Page 23 of Forbidden Dance
Irma passes by, holding a box fan by the handle. I wait for her to disappear through the door, then open the tab one more time. I go back to the Wikipedia entry. This time I notice a detail that I missed before.
Born 1990 in San Antonio, Texas.
When Blitz got in trouble, he came home.
Chapter 10
When I arrive at Dreamcatcher Friday afternoon, I know Blitz won’t be with my class. Danika listed off the groups she’d given him. None of them are at the same time as my intermediate ballet class.
So he may have already come and gone.
But something told me he wouldn’t leave. Advanced jazz ends just an hour before mine begins. I had told him in the storage room that I would be back on Friday afternoon. He’d remembered that part, as he mentioned it during our dance lesson.
I’m a little early. Suze isn’t at the desk. The foyer is empty except for a pair of moms talking quietly by the windows.
Since it’s after school, the studio hall is full of parents. Every room is crowded with dancers. It’s the busiest time of day.
I walk along, my string bag close to me, trying to avoid bumping into parents and siblings. Lots of ballet today and a hip-hop class. I pause by each window, looking inside. Maybe Blitz stayed to help in whatever room he was in earlier.
But he’s nowhere. Just students and their regular instructors.
I try to avoid feeling crestfallen. When I get to the end of the hall, I open the door to the storage room. I might as well have a little reverie in there. Maybe try on the corset and the top hat Blitz wore. It’s silly, but it’s better than feeling totally down.
But when I get inside the darkened room, light spills through the open door on the side that leads to the stage.
My shoes squeak on the floor as I move toward it. Danika is probably in the recital hall again. I can at least make myself useful in the half hour until my class begins.
I step into the staging area, then onto the wings behind the side curtains. No one is on the actual stage. I feel timid about stepping out onto it since it’s fully lit and the chairs are not, as if there is a performance about to start. I would hate to head out there only to discover there was a private exhibition happening that I didn’t know about.
I peer into the seats, shading my eyes from the intense lights shining down, but I can’t see farther back than the first few rows. There’s a clipboard resting on a chair, but no people.
I duck into the wings and walk behind the back curtain over to the other side. Still nobody. Huh. Danika must have been here and then left. Or a prop vendor. She has to order the decor for the holiday show. Maybe someone was up here taking measurements.
I walk along the side curtain and take one step onto the stage.
“Hello?” I call out. “Danika? Did you need any help?”
My voice echoes in the empty space. Then all is silent again.
I move to the edge of the stage and sit down. It’s wild being in here alone. Usually it’s full of people. I picture an audience in the seats, the silence after the applause.
The air is heavy with expectation. I’ve done three recitals on this stage. I was totally nervous my first time, but now I’m used to it. Even my parents approved of the lovely grace of our performances, despite my father’s anxious glances at my leotard.
I switch from the tennis shoes I walked in to my ballet slippers. I point my feet, imagining them in toe shoes. I’ve asked for a pair for Christmas, my only gift. I really want to be ready by then.
My leotard today isn’t my best, but I couldn’t repeat the light blue set again and I wore my yellow one Tuesday. So, I’m back in the pink set from the day I met Blitz. Maybe it will be good luck.
I’ve tied my black hair with a pink ribbon, just away from my face, no ponytail. It’s harder to dance that way, but I wanted it down for Blitz. I can still feel the tickle of it as he dipped me in the waltz, the way it swirled around my shoulders in a spin. I can always twist it up before class starts.
I stand, planning to pick up my bag and go back to the rooms to wait. But the stage calls to me, as if it’s whispering in my ear to do just a little dance. Something small and simple.
I have no music, not even a cell phone to play a song. But I don’t really need it. I run through the warm-up routine, neck stretch, Achilles, ankles, feet, then hips and thighs. When I feel good and warm, I take my first run across the stage. I spin and spin, reveling in the whoosh of air that is one of the best feelings in ballet.
When I’ve come out of the turns and am steady again, I dance-walk to one side and take a few running steps for agrandjeté. I know I’m not stellar at this move yet, but the extra space and knowing no one is watching makes me feel bold and free. When I land squarely, I head to the other corner to do it all again.
Then I see the shadowy figure in the aisle.
I halt instantly, breathing hard. I can’t make it out, but it definitely isn’t Danika. Too tall. Too solid.
