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Jaidev
“HEY, JAI!” A VOICE calls across the gym, and I look up and see a Black danseur beckoning me over. I recognize him from the rehearsal session for the fall tour. I think he was dancing mainly with Li Hua.
I’m not a fan of my name being shortened, but I let it go. The danseur reminds me that he’s called Trent—which is just as well as I’ve forgotten nearly everyone’s names—and says we’ve both been selected.
“For what?”
“The photoshoot.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that makes him seem rather camp.
“Photoshoot?”
He looks amused. “Yeah, there’s always one being done. Or it feels like there is. Mr. Aleks just sent the memo round. We’re all to meet by the gates.”
“All? How many of us?”
Trent looks at the list. “Six of us. All guys. Pretty impressive you’ve been selected for this already, mate. Must’ve made a good impression on Mr. Aleks. Right, so go and get some canvas flats. Old ones, mind. Nothing too good or expensive. It’s an urban shoot, in the heart of the city. And those pavements and all that gravel really tears up the soles. Wear trainers for the most part, though. We’ve got to meet in half an hour.”
“What clothes?” I ask.
“Just says urban. Usually means a black hoody and dark leggings. Bring jogging bottoms too. I’ve got to find the other guys now, but you know where to meet? The gates by the south edge of the grounds? Where Mr. Aleks goes to smoke, thinking no one notices.”
Trent leaves, and I hurriedly go to my room. Luckily, Lani had packed a black hoody and plenty of leggings and jogging bottoms among the other clothes and garments I asked her to pack. Only got two pairs of canvas flats though. I grimace. Well, I’ll have to order some more anyway. I’d assumed Roseheart would have a shoe store, like at Avril’s school, but apparently each dancer here just sources their own shoes themselves.
I change quickly and head down to the gates, my flats in my hand.
Taryn is already waiting there. She’s dressed in a hoody and leggings, too. She’s wearing trainers, but she doesn’t appear to have pointes or flats with her.
“You’re doing the shoot, too?” I ask, frowning a little. I thought Trent said it was all male dancers for this.
“The shoot?” Taryn squints at me.
I explain what Trent told me.
“Oh, no. I’m going running. With a few of the dancers. Including Netty Florence, the principal.” Her voice holds awe, but I can tell she’s still disappointed not to have been chosen for the shoot.
A few minutes later, ballerinas arrive and greet Taryn. Li Hua and Netty Florence and another ballerina I don’t know, one with blond hair. They all greet Taryn warmly, and I’m glad. Victoria’s not among them—good. I feel protective over Taryn, of course, but since Victoria gave me that odd threat, I’ve felt uneasy every time I’ve passed by her. And I know that’s what she wants—to unnerve me. I mentioned it to Xavier the evening after it had happened, and he’d just shrugged and said I should expect some backlash when Roseheart are changing their rules to give me a chance with them.
“But is Victoria violent?” I asked him.
“Violent?” he spluttered, then laughed. “You don’t need to worry about a woman. Men are stronger. Just be glad it’s not a guy who’s made this weird threat. You wouldn’t want a guy going against you, right? I know I wouldn’t.”
“But she could make my life hell.”
He shrugged. “Probably all just talk and nothing more. I mean, she wouldn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize her career with Roseheart. She’s got too much to lose.”
Now, the others for the shoot are arriving. Five danseurs.
“Good luck,” Netty Florence blows a kiss to Hamza, the male principal. I’m pretty sure they’re together.
Then the women are off, running. Taryn looks back once, a quick flick of her head, and I raise my hand to wave.
“You are smiling so big right now,” Trent says. “You totally like her.”
I feel myself blushing.
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Hazma says. “The ballet masters and mistresses always say the couples with the best chemistry and connection actually are together in real life. And it certainly works for me and Net.”
“If you’re interested in her, you should tell her,” another of the guys says. I think his name is Pierre.
“Yeah, ask her out or something. Be brave! And if she feels the same way, it’ll also improve your dancing. I mean, you two’ve got your work cut out anyway,” Trent says. “Eight weeks can be pretty standard for us to learn a new routine, especially for the Christmas shows as we only learn those dances after the fall tour is over—but we’re not dancing with a completely new partner, then.”
“Or getting used to the English style of ballet,” Pierre says. “It took me a good six months to feel I was fluent in the English style. My arms just kept wanting to do the French thing instead.”
“Yeah, so if you like her and she likes you, makes sense to get together,” Hazma says. “You’ll be all loved up and have a shortcut to nailing your pas de deux and getting a permanent contract at Roseheart.”
“So, you going to ask her?” Trent’s eyes are wide. I didn’t think someone could possibly look as excited for something than he does now.
Am I? I don’t know. I mean, I do like Taryn. I know that. She’s quiet and sensitive, and when those female dancers were being mean to her, it really upset me. I feel protective of her, and of course that just makes me think of how protective I got over Camille, when we were together. How beautiful our relationship was.
And how it ended.
“Jaidev Ngo, you’re under arrest for...”
But I also can’t stop thinking about Taryn—and I know I could really like her, just as I liked Camille. I can’t forget how ethereal Taryn looked dancing in the graveyard—or how amazing it felt dancing with her there. There was something magical and beautiful about our duet in the moonlight, among the graves.
But before I can answer Trent, Mr. Aleks appears with two photographers in tow.
“Let’s do this.” His voice is clipped and I’m sure he couldn’t look any unhappier even if he tried.
###
“OKAY, DO ANOTHER OF those twisty things,” one of the photographers says. “All of you at the same time.”
Mr. Aleks’s frown deepens even further.
We’re on a rooftop—one of the tallest buildings in this part of London—and it’s cold and windy up here. I’m not a fan of heights to be honest, and every time I’m asked to pirouette or leap, I have visions of misjudging the space and somehow stumbling too close to the edge.
Of course, it doesn’t happen, but I’m glad when the photographers suggest we do some more ballet outside storefronts. On the ground. Much better.
Half an hour later, we are running through the same combinations and moves, over and over, the cameras clicking away. Quite a crowd gathers to watch us outside Selfridges on Oxford Street. Mr. Aleks takes over from the photographer in instructing us, leaving the photographers just to operate the cameras.
Members of the public are taking photos too, videoing us. And I like the attention. I’ve not been photographed as a dancer since the accident, last year, and I’d forgotten how it feels. How it fills me with confidence.
I find myself wondering what Taryn will think when she sees these photos. Part of me wants her and the ballerinas to jog past us here, to see us, even though I’m almost certain they’ll have chosen a route that’s not directly through a built-up part of London.
Ten more minutes pass, and then it’s another change of location. In the mini-bus, Hazma nibbles an energy bar.
“Damn,” Pierre says, showing the guy next to him one of his flats. “Practically worn it right down.”
“I hope that’s not a good one,” Trent says. “I did tell you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
Mr. Aleks just keeps frowning.
“Is he always like that?” I whisper, leaning toward Trent.
He nods. “When are artistic directors ever happy? They’ve always got something to scowl about. Anyway.” He looks at his watch. “We’ve got ten minutes until we’re at the next location, so that gives us plenty of time.”
“Time?” I frown, not getting what he means.
“To plan out exactly how you’re going to ask out Taryn, of course!”