I’ve never been so happy to be ignored.
They go so fast. The company, I mean. Mr. Acton shows the choreography once—once—and we’re expected to have the steps memorized. And sometimes he doesn’t even show us—he just lists all the steps in order, and we have to imagine them in our heads. Then perform them. Instantly. Are they all geniuses or something? I can’t process that fast. I bet everybody else will have the choreography for the entire production learned in a week, and I’ll still be marking the first act. I feel like such a moron.
“Oops, sorry!”
“Wrong way, kid.”
I want to die.
“No, no, no!” shouts Mr. Acton. Everybody stops. “This is all wrong!”
Luckily, he’s not looking at me in particular. I ease backward into a corner, behind the other understudies. The back row is ours and ours alone, and I am so glad. The principals are pacing at the front of the room.
“This isn’t Baby Ballet, people! I need you to eat space. You must gobble up the stage! Move, move, move! Nothing small. Go deep, move it across the floor like you’ve never done before! And in the fondu—both legs straighten at the same time. You know that! We need to go back to the basics.” Mr. Acton sighs. “Chassé, coupé, pas de bourrée, jeté. Now!” We all line up in the corner. I am so relieved. These steps I can do. It’s just like class.
Back and forth, back and forth. Leaping, jumping, turning. The studio reeks of sweat and we’re all panting, but Mr. Acton keeps shouting, “Again! Again!” Finally, we get a take-ten. Everybody collapses, but I’m feeling okay. I’m good at cross floor, and I can keep up. But, of course, the minute I start feeling halfway like a company member, Mr. Acton takes it all away.
“Rick, Robin,” he says. “Let’s go over the scene where Oberon gives the flower to Puck.”
As I mark the steps, trying to follow Rick’s every amazing move, there’s a flicker at the window. I think I see Jeremy. Please don’t let him be watching this.
* * *
Mr. Acton stops me after rehearsal. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Great!” I lie enthusiastically. “It’s fantastic to watch the company work. I’m learning so much, Mr. Acton.”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “But are you learning fast enough, Robin?” he asks gently. “This isn’t simply another class. You have to take ownership of your role, even if you’re only the understudy. You have to be just as ready as Rick to perform. Are you?”
I don’t say anything. It’s pretty obvious that I’m not.
“What’s your biggest struggle?”
“The choreography,” I mumble. “The company dancers pick it up so fast.”
“That can be fixed, if you’re willing to put in extra time,” replies Mr. Acton. “I have a video of the choreography. You can borrow it, if you want, and learn the steps on your own time. It’s much harder that way, but I don’t have time to walk you through it. You need to have the steps down before you can become the character, and you have a long way to go.”
No one, no one, has ever had to say stuff like that to me before. I’ve always been the best. Always. This sucks. We walk in silence to his office to get the disc, because there’s really nothing more to say.
* * *
Rehearsal isn’t over until eight, and I have an English essay—no, make that two English essays—to write for tomorrow. Well, forget that. Mrs. Montgomery can yell all she wants. Maybe I’ll skip and get in some extra rehearsal time. But somehow, I don’t feel like I can wait until tomorrow. I shower because I’m so gross, then head back to the dark, empty studio, the one that has the DVD player. I’ll work all night if I have to.
Mr. Acton is right. It’s hard to learn choreography from video. Thank goodness for remote control. I may totally wear out the Stop button. Still, without everybody watching me, I can actually think. I take it step by step, cutting the work into tiny pieces. But there are so many pieces! And the Puck on the video is distracting. He’s really good, and his footwork is clean, but his Puck is so different from Rick’s. Which one is right?
Maybe it would be easier to turn the TV toward the mirror and watch the reflection. At least then I won’t be learning the steps backward. Good one, brainiac—the remote won’t work that way. But I try it anyway. This is what desperation looks like, I guess.
It’s eerie to work all alone in the middle of the night. I’m so used to having Cam and Jeremy right beside me that I don’t even jump when I hear their voices. But they’re not talking to me. They’re outside. I go over to the window, and by the light of the moon, I see them. It’s Cam, Jer, Johanna, Charis and Sybille. My gang. They’re laughing, then covering their mouths with their hands to deaden the sound. Half-crouching, they’re running across the quad toward the kitchen.
Midnight raid! All right! I need a break. I shut down the DVD player, lock the studio and return the key. No point in changing, because it’s not like we don’t breathe each other’s sweat all day, every day anyway.
By the time I get to the kitchen, they’re into the ice cream. “Hey,” I say.
There’s silence. Finally Cam says, “Hey yourself.”
“So…midnight raid.”
“Yeah, we were in the mood,” says Charis. “Too bad you can’t join us. We know you’re busy, you know, with the company and all.”
“Ah, yeah,” I reply. “I was rehearsing when I heard you guys laughing. You know Miss Amelia’s room is beside the kitchen. You gotta keep it quiet when you cross the quad. Did I not teach you anything?” I try to make it into a joke, but nobody’s laughing.
“Thanks for the tip,” says Charis sarcastically. “We would never have thought of that without your help.”
No, you wouldn’t have! I shout to myself. I was the one who started the midnight raids. I was the one who found out where the kitchen key is hidden. I was the one who picked the route so we’d never get caught. It’s my raid!
“Well, I guess I have more work to do,” I say. “Enjoy your ice cream.”
“Oh, we will,” replies Charis. She’s so smug.
“Gee, Charis, you sound just like Odette,” I say, and I’m glad when I see the hurt on her face.