FOUR

‘Don’t cut your hair. Don’t dye your hair. Don’t put on weight …’

I stand with my hands behind my back, trying to contain the explosion of excitement within. The woman in the grey business suit has just taken us through the schedule. Now she’s listing all the things we can’t do between now and the shoot in two weeks.

I can’t help grinning at the other dancers as we listen. One of the blonde dancers smiles uncomfortably then glances away as if she’s not sure what to make of me.

‘… and don’t get a tattoo,’ finishes the woman in the business suit. ‘It’s all in the contract. Here …’ She hands a pile of pages to each of us. It looks so official.

I hold it to my chest. My first ever contract.

The woman in the suit is still taking us through it all. ‘Your agents can contact me with any questions,’ she says in finishing.

Agent? My hand goes up before I pull it back down. Too late. She’s looking at me. ‘I … ah … don’t actually have an agent.’

‘Well, get someone to look at it for you.’ For a moment she peers over her glasses at me. ‘What about equity membership?’

‘No, sorry.’

Already she’s flicking through pages on a clipboard.

‘We might have a problem here, Jenny,’ says a voice behind me. A familiar voice. ‘She’s only seventeen.’

As I turn to see who it is, my heart stops, spasms and falls dead in my guts. It’s Jack.

‘Really …’ Jenny peers over her glasses at me before her eyes slide back to Jack.

I’m so dead. And so stupid. Of course Jack was going to be here. He was organising the whole thing. And Paige! It’s my fault Paige came too.

Jenny looks at her clipboard. ‘I think our insurance covers someone under eighteen,’ she says. ‘But her parents will need to sign the contract for her.’ She pulls out another pile of forms and hands them to me. ‘You’ll need to fill these out and have your parents sign, okay?’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ I mumble, slowly realising that I’m not about to be kicked out. Jack could have made that call from the start.

Jenny pushes at the middle of her glasses. ‘Okay, all set.’ It’s a signal to leave.

Without even a glance my way, Jack calls out to someone up the back and jogs up the steps.

I hesitate. ‘Wait, Jack!’ Taking the steps two at a time, I stop below him. ‘I just wanted to say thanks. I mean, really. You could have kicked me out and, you know … this is awesome.’

Jack breathes out and scans the room as if checking to see who’s still in here. A flicker of annoyance crosses his face. ‘If I’d had my way, you would have been asked to leave at the start.’

I swallow. ‘Because … you’re the artistic director, aren’t you? And you were on the panel the whole time.’

He raises an eyebrow in mock surprise. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that you managed to learn something at school.’

‘And who’s the choreographer? Natasha …’

‘Natasha Stojmenov.’

‘Yeah, she’s amazing.’ The name is familiar, probably from a dance magazine.

Jack’s staring at the green screen, so I do too. It looks silly now, no longer lit by anything other than fluoro lights. ‘You’ve put me in a very difficult situation,’ he says. ‘You realise I’ll have to tell Oscar.’

The Head of Dance at the Academy. ‘I know, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. It was my idea. Paige came because of me too.’

‘Don’t worry about Paige.’

For a while we’re quiet, Jack’s eyes moving over my face as if searching for a way in. ‘What are you doing here, Scarlett?’ he says softly. ‘Auditions for your graduation performance are in less than three weeks. You have a real chance at the lead. How do you expect to do both?’

I look down at my feet, but I can’t hold it back anymore. A grin pushes its way into the open. ‘Yes, but I did it, Jack. I made it through!’

He shakes his head and smiles. ‘Yes, you did.’ He turns to go, saying, ‘We’ll sort it out tomorrow.’

Jack’s only a few steps away when he turns back. ‘That stunt you pulled?’ He holds his hand up and shakes his head. ‘I told you not to …’

I can’t help flicking back my hair. ‘Yeah, I know, but Jack … it worked. Moss Young liked it.’

‘Moss?’ He frowns for a moment before breathing in. ‘The person who saved you from getting cut wasn’t Moss Young. It was Natasha.’

As soon as I push through that studio door, I start running. There’s so much of everything inside me that I have to let it out. It’s late in the afternoon and the streets are still busy. Nothing out here has changed, but my whole world is different. I’ve broken through to a place where anything is possible.

Around a corner, I pull up in front of a guy with a ladder balanced on his shoulder. ‘Easy there,’ he says, as I jump to the side.

‘Sorry.’

I slow to a respectable pace now, but can’t help stepping with little bounces. As I leave MPG Studios through the front gate, I imagine what everyone at the Academy will say.

Jack is peeved. I’ll have to see the Head of Dance at school tomorrow. And I have Mum to deal with too. I wish that things were different. That it was Dad I could tell about this. Was this how it was for him? This burst of energy? Flying invincibility? When he landed his first role, did he feel as good as I do now?

The train station is down a side street with a wide curve. I reach into my bag as I walk, feeling my way past jazz shoes, water bottle, rattling rice container. My fingers close around the smooth curve of an apple.

As soon as I crunch into the flesh I realise that I’m starving. There’s almost no time to chew and swallow before the next bite. I’m still licking apple juice off my fingers when I pull out my phone and call Paige. She answers in one ring.

‘You’ll never believe this!’ I was planning to make her guess, but I can’t hold it back. ‘I did it, Paige! I can’t believe it!’

I hear her breathe on the other end. ‘Did what?’

‘Landed a part! Got a role in the music video! I have a contract in my bag right now, schedule, everything.’

There’s silence before Paige says, ‘You’re kidding.’ It’s not a question. And from the flat tone in her voice I suddenly realise that she’s in a completely different place to me.

My excitement drops. ‘Are you okay? Where are you?’

‘At home,’ she says quietly.

‘Then, I’ll come round, okay? We can talk –’

‘No, I’ll meet you.’ She’s made her voice brighter. ‘At the Complex? We have to celebrate.’

A train is pulling into the station, so I have to yell above the noise. ‘Okay. See you there.’

It’s after four by the time we’re sitting down, but I have to order something. I choose a grilled chicken salad and decide to skip dinner.

Paige sits with her hands clasped together and pushed against her mouth. A mineral water bubbles quietly in front of her.

‘So …’ I ease my way forward. ‘I feel bad for getting in. I wish we’d both –’

Her hands come down, resting the tips of her fingers on my arm. ‘It’s okay, Scarlett. Really.’ Just slightly, her head tilts. ‘So tell me, what was it like?’

‘Stressful.’ I shrug. ‘And, I don’t know, exciting. The real world?’

She’s leaning close, wanting to hear. So I put down my fork, and just start talking. I’m aware of the pinch of her eyebrows, and I find myself toning it back, cutting things out. Trying to turn it into something less.

After a while, Paige leans back in her chair.

I take it as a signal that I’ve said enough. ‘So, how about you?’ I ask. ‘Are you upset?’

‘Upset?’ She frowns at her hands. ‘No. I mean, not with you.’

‘Then … what?’ I pick up my fork again, giving her space to speak.

Paige sighs and takes a sip of water. ‘It was just one audition, I know. But I didn’t even make it past first base.’

‘You will next time.’

‘What if I don’t? What’s the point of even trying to dance if I’m always asked to leave? The one who’s always too tall?’

‘But you won’t be, Paige! It was just one audition. Not even for a company. This one hardly counts.’

‘Yeah, well …’ For a while we both watch bubbles rising in Paige’s glass. When she begins to talk again, her voice is almost a whisper. ‘A gig like the one today? That’s my plan B.’ She shakes her head. ‘No, not even plan B, it’s more like plan C. You know all about it. First the NBC, then the other dance companies – Sydney, Adelaide, New Zealand. It’s only if I miss out on a real company that I’ll go for the bits and pieces. What does Miss Penelope call them? The crumbs?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Since when do we care what Miss P says?’

‘It’s different for you, because, well, we all know you’re going to make it. But I never even considered that the crummy jobs might not be an option.’

After seeing the dancers – all of them good, all looking for work, I know she has a point. I saw the reaction of the ones who made the cut. They did look excited. Or relieved, anyway.

My bowl’s almost empty. I push it away and rest my elbows on the table. ‘So, we’ll count this as a warning then,’ I say seriously. ‘Plans A and B … we just have to make sure you get one of them. Whatever it takes.’ I shuffle myself a little closer, urging her to look at me.

She does.

‘Whatever it takes,’ I say again. ‘You have near-perfect technique, you’ve come this far – now all you have to do is make sure it happens.’

I’m glad to see Paige smile. ‘Yeah, more grilled fish. Sore calves. Bleeding toes. Just more of the same really.’

I nod. ‘That’s my girl.’

For a while she’s quiet, smiling neatly at me. ‘I can’t believe you made it, Scarlett. Out of all those dancers.’

‘Well, I think I had some help. It sounds like the choreographer saved me from getting cut at the start.’

‘You’re kidding!’ says Paige. ‘How do you know?’

‘Well …’ I pause, keeping my eyes on my salad bowl. ‘The thing is, it turned out … Jack was there.’

Her forehead crinkles. ‘What?’

‘It’s okay,’ I say quickly. ‘He’s angry, but it’s going to be okay. At least, I think so. He’s the artistic director.’ I swallow. ‘Should have seen that one coming, I guess.’ I start into a weak laugh, wanting Paige to follow.

There’s tension in her face. She shuts her eyes, then opens them to frown at me.

‘It’s fine, really.’

But Paige isn’t buying it. ‘Why did I listen to you?’ she whispers. Her voice grows louder. ‘Next time you have a bright idea, remind me to ignore it, okay?’

I force a grin. ‘How boring would that be?’

Mum’s tucked neatly in a corner of the couch when I get home. Jinni’s in an armchair. They’re leaning towards each other as if I’ve caught them sharing a secret.

‘Champagne, hey?’ I can tell from their cheeks that Jinni’s been here for a while. I pick up Mum’s glass and sip. It tastes okay, maybe a bit warm.

‘Scarlett!’ says Mum. She smiles. ‘Get your own glass.’

It’s good to see her happy for once, relaxed. I think about the contract in my bag, and wonder how she’ll react. Not finding out tonight.

‘Jinni was saying how much Alex is enjoying uni,’ says Mum.

A look passes between them and I guess at the topic they’ve just covered. How to get me into uni: a backup plan in case dancing doesn’t work out. She’s like a broken record. But as far as I’m concerned, having any kind of backup plan is like expecting to fail. And that, quite simply, is not going to happen.

Mum’s waiting for me to take the bait, so of course I don’t. ‘Really? That’s great. Say hi for me, okay?’

I’m almost out of the room when she calls after me. ‘Are you hungry? We were thinking of getting some sushi.’

‘Nah, thanks, I’ve already eaten!’

Upstairs I pull everything else out of my bag and I boot up my laptop. ‘Natasha Stojmenov.’ Think I’ve spelt it right.

Her bio’s impressive: The Nutcracker, Giselle … I make a mental note of everything that might help me face the Head of the Academy tomorrow. Dancing under a choreographer who’s worked with the industry elite is going to help my case a lot more than if she were some suburban nobody.

Principal artist with London’s Royal Ballet, choreographer, rehearsal director at the National Ballet Company …

It’s not just her bio that catches my attention. There’s something about her name. The more I see it, the surer I feel that I’ve seen it before. Not just in passing, but somewhere …

My posters? I check them all, but some don’t even list the dancer’s name and none of the others are her. There are too many magazines to sort through. I flick through a couple before pulling out a box from under my bed. These ones are special, articles about Dad. Postcards from when he was on tour in the UK. A photo of him holding me, our cheeks squashed together.

I pause, savouring a memory. Twirling on my tiptoes and calling, Daddy, Daddy. Look at me! Then hearing the smooth rolling tone of his voice, Yes, good. That’s my girl.

One by one, I pull each magazine out of the box. Natasha Stojmenov. I’m sure I’ve seen that name. My hands move faster as a corner of my rug disappears under a mound of glossy paper. I’m getting close. One magazine stands out against the others. It falls open at the right page.

I could see it with my eyes closed, I’ve pored over this one so many times: Dad in a deep lunge, chest arched and head back, arm reaching for his partner just pulling out of a pirouette.

My finger goes straight to the caption as I read the words that I already know are there: ‘Ashton Stirling, rehearsing with principal artist Natasha Stojmenov.’