Head to Head (On Pointe Book 2)

by Penelope Freed

  Olivia: Good luck chica! Stay out of your head and kick ass!

  This is followed by a string of heart emojis and a photo of her blowing me a kiss. After the past few months, years really, of us being at odds and feeling obligated to stay friends, I’ve realized that having her as a casual friend is much better than trying to be best friends. Olivia is actually super supportive when she isn’t being a manipulative witch out of anger.

  But I want to hear from my actual best friends. I wonder if they’re watching the livestream together. I tap on their thread and am bombarded by a couple of gifs from Katy, of course, wishing me luck and various versions of “you got this.” Shaking my head, I scroll past them to see if there are any actual messages.

  Katy: Knock em dead hot stuff! Lisa, Hunter and I are cheering you on!

  Hunter? That’s unexpected.

  Underneath Katy’s message is a photo of the three of them sitting on the Quinns’ couch, smiling and looking happy. Hunter and Lisa look awfully cozy. I suspected that there might be something happening between them, but I hope Lisa is being smart. No boys, no distractions, that’s our motto. She’s working so hard to be able to go to PSB, meeting the terms of whatever deal she made with her parents, I don’t want her getting distracted by Hunter. Especially by Hunter.

  Is there any worse idea than dating your best friend’s brother, a brother who’s probably still hung up on your other friend? It all screams drama and heartbreak. Lisa’s smarter than that, right?

  I save Trevor’s texts for last, like dessert, knowing that they’re probably going to send a riot of flutters through my stomach. Before I open his text thread, I respond to Ms. Parker with a promise to do better this round, I send hearts back to my parents and a thank you to Katy and Lisa. Whoever is onstage finishes to the rumble of the audience. Cocking my head, I listen to the announcer. There’s one more junior competitor to go, I have plenty of time.

  Trevor: Merde for tonight! (I googled stuff and that’s what it said is the thing to say, I thought it was break a leg but according to the internet that’s wrong. Although why a French swear is better is beyond me, but there you have it. The internet says so, so it must be true.)

  I stifle a laugh at Trevor’s ramble. He’s such a dork, but I adore it. Of course, there are a bunch more messages. Trevor never sends one text when he could send twenty.

  Trevor: Hey, tell that Martin dude to give you a hug for me. Actually, hold please. Next text is for him, not you. Just ignore it and show it to Martin.

  Trevor: Martin (Hannah stop reading this) give my girl a hug for me please. (Hannah, I know you’re still reading this, knock it off). And keep an eye on her for me. Appreciate it man. (Hannah, you’re terrible at following directions)

  I can’t stop the giggle that escapes me at this. Looking around, I don’t see him anywhere, he must still be getting ready. I’ll show him when I see him.

  Trevor: How early did you get to the theater? I’m going to guess you were one of the first to arrive. At least half an hour before you had to be there. Am I right?

  Trevor: While I’m waiting for you to respond, I’ll tell you about my day. If nothing else I’ll provide a distraction for you with a funny story.

  Trevor: I had a long run scheduled this morning, supposed to be 13 miles. I had everything planned and ready. Hydration ready to go, pit stops planned out, phone charged, earbuds ready, the whole thing. Feeling good, feeling ready. I did 12 miles last weekend and it felt good, maybe a little sore at the end, but not bad.

  Trevor: So, I get my shoes on, all laced and ready to go. I even stretched, tried some of those fancy ones you showed me, although I don’t understand how you can bend like that without breaking something. Seriously. I saw that photo Martin posted of you stretching...how the heck do you do the splits with YOUR LEG ON A FREAKING CHAIR without crying in agony?????

  Trevor: Anyway. I get started. First 3 miles are easy breezy. Mile 5 I stop and refill my water bottle and suck down a gel. Tried a new flavor, 0/10 do not recommend Orange Cream.

  That has me giggling. Trevor keeps trying to convince me to try the energy gels he eats while running. I’m not convinced yet. But I did try the salt tablets he recommended. Once I got used to the taste, they actually have been pretty great at giving me a little boost during a long day of rehearsals without having to drink Gatorade. We’re only allowed water in the studios, so electrolyte drinks are a no go, I hate the taste anyway.

  Trevor: Nasty energy gels aside, I’m running through this really nice neighborhood. White picket fences and everything, when this freaking dog starts chasing me. Like, legit chasing me down the street, howling and barking. I have no idea where it came from, but that chomper is aiming for my butt in a way that means business. I can’t decide if I should stop so it quits chasing me, or if I should keep going. I’m yelling at the dog to go home and people are starting to come out of their houses. It’s a scene.

  The announcer’s voice pulls me from Trevor’s story. The senior division already started, looks like only two dancers have taken their turn so far. But I need to know the end of this story. Man, Trevor is a good distraction.

  Trevor: Next thing I know, I’m getting blasted with water. Full force, hose in the face. Some little old lady was confused by the yelling and the barking and pulled her hose out. No idea if she meant to hit me, the dog, or both of us, but either way I got a full on soaking. But you know me, determined to finish my run. At least the water stopped the dog. I waved and kept going, I was already on mile 10 by that point, no way was I stopping.

  Trevor: So I ran the last 3 miles back to my car soaking wet, even my socks were soaked. And now I have chafing in places no man should have chafing and blisters on my feet from the wet socks. I’m gonna need you to show me your blister tricks, I know you have some.

  Trevor: And yes, I’m watching the livestream. Gotta see my girl in her element. Good luck, you’re gonna be amazing.

  “What’s got you looking like a loony bird over here?” Martin whispers as he sits down next to me, careful not to sit on my tutu, peering over my shoulder at my phone screen. “Oooo, texts from Trevor? Am I allowed to read?” I shove my shoulder against his, grinning.

  “Actually, he sent you a message.” I hand my phone over so Martin can read Trevor’s text to him, laughing when Martin envelops me in a giant hug. Hugging in a tutu is always awkward, it’s like trying to hug someone while holding a hula hoop, and it’s even worse when Martin is in his own costume, the cropped black velvet jacket he’s wearing covered with rhinestones that catch in the tulle and lace I’m wearing. “Sammy send any messages for me?”

  I don’t know if it’s the forced proximity and heightened adrenaline of the competition, or if it’s because Martin is so friendly, but I can already tell we’re going to be good friends after this. “Sorry love, my boyfriend isn’t quite as outgoing as yours.”

  “Trevor is not my boyfriend,” I protest.

  “Sure, he’s not. But that boy is crushing on you and you know it.” It’s a good thing it’s so dark in the wings so Martin can’t see the blush creeping up my cheeks.

  “How would you know?”

  “Oh, my sweet innocent Hannah. Guys are all the same, gay, straight, doesn’t matter. He’s interested, trust me.” He pushes up into a standing stretch, waving me back to my phone. “Put him out of his misery and respond.” I laugh and start typing out a message to Trevor.

  Me: That story made my day. I’ll teach you my blister tricks soon. Thanks for the hug, I needed that. I’m nervous, but good. Nothing I can do now except get out there and dance.

  “Send him a picture while you’re at it,” Martin needles me, his face hanging down between his legs. “Here, hand me your phone.” I quickly hit send before handing my phone over to Martin and smiling. Expecting him to hand me back my phone right away, Martin holds onto it and starts typing out a message.

 
“Oh my god, Martin!” I hiss, careful to keep my voice down. “Give it back!” He twists away from me, keeping the phone out of my reach.

  “Nope, uh-uh, you need to get focused, missy.” Martin grins before stuffing the phone in my jacket pocket and zipping it shut. He grabs my hands so I can’t pull it out to look at what he wrote. “You can look after you dance. We have four more until it’s our turn. Time to get sorted out.”

  I debate ignoring him and reading it anyway, but he’s right. I do need to push Trevor from my mind right now and get focused. No boys, no distractions, that’s my motto, right?

  “Fine. You better not have said anything embarrassing.”

  “Promise, cross my heart, it was perfectly appropriate. Now, I need your help with the hook at the back, something isn’t right, but I couldn’t see what I was doing. Have a look?” He shrugs out of his jacket and turns his back to me. Martin’s costume consists of black tights held up by suspenders for a sleek line all the way up his chest. A cummerbund fits around his waist to give the illusion of separation between his tights and jacket. Peering at it in the dark I discover he’s got one set of hook and eye closures fastened crooked, no wonder it’s bothering him. I unhook and re-hook the mixed-up closures before he slides his jacket back on, this time doing up the buttons on the front.

  “Can you do up my top hooks please?” It’s my turn to turn my back to Martin, sliding my jacket off my shoulders and putting it to the side. Costumes fixed and ready to go, Martin and I each give the other a once over, making sure not a hair or a shoe string is out of place.

  “Ready?” I ask, suddenly nervous. Between Trevor and Martin, I’ve been distracted from my nerves until now, but with only one more dancer to go before Martin, they come flooding back.

  “Ready.” Springing up and down a few times to warm up his legs, Martin’s normally smiling face turns inward and focused. I step back as he practices a couple of poses from his variation, marking the jumps but doing the snappy head and arms that each explosive jump will end with. I prance in place, working my feet into my pointe shoes, popping up and down on my toes a few times.

  And then the dancer on stage is done and Martin is up. The announcer’s voice booms overhead, and Martin takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before flashing them open. He stalks onto the stage, majestic and confident, before taking his opening position. Even though I know I’m next up, I can’t take my eyes off him as he dances.

  He leaps into the air, seeming to hover as he throws his legs out into a split before landing and exploding into one of the poses he was just practicing. Martin flirts with the audience, flashing a grin before exploding with power. He’s nearly to the end before I can tear my eyes away.

  Shaking my shoulders, I close my eyes and wrap myself in the regal princess I’m about to portray. I bounce on the balls of my feet, flapping my hands, then swinging my arms in big circles.

  Dance big.

  Dance bold.

  Dance with joy.

  Ms. Parker’s words run on repeat through my mind.

  The last note of Martin’s music is drowned out by the applause of the audience. Deliberately, I pull oxygen in through my nose, holding my breath for a count of three while he runs off. Slowly, I blow the air back out as the audience quiets.

  “Please welcome to the stage Hannah O’Brian, age sixteen, performing Aurora’s Wedding Variation.”

  There’s a pregnant hush as I step out of the wing, my feet light and quick against the floor. A cascade of energy flows through me, reaching out through my chest to the audience. I don’t see the people sitting there. I see the rows upon rows of balcony seats, the sinuous curves of the ceiling panels, the golden fabric of the empty seats. For a moment, I let myself imagine that this isn’t a competition, that I’m stepping onto the stage I’ve danced on for years, to a crowd of adoring fans. The thought warms me as the stage lights warm my skin, sweat prickling my back before I’ve even reached center stage.

  Feigning calm, I step into position, brushing my fingers along the edge of my tutu, turning my shoulders slightly to the front to show off my long neck. The familiar delicate notes of my music begin to play almost immediately. The plucking of the violins becomes the quick movement of my feet, the long notes the sweep of my arms overhead.

  Time speeds up and crawls by all at once. I’m aware of every breath that pulls in and out of my lungs, every thump of my pounding heart. The breadth and reach of my arms, sweeping through each position, the push and pull of my legs against the floor. And it’s all over in the blink of an eye.

  I hold the ending pose easily. I’ve danced the best I’ve ever danced in my life. It was effortless, yet took every molecule of energy in my body. Simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted, my limbs tremble from the effort.

  Then I’m in the wings, Martin congratulating me, the next dancer already making his way on stage. That’s it. I’ve done everything I can. My contemporary solo may not have been my best, but I couldn’t have done Aurora any better. In a daze, I pull my jacket back on, zipping it up to my chin even though I’m drenched in sweat.

  Now that I’m done, a sense of vulnerability sweeps over me. Maybe it’s from the adrenaline crash, but all I want is to hide. We’ve been instructed not to change out of our costumes for the awards, so we all hang around while the wings fill with the rest of the competitors as the last two dancers take their turn. I don’t even watch, too busy surveying the crowd of dancers around me. My phone buzzes in my pocket, ignored.

  “And that concludes this year’s Youth International Grand Prix finals. We will take a fifteen-minute intermission for the judges to confer before the awards ceremony.”

  The moment the curtains close, the headset wearing stage manager starts calling out names, lining us up in neat rows. Quiet chatter fills the air, both behind and in front of the curtain, punctuated by the stage managers orders.

  A tugging on my sleeve pulls me out of my introspective funk. “Gotta ditch the jacket love.” Nodding at Martin, I unzip, reluctantly shedding the facade of armor it gave me. Carefully, I fold and lay it next to the pile of everyone else’s shed layers before making my way back to my spot in the line.

  An expectant hush falls beyond the curtain, they must have dimmed the house lights, then a moment later the curtains part. As the lights come on, five people walk onto the stage, the judges. One of the two women I recognize instantly as Miyasaki Kou, a Japanese dancer who Lisa has admired for years. The other judges I don’t recognize, but are introduced as former dancers and directors of various ballet companies.

  The speeches take ages when none of us cares. The only thing we want to know is the results. My stomach is flipping and clenching with nerves now, my heart racing. I can’t concentrate on anything that’s said, the murmur of words and names being called from the junior division not translating in my mind as anything but noise.

  All I want is to know.

  Was my best good enough?

  I blink and the junior dancers are gone, moved to the opposite side of the stage, leaving us exposed under the lights. My thoughts snap into place and I hear every word clearly.

  “Third place goes to Uri Lavyan, from Tel Aviv, Israel.” The dark-haired boy I saw snuggled up with Gloria steps forward to receive a handshake and award from one of the judges.

  “We have a tie for second, Kato Azumi from Osaka, Japan and Annaliesa Pabst from Cleveland, Ohio. Congratulations!” Again, more applause as two girls step forward. Only two more awards to go. First place and then the Grand Prix. Anyone left standing on stage could be the winner of either. I find myself clutching Martin’s hand. Was my best enough to place ahead of all these other talented dancers? Am I good enough?

  “First place goes to Gloria Maizel, from Miami, Florida, United States.” The tiny brunette steps forward, blowing a kiss to Uri before approaching the judges.

  This is it. The last
award.

  “And now the award you’ve all been waiting for. This year’s Grand Prix winner, recipient of a full scholarship to the professional school of their choice. We are pleased to announce…” The dramatic pause kills me, I just need to know. “Martin Needham from Auckland, New Zealand!”

  Oh.

  Dazed, disappointed, sick to my stomach, I clap with everyone else as Martin steps forward to center stage.

  My best wasn’t good enough.

  I’m not good enough.

  Not enough.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lisa

  I’ve sunk to a new low.

  I’ve dealt with more than my fair share of awkward social interactions but never have they gotten to the point that I’ve literally hid in the bathroom. Not just hiding, but feet-up-on-the-toilet-seat-so-no-one-knows-I’m-in-here-while-I-eavesdrop-on-their-conversation, hiding in the bathroom.

  But here I am, praying that the girls in here gossiping about how Hunter is dating “What’s-her-face, you know, the nerdy one who hangs out with Baby Quinn,” don’t notice the closed stall where I’ve been since they walked in. I can’t see their faces, but I’m pretty sure it’s a couple of the cheerleaders who frequent the Quinns’ house, Olivia’s so-called-friends.

  “She’s not even that pretty.”

  “I mean obviously the rumor isn’t true. Has anyone even seen them together?”

  “There was that day they were at Taco Stop together. I saw them.”

  If my shoulders creep up any higher as I curl up in a ball they’ll pop off. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

  “Yeah, and she hid behind Hunter the whole time and didn’t say a word. She seems like a real fun time.”

  They’re not wrong. I did hide behind Hunter the whole time.