Dancing Diva

by Whoopi Goldberg

  “How long do you think Mr. Lester and Mr. Tonetti will take to get here?” Jerzey Mae asks, bouncing up and down on one foot as if she has to go to the bathroom.

  Al puts her leg up on the barre to stretch. “Who knows?” she says. “I wonder what they’re going to make us do for the audition.”

  Brenda, who has been studying a piece of paper she pulled out of her bag, looks up. “I’ve been researching auditions online. They’ll probably teach us a short routine, then make us do it in small groups, so they can watch us.”

  Sometimes I can’t believe Brenda. “You did research? For an audition?”

  “Dancing in a ballet might look good on my college applications,” she says matter-of-factly.

  Terrel exhales in annoyance. “You’re nine! How many nine-year-olds are worrying about college applications?”

  I want to cut in fast, before Brenda starts telling us that her hero, Leonardo da Vinci, was inventing rocket ships when he was nine or something. But then I notice that Jerzey Mae looks kind of sick. “Are you okay, Jerzey Mae?” I ask.

  “She’s just nervous,” Jessica says. As soon as she hears the word nervous, Jerzey Mae clutches her stomach, bends over, and groans.

  Brenda snaps into doctor mode.

  “Breathe!” she commands, as Jessica pats Jerzey Mae on the back reassuringly.

  “Oh, man. She’s not gonna throw up, is she?” Al asks, edging away.

  “No,” Brenda says. “She’s going to take some nice deep breaths and calm down. Right, Jerzey Mae?”

  Jerzey Mae moans.

  Jerzey Mae is the only one bent over in panic, but everyone’s a little jumpy. None of us has ever auditioned before.

  JoAnn and Al pretend they’re not crazy about ballet—JoAnn prefers skateboarding, and Al wants to be a famous speed skater like her idol, Phoebe Fitz—but Jessica told me JoAnn and Al have been practicing ballet in JoAnn’s room for the first time. Jessica seems obsessed, as well: she keeps saying over and over that it would be really fun to dance onstage in that big theater.

  I glance at Terrel and catch her looking at me, too. We both know that we’re each other’s competition for the lead part. She is a really good dancer, and it takes a lot to rattle her. But it takes a lot to rattle me, too.

  “You or Terrel will get the big part, I bet,” Al says, as if she’s reading my mind.

  I shrug. “Maybe,” I say.

  Terrel raises an eyebrow.

  “You never know what directors will want,” I say. I sound convincing. But actually, as far as I’m concerned, that part is already mine.

  The studio door opens. The room, which had been filled with nervous conversation, instantly falls silent. Mr. Lester comes in first. He’s followed by a short, muscular man in a sports jacket and T-shirt.

  “Hello, girls,” Mr. Lester says. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Tonetti, the director of Springtime in Harlem.”

  Mr. Tonetti glances at us over the top of his black-framed glasses and nods. Frankly, he’s a little scary. He’s definitely not one of those grown-ups who bend over backward to try to get kids to like him. In fact, he looks like he’s not particularly crazy about kids at all.

  Mr. Lester pulls a table over from one side of the room. Then he pulls up a couple of folding chairs. Mr. Tonetti immediately sits down and pulls a stack of papers out of his bag.

  “Okay, girls,” Mr. Lester says. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Let me tell you what’s going to happen. I’ll teach you a short routine. We’ll go over it several times; then, when you’ve got it down, Mr. Tonetti and I will watch you do it in small groups. Sound good?”

  Brenda smiles. Well, fine. So she’s good at researching auditions. But they’re looking for the best dancers, not the best researchers.

  “Any questions before we start?” Mr. Lester asks.

  A skinny girl with blond hair and a pink face raises her hand. “How many of us will get to be in the show?”

  Mr. Lester and Mr. Tonetti exchange looks. “We’re not sure yet,” Mr. Lester says. “But it will probably be around six.”

  Six? That stinks. I really wanted all my friends to be up there dancing with me, but there are seven of us, plus several other girls trying out.

  We stand up and move to the center of the dance floor. There are twelve dancers altogether, so we arrange ourselves into four rows of three each. I stand front and center, ready to show Mr. Tonetti what I can do.

  “We’ll start with a jeté to the left, then one to the right. Then a series of châiné turns, like this.” Mr. Lester demonstrates. “Let’s try that much. Ready? Three, four, and jeté…two…jeté…four, and turn, two, three, four…”

  The routine is pretty easy, and we learn it quickly. I’m glad to see all my friends are doing well. Even Jerzey Mae seems to have overcome her nervousness and is doing all the right steps, in the right directions.

  Mr. Lester watches us carefully, giving us some corrections. “Curved left arms here, everyone. Big stretch with your right leg. When you’re traveling, be sure to move in straight lines, so you don’t get in each other’s way.”

  Mr. Tonetti, however, isn’t paying the least bit of attention. After he rattles his papers around for a while, he takes out his phone and seems to be reading text messages or e-mails or something. It’s a little frustrating. How is he going to see how fabulous I am if he’s not even looking at me?

  When Mr. Lester is satisfied we’ve learned the routine, he stops us. “Very nice, ladies. Now we’ll have you do it in smaller groups. Let’s see.…Martha, Jerzey Mae, and Al, you’re in the first group. Everyone else, please take a seat on the side of the room.” He sits at the table beside Mr. Tonetti.

  The pink-faced girl lines up with Jerzey Mae and Al. Jerzey Mae looks over to us, and Jessica gives her a thumbs-up.

  “And…jeté!” Mr. Lester says.

  They jump and spin across the floor. Jerzey Mae and Al look great. Martha does pretty well till the very end, when she forgets one of the steps and just stands there.

  “Can I do it again?” she says after the group has finished.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” Mr. Lester says. “Very nice.”

  She looks upset, but I forget about her as I hear Mr. Lester call my name along with Terrel’s and Brenda’s.

  We line up, with me in the center. Brenda looks at me, and I wink. My stomach feels a little jumpy, but now that Mr. Tonetti has put away his phone, I’m eager to dance for him.

  “Ready? And.…jeté!”

  We all jump together, perfectly in unison. My friends and I have performed together a bunch of times, so it’s easier dancing with them than it would be with strangers. As always when I’m dancing, it’s as if everything I’m feeling—the nervousness, the excitement—gets changed into movement. As we turn, I add in some of my own moves—an arm swirl here, a foot flick there. I want them to know that I’m an original. Not only can I do their routine, I can make it mine!

  Before I know it, the routine is over. “Good, girls! JoAnn, Jessica, Terri, you’re up next.”

  I look over, hoping to see Mr. Tonetti smiling at how great we were, but he’s writing notes on one of his papers. He looks about as excited as someone waiting for a bus. I exhale impatiently.

  Terrel, Brenda, and I sit down to watch the other auditions. After everyone has danced, Mr. Lester and Mr. Tonetti whisper to each other. They seem to be arguing about something. Mr. Tonetti glances up at me and whispers some more. Then Mr. Lester looks at me and says something to him in reply. Mr. Tonetti gives me a long, hard glare. It is not the kind of look you give a budding ballet star.

  I have a feeling this won’t be easy, after all.

  Chapter 5

  Finally, Mr. Lester and Mr. Tonetti stop talking. Mr. Lester comes over to us. Mr. Tonetti puts his papers back into his bag and takes off, without even saying good-bye.

  “You all did a really good job, ladies,” Mr. Lester tells us. “Especially since I imagine that for most of you, this
was your first audition. They can be pretty nerve-racking, huh?”

  Jerzey Mae nods violently.

  “I wish we could use all of you in the show, but we’ve decided that six is the right number for the chorus. We’ve chosen JoAnn, Jessica, Jerzey Mae, Al, Terrel, and Brenda.”

  All my friends—but wait a minute. He didn’t say my name! My face starts to get hot. This is crazy! I know I danced just as well as they did. Jessica touches my arm, but I pull away from her. It’s as if all the air has been sucked out of my lungs, and I’ve been flattened by a steamroller.

  “And the girl we’ve chosen to have the bigger part…”

  Air floods back into my lungs. There’s still hope!

  “…is Epatha.” Yes! JoAnn grins and punches my arm.

  Mr. Lester continues, “And Terrel, we’d like you to learn that part as well, so you can be Epatha’s understudy. Are you willing to do that?”

  Terrel looks over at me a little grudgingly. She nods.

  “The rest of you, I’m sorry,” Mr. Lester says. Martha’s face turns even more red. She picks up her stuff and runs out of the room. The other girl who didn’t get a part doesn’t look too happy, either.

  “That’s it for today, girls,” he says. “We’ll be learning the dance here and then moving to the theater to start rehearsing there a few weeks before the show. So we’ll get started after class Tuesday, yes? See you then.”

  We all gather our things. “Nice, Epatha!” Al says.

  “Yeah—congratulations,” JoAnn says. “You did great.”

  “You guys did, too,” I say.

  “I’m so glad we’re all in the show together!” Jessica says.

  Mr. Lester interrupts us. “Epatha, can I see you for a minute?”

  “Sure,” I say. He must have some special how-to-be-a-big-star tips for me.

  “We’ll wait for you downstairs,” Al says. My friends go out, to the waiting room, leaving Mr. Lester and me alone in the studio.

  “Have a seat,” he says, rearranging the folding chairs so they face each other.

  I sit.

  “You did a great job today, Epatha,” Mr. Lester says.

  I glow.

  “Mr. Tonetti and I were both impressed with the energy and the emotion in your dancing.”

  I knew it! I knew they’d want someone who was an expressive dancer. That’s what dancing is all about: showing what’s inside you.

  He continues, “But—”

  There’s a but? I was fabulous. That’s all I want to hear.

  “Mr. Tonetti was also concerned that you might not follow the choreography you’re given. I know you like to change things up and have a good time when you’re dancing—”

  “Well, yeah,” I interrupt. “What’s the point of dancing if you’re not having a good time?”

  He holds up his hand to silence me. “However,” he says, “if you’re going to dance in a professional ballet, you have to do what the choreographer has planned. Choreographing the dance is her job, not yours. Do you understand?”

  “Sure,” I say. I don’t want to choreograph the whole dance. But once I get the steps down, I’m sure the choreographer won’t mind if I spice things up a little. I’m sure she’ll want the dance to be as good as it can be—and that might mean throwing in a few Epatha touches.

  “Good,” he says, standing up. “Congratulations again. I’m sure your family will be very proud of you.”

  The proud-family thing? Mr. Lester got that right.

  I make the announcement as soon as I get home. It’s a slow time in the restaurant, so I call Abuela and Nonna down from our apartment upstairs. My family hardly ever sits together in a booth—everyone’s usually too busy—but this time I make them. Having them fuss over me all at once will be more fun than having them each make little individual fusses.

  I stand at the end of the booth and clear my throat. “We had the auditions for Springtime in Harlem today,” I say, “and…”

  Mama and Abuela lean forward at the same moment. Nonna scrunches up her face, as if daring anyone not to give her granddaughter a role. Papa sweeps back what little is left of his hair, which he always does when he’s nervous.

  “Well? Well?” he asks.

  “I got the main part!” I say. “Well, the main part for kids.”

  Nonna jumps up much more quickly than you’d expect someone her size to be able to jump. She squeezes my face in her hands. “Our little star! Our stella piccola!” she says, kissing me enthusiastically on both cheeks.

  “That’s wonderful, darling!” my mother says, standing up to hug me.

  “¡Fabuloso! You must get your talent from me,” Abuela says.

  Dad’s eyes shine. “Well,” he says. “Well. Tonight we celebrate!”

  “Tickets!” Mom says. “We need lots of tickets. We’ll invite the Mitchells, and the Smiths, and the Browns, and the Harringtons…and of course, your cousin Reece.…”

  “Mom!” I say. “The show’s not for weeks. I’m sure there will be time to get tickets.”

  “This isn’t just a school ballet show, Epatha,” Mom says. “This is the big time! The Harlem Ballet!”

  That’s when it all sinks in. It is the big time! I feel like a star, even when Mom sends me upstairs to do my homework. I try to focus on my math problems, but adding fractions is hard when your head’s filled with sparkling costumes and spotlights.

  That night I dream I’m dancing across the stage of the Harlem Ballet theater in a bright red tutu. My friends are onstage with me, but they’re in the background. I do a stunning series of pirouettes, then take a bow. A woman rushes onstage. She’s a big Broadway producer. She wants me to drop out of school and star in a show! I guess this means I don’t need to learn how to add fractions after all, I think as I sign the contract.

  Chapter 6

  “Hey, star,” Al says on Tuesday as I walk into the waiting room and join her, Brenda, and the triplets on our usual bench.

  I’m a little embarrassed. But not too embarrassed. “Hey,” I say.

  Terrel comes in and slings her bag under the bench. I wonder if she’s mad about not getting the part.

  “Hey, Terrel,” I say.

  “Hi,” she says. “Has anyone seen my blue sweater? I think I left it here Saturday.”

  “Someone would have picked it up by now,” says Jessica. “Why don’t you ask in the office?”

  Terrel comes back with her sweater balled up in her hands. “They had it,” she says, sitting down beside me.

  She takes off her sneakers and starts pulling on her ballet shoes. “Congratulations on getting the role,” she says gruffly.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I wish we could have both gotten it.”

  She squints at me and grins. “No, you don’t,” she says.

  I smile. “You’re right—I don’t. You know I want to be a ballet star. This will be good training.”

  “It’s going to be twice as much work for me,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m your understudy. Remember? That means I have to learn your part and my part.” She gives an exaggerated sigh. “So I can do the part if you break an ankle or get the plague or something.”

  “Jerzey Mae, she’s kidding. The plague is extremely rare in this country,” Brenda says, before Jerzey Mae can freak out.

  As Brenda explains to Jerzey Mae exactly how rare the plague is, I turn to Terrel. “You’re not mad?” I ask her.

  “Nah.” She shakes her head. “It would have been fun to get the part, but you won it, fair and square. What did Mr. Lester say to you afterward?”

  I bend over to put my shoes under the bench. “Nothing, really. He just wanted to make sure I’d do the right steps instead of making stuff up.”

  Terrel tilts her head as she considers this. “He’s got a point,” she says. “You always add your own moves. That can be good, but you can’t do that in a big show.”

  “I know, Terrel,” I say, a little annoyed. “Mr. Lester
already told me, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” she says. “I was just trying to help.”

  I almost say that if she was such an expert, she’d have gotten the part. But I decide that wouldn’t be very nice. She’s probably a little disappointed, even if she’s not admitting it.

  After Ms. Debbé leads our class, the girls who aren’t in the show leave, and Mr. Lester comes in. Ms. Debbé sits down in a chair at the side of the studio, and Mr. Lester takes her place in the front of the room.

  “All right, girls,” he says. “Since this is a new ballet, I want to tell you a little about it before we get started. That way you’ll all know how your parts fit into the story.”

  A thrill of excitement goes through me. I’d almost forgotten that this is a new ballet. No one in the world has ever danced in it before. I jab Jessica with my elbow. She grins.

  Mr. Lester continues. “Springtime in Harlem is about a young man who moves to Harlem in the 1930s, during the Harlem Renaissance. Do any of you know what that was?”

  Jerzey raises her hand eagerly. “Like a Renaissance fair? With princesses and knights?”

  JoAnn rolls her eyes. “You think there were knights running up and down 125th Street in the 1930s, you nut?”

  “It was a time when there was an explosion of art, music, and dancing in Harlem,” Mr. Lester explains. “The ballet tells the story of a young man who moves to Harlem from a small town because he hopes to become a dancer. The music will be wonderful—lots of jazz from that era. And the choreography, by Anita Burton, is inspired by some of the popular dances from back then.” He pauses, as if for effect. “And I’m happy to tell you that the part of the young man will be danced by Linc Simmons.”

  “The Linc Simmons?” I ask.

  “The famous one?” Al says.

  Jerzey Mae chimes in. “The really cute one?”

  Mr. Lester nods. “Yes, the famous, really cute one. But I’m counting on you girls not to go crazy around him. You need to act like professionals. Right?”