jennifer Grey? Talk about worlds being flipped upside down.
“Was she nice?” Mom asked.
“Really nice,” I mumbled. “I just can’t believe . . . I mean, why would she want my advice? I’m just a kid.”
“Alex,” Kenny said, shaking his head in shock. “You’re on Broadway! No, strike that, you’re in a title role on Broadway. You haven’t been ‘just a kid’ in a while. And this is only the beginning. Mark my words, you won’t believe the places you’ll go.”
As we finished lunch, I thought about what Kenny had said. I guess maybe I wasn’t the same kid I thought I was anymore. Even though all of this seemed so new, it was my reality now, and I needed to get used to it. But I didn’t think Kenny was totally right. I mean, what could possibly top being on Broadway, meeting Rosie O’Donnell, and talking to Jennifer Grey?
As it happened, I was about to find out.
Chapter 25
Inspired
“Please take off your shoes, belts, anything metal in your pockets, any jewelry, portable phones, etc., and put them in the bin before you pass through the metal detector. Thank you.”
The guard repeated his speech in a monotone every few minutes. I’d been waiting for nearly an hour, so I’d heard it enough times that I could recite it from memory. A long line of would-be guests snaked down the hall from the guard station, patiently waiting and playing with their cell phones. Finally it was my turn.
“Alex Ko?” The guard looked up from a list of names on his computer.
“Yes.” I nodded.
“Birth certificate?”
I passed him the thin piece of paper, which we’d ordered from Iowa just for this reason. He stared at it intently before running a black light over it to look for forgeries. I must have checked out, because he waved me through the metal detector and handed me a dark blue identification badge with the letter A on it.
“Wear this at all times,” he said without looking up. “Liam Redhead?” he called out next.
“Wow,” I whispered to myself as I gazed past the security checkpoint down the long and lavish hallway. The White House looks great in pictures, but you have to be there to get the full effect.
Liam and I, along with Dayton Tavares and Jacob Clemente, two other Billys, had flown to D.C. to lead a workshop for the inaugural session of the White House Dance Series, a new initiative that the first lady had begun as part of her health and fitness drive. I’d been back in the show for a few months now, and I was at the peak of my time as Billy. Being invited to the White House was both an honor and a privilege. We would be onstage beside members of the New York City Ballet, the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, and the Washington Ballet—not to mention the first lady herself, Michelle Obama. The event combined performances, a tribute to choreographer Judith Jamison (the artistic director of Alvin Ailey), and a dance workshop for nearly one hundred young people from around the country. It was an afternoon event taking place in the East Room, an elegant ballroom with three giant crystal chandeliers, a beautiful parquet floor, and stately portraits of past presidents hanging on the walls.
Or at least, that’s where the event was going to take place. But even though it took forever to get through security, we still arrived really early. The East Room wasn’t even set up when we walked in. Juliana told us to settle down and wait, then went across the room to talk to the organizers of the event.
“Hey, Alex, look!” said Liam as we explored the empty ballroom. “Over there—isn’t that where the president makes all his speeches?”
I went down the hallway, where some workers were setting up a podium and chairs. It looked like they were getting ready for a big press event. Later, we found out that President Obama was making a televised announcement that evening, but at the time we weren’t sure what was going on.
“Maybe? It’s hard to tell. Everything here looks so . . . presidential,” I said. “Like you expect to turn a corner and run into him at any moment.”
“I know,” said Liam. “Look, the workers are gone.”
The podium was sitting there, lit up and alone, graced with the presidential seal.
“Wanna take a picture?” Liam asked. “I’ll take yours if you take mine.”
“Sure!” I smiled. I looked around to tell Juliana, but she was busy on the other side of the room, now talking to security.
We’ll be quick, I thought. No point in worrying her.
Liam and I slipped out of the East Room and into the empty hallway. No alarms went off, and I didn’t see any SWAT teams running our way, so I figured we were safe. I looked around. Liam was right: this was definitely where President Obama gave his speeches. I’d seen him on TV, in this very spot, dozens of times. I crept up behind the podium and imagined myself giving an important address. I couldn’t believe I was literally standing in President Obama’s footsteps.
“Okay, pose,” Liam said as he jogged away from me. “Ready? Three, two . . . one . . . Go!”
I threw my left leg high behind me and extended my arms above my head in an arabesque. I couldn’t imagine a more appropriate pose for a photo at the White House.
An arabesque is one of the most regal poses in any kind of dance.
“Your turn,” I said to Liam. We switched positions and Liam did an arabesque of his own. We traded places a few more times, each of us trying to get the most reach, the most extension, the most perfect arabesque we could do, because this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
“That’s your new Facebook profile pic right there,” I said to Liam as I showed him the photos I’d taken on my phone.
“Awesome.” He slapped me five. “Now what?”
We both looked back the way we’d come. No one seemed to have noticed we were gone. Through the open door, I could see Juliana still talking to the guards.
“We should go back in,” I said. “They’ll miss us soon.”
“Yeah,” Liam agreed.
Neither of us moved.
“I mean, we don’t have anything to do for another hour,” I said.
“And if we went back in, we’d probably just be in the way,” Liam added.
“And who knows if we’ll ever visit here again. . . .” I trailed off.
We both looked longingly down the hall. Who wanted to be cooped up
in the East Room, when we could actually get to see the place where everything happened? This was the center of American democracy. Lincoln had walked these floors. It was almost our patriotic duty to go exploring.
“Come on,” Liam said decisively. We snuck past the podium and took a left at the first intersection. The hallway we entered was empty, but there were footsteps coming from behind us. We walked away from them as fast as we could without running. Doors opened onto the hall at random intervals, but all of them were closed, and we were afraid to open them. The last thing we wanted was to surprise a group of armed Secret Service agents.
“Duh-duh-da-da-da-dadaduh.” I quietly sang the Mission: Impossible theme song as we moved quickly down the hall. The footsteps behind us were getting closer.
“Here!” Liam said, pulling me into the first open door we found. Inside was the smallest room I saw that day in the White House. It wasn’t much bigger than our living room at home—and it already had people in it. My heart jumped into my throat. Was it a crime to wander the White House unescorted? I wondered. I was about to find out.
“Excuse me,” said the large security guard standing by the door. “Can I see your IDs, please?”
“Is that Bo?” Liam asked, ignoring the security guard entirely and addressing the young man with a black fluffy dog on a leash. I held up my blue ID tag at the guard and hoped for the best.
“Yes,” the dog walker said. “But you’re not supposed to be in here. Aren’t you with the dance program?”
“We’re from Billy Elliot,” I said, partly to the walker and partly to the guard, who was giving Liam an angry look. “But I really wanted to meet Bo.”
It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. I love dogs, and I really did want to meet Bo.
