Mrs. Harrison drops Edie and me off at the academy on Monday morning. “I’m sorry I can’t come in with you, Cassandra,” she says. “I’m running late for work, but Edie will show you around and introduce you to everyone.”
I pick up my bag and slide out of the car. “I’ll be fine.” Edie is already halfway to the front doors, and I hurry to catch up and follow her inside.
Girls are milling about in black leotards and tights, duffel bags slung over shoulders, shiny hair scraped up into tight buns. My heart is beating fast. I lift my chin, determined not to let anyone see how nervous I am. Edie takes me to the office, where an older woman with dyed-black hair and a lot of gold jewelry checks my name off a list. “Studio Three,” she says. “Cassandra will start off with you, Edie, so you can show her where to go. Here are name tags for you both. Just pin them to your leotards, please.”
Edie nods and guides me down the crowded hallway, up a flight of stairs and through another set of doors. I can feel myself calm down as I step into the studio. With the mirrored wall, the double bar and the piano in the corner, it feels just like my dance classes back home. Girls are already sitting on the floor, stretching, adjusting their shoes and chatting.
“Melissa!” Edie runs forward and throws her arms around a tall slender girl with flaming red hair. “I’ve missed you.”
Melissa laughs. “Goof. I was only away for a week.”
“I know, but…” She trails off and turns to me. “This is Cassie. She’s our homestay student.”
“Hello, Cassie.” Melissa eyes me appraisingly for a long moment, then turns back to Edie. “There’s a lot of new girls, have you noticed?”
“Are there? We just got here,” Edie says. She looks around the room and I follow her gaze, feeling a little dismayed at the size of the group. At home, there were never more than fifteen or so in a class, but there must be close to thirty girls in here. Some seem very young, not more than eleven, I’d guess; others look maybe sixteen or even older. Everyone is dressed the same—black leotards, soft shoes, the palest pink tights.
“Good morning, girls!” A teacher walks to the front of the room, and the chatter and giggling subside. She waits for complete silence before she begins. “Welcome to the first day of the Summer Intensive. I am Diana Komlos—you can call me Diana—and I teach ballet and contemporary here at the academy. We’re going to be working hard over these next four weeks, and I am expecting you all to give one hundred percent.”
“Yes, Diana,” some of the girls say.
Diana is about thirty and quite elegant, with a long slender neck and white-blond hair tied back in a short ponytail instead of a bun. She speaks slowly and clearly, her eyes moving from one of us to another, and I can sense that she is already assessing us. “Martha Graham once said that dance is the hidden language of the soul,” she says. “Think about that, girls. The body doesn’t lie.”
I wait, barely breathing, wanting to hold on to every word. I feel like she can see right into me. I drop my shoulders, lift my chin, pull in my stomach and hope that she sees whatever it is she is looking for.
She smiles. “For this first class, we’re going to be taking things a little more slowly than we usually do,” she says. “I want to see where you are all at and what you can do, so that I know what we need to work on. Mrs. Hoffman, another one of our teachers, will be observing the first half of our class.” She gestures toward an older darkhaired woman standing just inside the door, and the woman nods at us without smiling. “I’ll be dividing you into three smaller groups, and I’ll let you know what those groups will be at the end of this class.”
Melissa and Edie exchange looks, no doubt hoping they will be in the same group. I cross my fingers for a moment, hoping I’ll be with them and not a bunch of complete strangers.
“Let’s get started,” Diana says, clapping her hands briskly. “Positions at the barre, everyone. First position, please.”
I take a place at the barre behind Edie and Melissa. The smooth wood under my hand feels comfortingly familiar, and I take a deep breath before settling into the routine exercises. First position. Heels together. Turn out from the hip.
“Think of trees,” Diana says. “Think of how they reach up for the sunlight, trying to be the tallest tree. Lift your abdomen, straighten your spine. From the hipbones up, be like a tree, stretching up.” She stands behind one girl, holding her hand an inch or so above her head. “Stretching to touch my hand…yes.” She walks on, past me, and our eyes meet in the mirror for a second. “What else do trees have?” she asks me.
“Roots?” I say.
“Yes. Trees also have roots. So below the hipbones, stretching down into the ground, sending your roots deep to find the water...good.”
I focus on the stretch in my muscles, trying to get as much turnout as I can, making sure my position is perfect.
“Iako, lovely turnout. Heels together, though—don’t be sloppy. Edie, drop your shoulders.” Diana walks down the line, pausing to correct each girl as she passes. “Julie, turn out from the hip. Nice work, Zoe, but tuck your seat in. Cassandra, make sure you keep your shoulders level.” She touches my left shoulder, pressing down lightly. “Okay, now demi-plié.”
I bend my knees slowly, concentrating on keeping my thighs turned out.
“Heels stay on the floor, Julie.” Diana approaches the girl behind me. “That’s it. Make sure those heels stay together.” She raises her voice to address us all. “And grand plié!”
I take a deep breath, let my heels lift and bend my knees farther, sinking into a grand plié.
“Very nice…” She pauses, bending to look at my name tag. “Very nice, Cassandra. Julie, a little deeper, bring your thighs parallel to the floor…that’s it. And slowly come up again, back into first position. Slowly, Edie! Don’t rush.” Diana nods at me as she passes. “Good, Kendra, good…Zoe, bring your heels back to the floor as soon as you can. Let’s see that again…yes, plié, and now rising up…heels, heels…hmm. A little better, Zoe.”
Over the next hour, Diana takes us through a series of exercises at the barre: tendus, retirés, développés, pirouettes, arabesques and attitudes. There is a level of seriousness and intensity in the room that is pushing me to work even harder than usual. My legs are trembling, and I know I’ll be sore tomorrow.
Finally the class is over and we are stretching, warming down. “Shake it out,” Diana says. “Shake it out.”
Edie leans toward me. “What did you think?” she whispers.
“It was excellent,” I say. “She’s awesome.”
“She’s a good teacher. I hope I’m in her group.”
“Me too.” I know without a doubt that studying with Diana is going to make me a better dancer.
Diana is making notes on a clipboard as we pull on hoodies and slip off our shoes. Finally she looks up. “I’m sure you are all dying to know your groups for the summer. Do some stretches until ten o’clock—that’ll give me a few minutes to finalize the lists. I’ll post them on the bulletin board in the downstairs hall. Any questions, please let me know.”
Diana leaves and we all stretch, doing splits and flexing our feet, but no one’s mind is on the exercises. Everyone’s talking and laughing, and as soon as the clock on the wall says ten, the rest of the class rushes past me, out into the hall and down the stairs. I hang back on the landing for a moment, adjusting my crooked name tag and watching them descend. From above, all I can see is the tops of their heads—dozens of girls with smooth hair pulled into tight buns. My legs are tired, but I am suddenly filled with energy, my muscles loose and springy, and I feel like I could jump right up to the ceiling, lifted by sheer excitement.
I run down the stairs and join the crowd at the bulletin board. Edie grabs my arm. “You’re with us,” she says. “In Diana’s group, with me and Melissa.”
“Good,” I say, relieved.
Melissa raises one eyebrow. “They did it mostly by age, really. All the eleven- and twelve-year-olds are together in one group, then there’s our group, then the older girls.”
“We don’t know how old the new girls are,” Edie points out.
Melissa shrugs. “Mostly by age, I said. Anya, Danika, Zoe, you, me, Cassie—we’re all thirteen or fourteen or fifteen.”
I’m trying to remember the names and failing miserably. “How many of our group are new?” I ask.
“Lots,” Edie says. “That girl Iako, she’s new.”
“And the American girl,” Melissa says. “You know. The one with no bun.”
“Oh yeah. Cam, I think.” I had noticed her, and glanced at her name tag, because her dark brown hair is really short. She is tall and freckled, and her short hair looks cute. Still, it is an odd choice for a dancer, and I wonder how she will manage it for performances.
“A couple of others, too. There are ten in our group altogether,” Melissa says, counting on her fingers. “The five of us who belong here plus Cassie and four other new girls.” She looks at me and her eyes narrow; then she turns back to Edie. “Did you notice how the teachers fuss over the new girls? They totally got all the attention.”
“Well, I guess the teachers already know the rest of us,” Edie says.
Melissa ignores her, beckoning imperiously to a group of dancers standing farther down the hall. Three girls approach us, the third leaping into a temps levé in arabesque as she moves across the floor. “Danika, Zoe, Anya—have you guys met Cassie? She’s staying with Edie.”
They all nod and say hi, and I know I’m going to get the three of them mixed up. I’m really bad with names and faces. Melissa’s red hair is a gift, but Anya, Danika and Zoe all have long brown hair pulled back tightly into buns. Zoe has braces, I tell myself. Anya has streaky blond highlights. Danika is the small one with diamond stud earrings…“So,” Melissa says, “how many of us do you think will get invited to stay in the fall?”
Zoe shrugs. “They’ll take more from the older group, probably.”
Danika nods, her expression thoughtful. “From our group just two or three, I bet.”
“That’s it?” I say, dismayed. “Two out of ten?”
“At best,” Melissa says darkly. “But I can tell you right now, it won’t be Iako or Miss No-Bun. So really, it’s more like two out of eight.” She extends one leg, toes pointed and stretched out in front of her. Tendu devant, I think automatically.
Edie giggles. “It’s like a TV show, you know? Like Survivor.”
Danika laughs, and Zoe lowers her voice to imitate a reality-show host. “The tribe has spoken.”
Melissa looks thoughtful. She lowers her foot to the ground. “Summer session is four weeks. So if eight people have to go, that’s two a week.”
“Oh, come on.” I laugh, but I feel uneasy. “That’s not how it works. I mean, no one’s voting people off.”
“Sure they are,” Melissa says. “I bet Diana and Mrs. Hoffman are talking about us right now.” She puts on a fake German accent. “Zat leetle girl—ze Chinese girl, Iako—she doesn’t have the drive, the passion. She gives up too easily.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s from Japan,” I say. “Not China.”
“Same difference,” Melissa says.
“No, actually—” I start to speak, but she cuts me off.
“The point is, Cassandra, that Iako was practically crying at the end of the class because it was too hard. Her hip was hurting.” She smirks. “A dancer has to be strong. If she can’t handle a little pain, how’s she going to cope with being a professional dancer?”
Anya nods. “We should vote her off right now.”
“It’s not our decision,” I tell Melissa. My heart is beating faster than usual, and I wish this conversation wasn’t happening. The last thing I want to do is make enemies. “I mean, we can vote if you want, but everyone will still be here.”
“Will they?” Melissa’s voice is sharp, and her blue eyes are icy.
I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck lifting, prickling. “Well, yeah, of course. And who says Diana and Mrs. Hoffman will agree with your choices? It’s their votes that will count in the end.”
She ignores me. “Show of hands. Who thinks Iako isn’t cut out for this? Who is ready to vote her off?”
And all around me, the hands go up. Melissa. Edie. Anya. Zoe. Danika. I clasp my own hands together behind my back. “Cassie?” Edie nudges me, her eyes wide and anxious. “Aren’t you voting?”
I know Iako has as much right to be here as any of us. And I know what my dad would say: Just do what you know is right, Cassie, and everything else will fall into place.
But a small voice in my head is screaming at me: You’re putting a target on your own back, Cassandra! Just go along with it! Because I can tell that Melissa is the queen bee around here, and making her mad is probably a really bad idea.
Especially since I have to live with her best friend for the next four weeks.
Besides, it won’t really hurt Iako if I vote. The whole thing is stupid, but it’s just a game, after all—it’s not like these votes actually count toward anything.
I lift my hand, and Edie grins at me. I smile back, but there’s a sick feeling in my gut. Maybe they’d understand, but I know my parents wouldn’t be proud of me right now.
“That’s six votes,” Melissa says. “Iako’s history.”