But no matter what Robin and Alex or anyone else says, I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to be one of the girls who gets cut. It’s all I think about during math and socials, and even on the bus ride home when Nini and Sarit try to get me to talk about Mrs. O’Connor, I agree with them without really listening to what they’re saying.
There’s no dance class this afternoon, so I get on my bike and ride around thinking. Right now things aren’t great. I know I’ve failed my English test, and I haven’t handed in my essay yet, and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in at least a week, and I’m probably going to get cut from Dana’s troupe. I bike around for a while until I find myself at Angela’s door. I didn’t plan it; I just ended up here. Of all the things worrying me right now, the one I hate the most is being in a fight with Angela. It’s even worse than not knowing what’s going to happen with dance.
Angela’s mom opens the door before I have a chance to knock. Her hair’s coming loose from its bun, and there’s a big chocolate smear across her left cheek.
“We’re making brownies,” she says, and we both break into laughter because for years and years we’ve had a joke that I can smell her brownies from my house and come running. My legs knew bringing me here was the best thing for me, even if my brain didn’t.
“Hi, Lila,” Angela says when I follow her mother into the kitchen. I sit in my usual chair and Angela’s mom hands me a spoon to lick. The chocolaty goodness fills my mouth, and when I’m done I stand next to Angela’s mom and try to stick my finger into the mixture. She smacks my hand away playfully.
“So what’s up these days, Lila?” Angela’s mom asks.
“Lila’s dancing with Dana, Mom, remember?” Angela says.
I nod, and Angela’s mom says, “I know, but how’s it going? Are you enjoying it? Don’t you miss Amala and the girls?”
“Dana’s very professional, and Lila’s learning a lot,” Angela says. She flashes me a huge smile when she says this. There’s no trace of jealousy or sarcasm in her voice, and I realize all at once that Angela is truly pleased for me. Even though I’ve been selfish, she really does want me to succeed.
Tears form in my eyes.
“Lila?” Angela’s mom says. She puts down her spoon and runs her hands over my hair as she pulls me into a hug. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“I’m not sure about it. I mean, about the class, about Dana, about any of it.”
“I thought you loved how professional Dana is,” Angela says.
“I did. I do. I don’t know. I did, but then Bea quit because Dana rides her so hard. She’s a good dancer—Bea, I mean—but Dana pushed her so hard that she was nervous all the time, so she made mistakes. And I always loved how Dana would correct every tiny bit of movement, because I thought she was helping us, but now I don’t know.” The words tumble out of my mouth.
“Isn’t she helping?” Angela’s mom asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know what she wants. I mean, we work so hard. I know for a fact that Bea practiced way more than anyone else, and Dana tells her she isn’t applying herself. What does she want? We can’t quit school and dance full time.”
“Does she do that to you too?” Angela’s mom asks.
I let out a deep breath. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“So you feel like you’re being criticized, not helped?”
“I’m starting to.” There. I’ve said it.
Angela’s mom turns back to the bowl and stirs again. After a couple of fast swirls she pours the mixture into the pans waiting on the counter. When the trays are full she hands the bowl to me. Then she reaches across the counter and pulls three spatulas from the pile. She gives one to me and one to Angela.
“Chocolate therapy,” she says.
The three of us dig into the bowl, scraping leftover chocolate-brownie batter onto the spatulas, then licking them. Soon our faces are even more covered in chocolate, and when there’s not enough left in the bowl for spatulas, I use my finger until my hand is sticky and my stomach tells me it’s time to stop.
Angela puts the two brownie pans into the oven and turns on the timer.
“I’ll wash up, girls,” her mom says. “You two go do something fun. I’ll let you know when the brownies are ready.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Angela says, giving her mom a kiss on the cheek.
“You’re being really nice to me,” I say to Angela when we get to her room.
“You sound surprised,” she says.
I can’t look at her as I say, “I was kinda selfish, and I thought you were mad at me.”
“I am, but also I’m your best friend. bffs, remember? We need to help each other when we’re in trouble,” Angela says.
“Are you in trouble? Are you being nice to me so I’ll be nice to you?”
“No, idiot!” Angela frowns and plunks herself on her bed. “You’re the one in trouble, remember. You didn’t study for English at all, did you? And every day you seem more and more tired. So something must be going on.”
“I just told you,” I say, sitting next to her.
“Dana’s costume and whether or not you’ll get picked? That’s it, really? That’s making you so stressed you can’t sleep?”
It’s like Angela and I are talking two different languages. “Of course it’s making me stressed. Wouldn’t it stress you out?”
“A bit, I guess,” she says.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to dance. That’s all. Is that too much to ask?” I say.
Angela looks at me like maybe I came from Mars. Then, out of the blue, she says, “Do you remember Amala’s choreography?”
“I think so.”
“Run through it with me. I need the practice,” Angela says.
“That’s because you’ve been skipping classes to hang out with Jonas,” I say with what I hope is a light tone.
“Amala’s okay with it, you know. I talked to her, and she said as long as I keep practicing at home and I come to the last rehearsals before the festival, she’s okay with me missing a couple of classes,” Angela says.
“Really? I can’t imagine Dana saying something like that.”
“So come on; practice with me. I promised Amala I’d do it every day.”
It’s not what I want to do, but then again, maybe dancing will make me feel better. “Okay,” I say.
Angela jumps across the room and puts her phone on the stand. She fiddles for a second, then says, “Ready?”
I scramble into position. “Ready.”
The music starts. It begins with the drums calling the other instruments, which join one by one as Angela and I snake our arms around us, building energy. Then the drums trill and we twirl, almost bumping into each other in the small space. The sequence of hip drops and kicks comes back to me as we do them, and when the bit with the fast hip and chest lifts starts, Angela and I both nail the transition. The music pauses, then builds from slow to fast. Angela and I pick up our shimmies starting at the hips and moving up to our shoulders. The music takes over my whole body, and I stop thinking and start feeling the beat within me, moving every inch of my body.
The music slows, and we catch the wave of sound with a body roll, drawing the music down from the air and through our bodies to the floor. We do a slow twirl, come back to the front and end.
“Wow! I can’t believe you remembered all that,” Angela says when the music stops.
“I can,” I say. “I love that choreography, and the music.” I flop onto the bed, which is a bad idea, because from here I can see Angela’s beautiful costume hanging on the back of her cupboard.
“I do too. And I wish you were dancing it with us.”
“I…” There’s a crash about to happen in my mind, which I know I can’t do anything about. I can feel it coming, so I study the tiny mirrors on Angela’s costume, counting them one by one, but the crash comes anyway, and suddenly I’m faced with the thought that I was happier when I danced with Amala. I think I’ve known this deep down for a while, but now I can’t hide from it anymore. Not with her music and choreography still in my body. It makes my throat tight to think about it.
“You…?” says Angela.
“Nothing. I love that music. I’d forgotten, that’s all.”