Phantom's Dance by Lesa Howard
“Come again?” Her chopsticks wavered.
“Mr. Darby asked Ms. Zaborov to choose a few dancers to teach a group of football players to dance. It’s a favor for a board trustee, and Jenna and I were chosen to assist Ms. Zaborov.”
At the mention of Mr. Darby’s name, Mom’s eyebrows rose and her suck-up meter kicked in. I couldn’t really fault her for that, though. All the ballet mothers thought that Mr. Darby was a genius.
“Really?” she said and took a sip of water. “I’ve heard of that before—professional players taking ballet. It’s supposed to be good for them. Mr. Darby asked you to do it?”
“Ms. Zaborov recruited Jenna and me to help.”
“That’s interesting. It must be a public relations thing. I suppose it’s all right, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your own studies. It might be good for you. It may get you noticed. At the very least, it will put you in front of Mr. Darby more often.”
This was another change since Dad left—her over-ingratiating. She claimed it was for me, to help my career, but in truth, her behavior started when we moved here. She had been a big fish in a little pond at her firm back in El Paso. But here, she was a little fish in a big pond, and she struggled for status.
“You’re probably right,” I agreed, and neglected to tell her that getting noticed is what landed me in the predicament in the first place.
“I’m not sure how it will affect my schedule. I might be later than usual some days.” I don’t know why I’d said that, but I thought of the dancers in the alley, and using this for more time alone.
“We’ll have to make sure you keep enough money on you for a cab in case I can’t be there to pick you up.”
“Okay.”
She continued to talk, stuff about school, her job, but I lost track, rolling ideas around in my head. This football-ballet thing might not be bad after all. It might even lead to something cool.
The next morning, Mom was pleased with herself and all but said so as we stepped into the elevator to leave.
“I’m glad to see you took my advice. Your makeup looks nice this morning.”
I let her believe what she wanted. The truth was, I had taken extra care, but not because of her reproach the day before. I’d hoped to run into the hotty in the elevator again. So I’d straightened my hair and left it down, wore street clothes, and added a pair of teardrop earrings. I’d have to undo it all when I got to the school, but at least there’d be no repeat of yesterday.
Riding the elevator down, I held my breath as it approached the third floor. But it kept going, and it wasn’t until I heard Mom’s voice rise that I realized she’d been speaking.
“Did you hear me?”
“No, I’m sorry. I zoned out.”
“I asked you if I should be there at five this evening to pick you up.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know yet. Ms. Z. scheduled us to meet the team this afternoon after class. I don’t know what time it’ll be over.”
Fumbling through her purse, she took out her wallet and gave me a twenty-dollar bill. “In case you need a cab.”
Absent mindedly, I crammed the twenty into my bag, my thoughts still on the possibility of an encounter with elevator dude in the lobby. No such luck, though. The lobby was empty except for the concierge.
After Mom dropped me off, I went in and found Van outside studio D. Surrounded by a crew of lower level girls, most of them around twelve or thirteen, he appeared to be impressing them with his posturing and posing. As I neared, I overheard him say, “Yeah, I’m gonna be the one to expose him. I’ve already emailed the producers at Paranormal Response Team. I haven’t heard back from them yet, but I know they’re gonna love it when they learn there’s a phantom at the Wakefield Center.”
“Van,” I interrupted, “what are you doing?”
He whipped about, surprised to see me there. His eyes registered that he’d been caught doing the very thing he’d promised Jenna and me he wouldn’t do, but he never skipped a beat in front of the girls.
“Oh, hey, Princess. I was telling them about my plan to expose the theater phantom.”
“Van,” I said, turning his name into a protracted two-syllable word. “I thought we decided there was no ghost and you would drop the Paranormal Response Team thing.”
A couple of the girls giggled, and Van stiffened. “You and Jenna decided there was no ghost. I say there is, and there’s been evidence of one.”
I gaped at him, but before I could dispute, he pressed on.
“I’ll find a way to get the show’s crew out here, and when I do I’ll be famous for being the dancer who caught the catwalk phantom.”
The bevy of girls snickered and Van smiled, basking in their adoration.
“It might be a good idea for you to stay off the catwalk,” a male voice interrupted.
We looked around to see Mr. Sims the custodian in the hall with us. He stood before the wall thermostat, a screwdriver in one hand, and the thermostat cover in the other.
“A theater in the dark, especially backstage and the catwalk area, can be a dangerous place,” Mr. Sims said, brandishing the screwdriver toward Van.
The boy squared his shoulders and looked ready to pop off something snarky. I was prepared to pinch him if he did. Mr. Sims was one of my favorite people at the school. He was kind and gentle, and always went the extra mile. I wasn’t going to let Van disrespect him. I didn’t have to worry about it, though. Van took the you-know-you-wanna-let-me-have-my-way approach and flashed the man a cheeky grin.
“Come on, Mr. Sims. Don’t you think it would be cool for them to tape what goes on around here at night? They could set up their night-vision cameras on the catwalk and catch it all on video.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The little stinker had had no intention of letting this go when Jenna and I talked to him the day before. It was evident he’d been working on the hoax for some time.
“I know what goes on around here at night,” Mr. Sims said, “and that’s why I’m telling you to keep out of it. Boys your age have no business up there.”
I knew what he was getting at. Jenna’s account of people sneaking in afterhours must have been the mark. Mr. Sims didn’t want Van privy to it.
“So, we have the class in the hall today?” Ms. Zaborov had materialized out of nowhere, and her arrival put the skids on the conversation, frightening the girls who squeaked and scurried back into their studio.
But the ever-confident Van simply bowed low to Ms. Zaborov and said, “Lovely to see you this morning, Ms. Z.” Then he moseyed down the hall.
With the others gone, Ms. Zaborov looked to me. “I would not think it advisable to be late to class again today, Christine.”
“No, ma’am,” I responded. Then she walked away, leaving me alone with Mr. Sims.
“I’ve been here a long time,” he said as he watched Ms. Zaborov enter a classroom down the hall, “and nobody scares me like that woman does.”
I laughed. “Look, I’ll talk to Van. In fact, I already have, but apparently I’m going to have to be more convincing.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mr. Sims said. “Somebody needs to stop him. That catwalk is unsafe, and there’s no telling what would happen if he ran face to face with that phantom.”
Chapter Eight
Mr. Sims resumed his work, but I remained, surprised and staring after him. What had he meant—run face to face with the phantom? Had he bought into Van and Liam’s ruse? Surely not. He must have known about the rendezvous occurring there, and the idea of discussing it with me embarrassed him, or worse, maybe he thought I was one of the late-night visitors. I blew it off and went on to the dressing room to change for my warm-up before technique.
Jenna was already at the barre, stretching, when I joined her. I noticed she, too, had taken more time with her makeup that morning.
“So how do you feel about dating a football player?” she asked as she did pliés.
I bent my knees in unison with hers. “Wo
“It might be a pleasant change,” she said. “I’m tired of dating nothing but ballet dancers.” Then she swept her foot forward and stretched her pointed toes to add tendus to her pliés.
Copying her moves, I searched for a way to change the subject. In this, I suppose I was a bit like Mr. Sims. Talking about sex made me uncomfortable, and any time Jenna discussed boys there was a chance sex would enter into the conversation. And I knew she’d done more than just talk about it when, after a pregnancy scare last summer, her mother put her on birth control.
Truthfully, I’d never actually dated. Most of my crushes had been on dance-mates. Once, when I was fourteen, I had a horribly naïve crush on Mr. Agretto, an instructor at my last school. In his day, he’d been a premier dancer with the New York City Ballet, which when I looked back, I could see was a large part of the attraction. I had imagined him the greatest dancer in the world and spent hours dreaming that one day we would be married. A ridiculous childhood crush.
Since enrolling in the academy, I’d been too busy to become involved with anyone. It was something I tried not to dwell on because it left me feeling inadequate, as if I lacked something other girls my age had. So any time Jenna brought it up, I did what I could to avoid admitting my inexperience. I didn’t have the courage to tell her I’d hardly been on a first date, much less to first base.
Marisol was the only one who knew about my nonexistent love life. She’d been there since its beginning. Our freshman year, she’d set me up with Dennis Umber. He and I had attended a movie once, but he’d talked incessantly about video games so it went nowhere. After that, I’d wanted to date, but I simply didn’t know how. It seemed to come natural to everyone else, pairing up and going out. And now, well, I felt like a nonparticipant, like there was a schedule to be followed and I was so far behind I’d never get caught up.
“Don’t you think we should wait to see what they look like before lining up dates?” I asked. “I mean, they could be ugly.”
She rolled her shoulders in a catlike stretch. “I figure there must be, what, at least a dozen of them? Odds are one of them has to be good looking. And I have dibs on him.”
“Sinking to a new low aren’t you, Newsom?” Deirdre O’Connor said, having sidled up behind us. “No, wait,” she amended, and paused as she couldn’t resist looking at herself in the mirror. When she’d corrected her posture and run a thumb under the leg of her leotard to snap it in place, she continued, “You do have the feet of a linebacker so maybe they are more your style.”
Jenna smirked like she didn’t really give a crap what Deidre had to say and responded, “At least I can get a date.” Then she flipped her off.
Ms. Zaborov entered the room then and strode over to us. “Ladies, I trust you have not forgotten our little arrangement for this afternoon.”
We all bowed to our instructor then Deirdre slunk away, probably afraid she, too, would be dragged into lessons with the football team.
“No, ma’am, we haven’t forgotten,” I replied.
“Good,” she said then clapped her hands and called the class to order.
The day passed quickly. At lunch, Van sat with the girls he’d been entertaining earlier that morning, and I learned he was going to perform in a recital with them later in the month. It was probably better that he hang around them as much as possible, since they were closer to his age. It had to be hard for him, being so much younger than the dancers with which he trained. He was stuck in the middle with the boys his age jealous of his skills, while the older male dancers resented him rising through the ranks so quickly. If he’d been any other boy, one without Van’s brazen self-confidence, he might not have been able to do it.
In repertory that afternoon, we rehearsed Swan Lake. It was grueling. Our instructor Mrs. Hahn, also known as Atilla the Hahn, was merciless and made everyone miserable. She seemed to have little patience with me especially. From the moment class began, she was on my case, declaring some of my executions utter failures.
“You must feel it, Christine,” she bellowed, pounding her pearl-handled cane on the floor. “You must emote believably. If you do not feel it, the audience will not feel it either. Your technique might be good, but your swan has the heart of a sloth.” She swiveled about and her black wide-legged palazzo pants rippled around her calves. “Deirdre, would you please show Christine how it’s done?” She snapped her fingers, and her long silk sleeve slipped above her wrist, revealing an ugly scar.
I’d heard rumors about that scar and the walking cane. Most of it was ridiculous, but she’d obviously suffered an injury or been in accident. And, though she was still a strong, toned woman, whatever had occurred had put an end to her dancing.
Deirdre moved forward to do Mrs. Hahn’s bidding, making a point of looking down her nose at me as she came between my dance partner and me.
“Okay, Peter, let’s show her how real ballerinas dance.”
But before the pianist could hit the first note, Ms. Zaborov entered the room and spared me further embarrassment.
“Please pardon the intrusion.” She dipped her head toward Mrs. Hahn. “I would need Christine and Jenna now.” Then she motioned for us to join her.
We cut a quick curtsy to Mrs. Hahn and rushed to Ms. Zaborov’s side. I, for one, was glad to leave.
“Lena,” Mrs. Hahn called after Ms. Zaborov, and the three of us paused at the door. When she’d closed the distance between us, Mrs. Hahn said, “You know how I feel about this football business.” Ms. Zaborov acknowledged her with a slow blink and slight nod. “And we both know nothing can be done about it, but I don’t think Christine should be working with you in this.”
Ms. Zaborov hesitated, looked at me serenely, and responded, “Director Darby gave me liberty in my choices. I am happy with the ones I have made.”
The tension between the women crackled.
“But Christine has much work to do if she is to audition again this fall,” Mrs. Hahn pointed out.
“I do not believe it a problem for Christine to miss a few moments of repertory twice a week,” Ms. Zaborov said.
“If you recall, Lena, I followed your lead concerning Christine’s dancing last year, and look how that turned out. You do remember her behavior at the second company audition?”
Ms. Zaborov’s face was impassive, but I silently prayed that they would just shut up. I didn’t want to think about that audition, and I definitely didn’t want it rehashed and discussed in front of the other students doing their best to get close enough to eavesdrop.
Taking a deliberate step, the petite yet formidable Russian woman moved closer to Mrs. Hahn and stared up into her eyes.
“I stand by my decision then, and I stand by it now. But of course, if you would like to take it up with Director Darby, then I would be happy to—"
“No, no, no,” Mrs. Hahn sputtered. “That won’t be necessary. I merely wished to state my opinion.”
With a husky inflection, Ms. Zaborov replied, “Duly noted. Now, girls, we shall go,” and we left the room without looking back.
Chapter Nine
I didn’t breathe easily again, until we’d made it down the hall and rounded a corner to stop in front of Ms. Zaborov’s office. “Wait here. I shall return,” she instructed and disappeared behind the door.
“That was intense,” Jenna said the minute Ms. Z. was out of sight. “What was that about anyway? You auditioned for the second company last year. I didn’t know that. How’d you manage that your first year here?”
Hesitant, I averted my gaze. I really didn’t want to talk about it. Jenna was the closest thing I had to a best friend in Houston, but after almost two years at the Rousseau Academy, I’d learned not to let other dancers see my weaknesses, and I wasn’t sure how she’d react.
She saw me distancing myself and said, “Listen, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I know how Mrs. Hahn can be. I was just curious.”
“Seriously? As a first year, you were asked to audition for Rousseau II? Wow, that’s amazing. So what happened? Why aren’t you in the second company?”
My breathing sped up and the walls of the hall felt confining. I tugged at the collar of my leotard and stretched it away from my throat to blow cool air down the front.
Again, Jenna noted my resistance. “You choked, didn’t you? Oh, man, Christine, I’m sorry. But don’t be so hard on yourself. It happens to all of us. ”
I shook my head. “Not like that it doesn’t.”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I have performance anxiety,” I told her.
“Well—yeah—who doesn’t? Shoot, I always feel like I’m going to pee my pants before going out on stage.”
Self-loathing settled in the pit of my stomach and I sighed. “It was more than anticipation. I had a panic attack right there in front of everyone, dizziness, nausea, heart pounding. I ran off the stage blubbering like a baby.”
“Ohhhh,” Jenna lamented. “That is bad.”
“Sometimes when I’m super stressed I get this pain in my stomach, and when I do I sort of freak out.”
Jenna tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean you get a pain in your stomach?”
I clasped my hands together, lacing my fingers into tight knots reluctant to talk about it. At the same time, it had been bottled up for so long talking about it might be a relief.
“It’s kind of a medical condition,” I said. “The doctor told my parents it’s like post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Huh? Post-traumatic stress? Isn’t that what soldier’s get?”
“It can happen to anyone. It’s an anxiety disorder brought on by something traumatic. I almost died, or at least I feared I would, when I was six years old and that’s what caused it.”
“Get out!” Jenna exclaimed. “How? I mean what happened?”
“There was a recital coming up and my grandmother was supposed to attend—I was six so it was important to me, you know?” Jenna nodded. “Then about a week before, I became ill. It started with sharp pains behind my navel”—automatically, my hand went to my stomach where I pressed the heel of my palm into my bellybutton—“Mom took me to the ER and they told her I had a bladder infection. The doctor sent me home with antibiotic and said I would improve. But instead of getting well, the pain worsened and moved into my side.