Fandom:
Iron Man (movieverse)
Rating: G
Pairing: Tony/Pepper
Summary: It's a matter of trust.
Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong
to Marvel Comics, Fairview Entertainment, Dark Blades Films, and other
entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement
is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others
belong to us, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask us first.
Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
Last year Cincoflex and I had a
really great idea. Due to NaNoWriMo and other considerations, it
didn't get finished until now. I'm going to be boastful and
say...I think it was worth the wait. *grin* It is always a
privilege and a pleasure to write with such a talented, warm-hearted
author, who very generously let me have my own way in almost every
point in this story. And she made the banner, which I consider to
be one of her best. Thank you, love.
*********
October, 1981
The lawyer’s name was Nathan Feinberg, and he was nearly
bald,
with big dark-framed glasses that made his brown eyes look huge. Even
though Mr. Feinberg said he didn’t like kids, Tony respected
him.
He never talked down to him; he never tried to be that phony kind of
nice to him, even when his parents were around.
Tony decided he liked that kind of honesty. At least with Mr. Feinberg,
you got answers, even if you didn’t like them. He looked out
the
windows of the limo, at the passing skyline of Manhattan in mid-autumn
and sighed.
“I don’t want to stay with
Aunt Lucy.”
“I know; you said that. Unfortunately, you’re going
to have
to, at least for a while, Tony,” Mr. Feinberg rumbled,
shooting
him an exasperated look. “Believe me, your mother’s
not any
happier about it than you are, and your dad would love to reconsider
the deal, but we don’t have the time, and in terms of
security,
this is what works. Tough breaks, kid, but it’s for the
best.”
“How long do I have to stay here?”
“Two months, at least; we’ll start with that and
see how it
goes,” Mr. Feinberg sighed, fondling the handle of his
briefcase.
Tony looked up, stricken. “That’s through Christmas!”
“And Hanukkah, I know. Sorry about that, kid.
You’ll still
get presents, and we might be able to sneak in a visit, but I
can’t make any promises on that last one.”
Stony silence. Tony tensed, fighting tears, because he damn well
wasn’t going to cry, especially in front of Mr. Feinberg. He
clamped his jaw tight and blinked away the sting, not looking at the
man sitting opposite him for a long time.
Thankfully Mr. Feinberg didn’t try to make him feel better;
didn’t pat his knee or tell him be was brave or that it would
be
okay. Tony drew in a deep breath. He finally looked at Mr. Feinberg,
who was watching him.
“This stinks.”
“I know it. On the other hand . . .” Mr. Feinberg
murmured, “You understand why
we have to do this, and how hard it’s going to be on your
parents
as well. Nobody is thrilled here, except maybe your aunt Lucy,
oy.”
“She wears too much red on her lips, and she smells like one
of
those little pillows in my mom’s drawer,” Tony
muttered
resentfully. “And everything in her house is
breakable.”
Mr. Feinberg’s mouth twitched. “And your point
is--?”
“We’re going to drive each other crazy,”
Tony
predicted with glum accuracy. “I know she wishes I was a
girl.”
“Change her mind,” Mr. Feinberg told him.
“If
you’ve got even half the brains of your old man—and
I know
you do, kid—you can find ways to get on her good side. You
can go
into this with a crappy attitude, or you can make it an
adventure.”
“An adventure?” Tony shot back with bitterness.
“Being farmed out to my mom’s sister for who knows
how
long? Leaving our house and my school and my friends and not knowing
what’s gonna happen or when things are going to be good
again?
Yeah, tell me all about it. You had to do it before, right?”
Mr. Feinberg didn’t say anything for a long moment. He
sighed,
and rubbed his forearm through the sleeve of his coat. “Yeah,
I
did, once.”
Tony wasn’t expecting that. He looked at Mr. Feinberg,
checking
to see if the lawyer was lying, but from his bleak expression, Tony
knew he wasn’t.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And it came out okay. For me, anyway. Oh
it’s not
quite the same thing, but believe me kid, I do know how you
feel.”
Tony sighed; it wasn’t Mr. Feinberg’s fault that
there had
been a kidnapping attempt, or that his mother was completely terrified.
She’d known about the Red Brigade; what they’d done
to Aldo
Moro. The idea that a splinter group in the United States was after her
bambino had her frantic with worry, and even with a bodyguard, she
didn’t feel safe on the West Coast.
Hence the plan to send him to Aunt Lucy.
The car slowed, pulling up in front of 55 Central Park West, and Tony
looked up at the building, which was . . . scary. Mr. Feinberg murmured
instructions to the driver. “I’ll be coming back
down in
about fifteen minutes. Just circle around and pick me up
then.”
To Tony he added, “This is our stop, kid.”
They climbed out of the car, and Tony followed the lawyer into the
lobby of the building, feeling nervous. He wasn’t afraid,
really;
just . . . nervous. He and Mr. Feinberg took the elevator up, and Tony
cleared his throat. “She got all my stuff, right?”
“I guess so—UPS is pretty good about
deliveries,” Mr.
Feinberg murmured. “Okay, sixteenth floor, Apartment 3. And
remember, you’re Edward Dellarosa now, got it?”
“Yeah,” Tony muttered. “I know, I
know.”
His middle name, his mother’s maiden name . . . easy for him
to
remember and hard for anyone else to track, hopefully. Tony
wasn’t crazy about his middle name, but reasoned to himself
that
it was better than his father’s. He didn’t think he
could
pull off being a Julius; Edward was much easier.
The elevator opened, and they stepped out into a quiet, short hallway.
Mr. Feinberg led the way to Apartment 3 and rang the bell. The chimes
of the Hallelujah Chorus rang out; Tony fought not to laugh at the
lawyer’s startled expression.
“Hoo-boy,” the man muttered. The door opened a
moment
later, revealing a thin, grey-haired man impeccably dressed a dark
three-piece suit.
“Mr. Feinberg; you are expected,” came the
man’s soft
British accent. “And this must be our young guest.”
“Good to see you again, Jarvis. Mrs. Beresford-Tipton is
in?”
“Yes, Mr. Feinberg. This way please.”
Tony followed, impressed that Jarvis made no noise at all when he
walked even though the three of them passed from carpet to marble. They
entered a fancy sunken living room, complete with a gleaming baby grand
piano. It was tastefully luxurious, but every wall was covered with
knickknacks of every sort: Spoon collections, salt and pepper shakers,
big glass grapes, commemorative plates and Old World carvings and
fancies.
One earthquake, Tony thought, and the room would be a disaster.
Seated on a plush velour sofa was a woman slightly on the round side of
lush, in a pink and green linen pantsuit. She looked over at them, and
while her face might have been a bit overly made up, her expression was
of genuine pleasure. She rose and came over to Tony, hugging him firmly.
He let her; for all his griping, it felt good, and Tony liked his Aunt
Lucy. She gave him one last squeeze, and pulled back, giving him a
slightly sad smile on a red, red mouth. “Hey, honey. I guess
this
is going to be . . . interesting, huh?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. She laughed then, a sound
sweet and
husky and so much like his mother’s that Tony bit his lip.
Then
she looked at Mr. Feinberg.
“Okay. So I, Mrs. Lucy Beresford-Tipton now have my young
nephew, Edward Dellarosa visiting for . . . a while.”
“That’s it in a nutshell,” Mr. Feinberg
agreed.
“For the . . . duration, you’re in charge of his
care and
well-being, his education and day-to-day needs. I have the pertinent
information here for his medical care, his enrollment and his . . .
trust fund.”
Aunt Lucy waved a hand. “Oh forget THAT. I’ve got
plenty.
Let the fund accrue until he’s ready for college, okay?
Ton—Eddie’s family; I can cover the
expenses.”
While the grownups haggled about the money, Tony looked around. Jarvis
had disappeared just as quietly as he’d appeared, but there
was
still a lot to look at, including a cuckoo clock the size of a
suitcase, and a stuffed moose head with bizarre marble eyes of bright
green.
He hoped things would be okay.
The room that the butler showed him to wasn’t quite as bad as
Tony was expecting, though it was almost as crowded as the living room
and a whole lot smaller than his room at home. The bed had a
frilly blue cover, but he could live with that; there was a fireplace,
which was nifty, but the mantel was covered with plates in little
stands and a vase full of dried flowers. Every shelf in the
bookcase held more knicknacks, mostly crystal, though the little desk
and dresser were clear at least.
Jarvis crossed the room to open the closet. “Your
boxes are
here,” he said, indicating the neatly stacked containers that
filled the space. Glancing around, he raised one brow a
fraction. “I will see about putting some of these
items in
storage for the duration.”
Tony glanced at him, but the butler didn’t sound like he was
afraid Tony would break anything--more like he thought the place was
kind of crowded too. “Yeah, that’d be
good, I
guess.”
He crossed to the window to look out. The view was more
buildings
across the street, and a gray sky--not exactly inspiring, but not too
bad. This city would take some getting used to; tall
buildings he
knew, but these went on forever,
and there were no hills in the distance. And everything was
gray like the sky.
Tony swallowed hard, and turned back. Jarvis was still
standing
there. “The bathroom is down the hall on the
right,”
he informed Tony politely. “Mrs. Beresford-Tipton
has her
own in the master suite, so you will not need to
share.”
“Nice.” Tony brightened a little at that;
it wasn’t that he was that
messy, but his mom could get really touchy about being clean and he bet
his aunt was the same way.
Jarvis nodded. “Dinner is served at six.
There are
snacks in the pantry if you are hungry, and extra linens in the hall
closet.”
With another nod, he withdrew, closing the door gently behind
him. Tony took another look around; the place was
overwhelmingly
blue, carpet, walls, and bed, but the mattress was fairly springy when
he bounced on it and the desk had big drawers.
But Tony didn’t feel like sorting out his things.
In fact, what he wanted most was to get back on the plane and fly home, but that just
wasn’t possible.
The lump in his throat, which had been lurking since they’d
decided to send him away, swelled. He hadn’t cried
when his
mother had kissed him goodbye, or at his father’s hug; he
hadn’t cried on the plane, or in the car. But now
there was
no one to see.
Tony rolled over on the bed and buried his face in a pillow, and let
the tears come at last.
***
*** ***
Madame Rostov’s Dance Academy was small; a corner three-story
building tucked between a Big Five Sporting goods store and a
bookstore. The outside was brick, and unimposing, but Tony relaxed the
minute he and Aunt Lucy stepped inside. He could hear classical music;
strains of Coppelia in fact.
The main floor had faded posters of dancers he’d never heard
of,
along with trophies and plaques in a showcase that served as a counter.
Behind it, a girl in a black leotard was chatting on the phone, but she
hung up when she saw them. “Here to pick up
someone?”
“No, I’m here to enroll my nephew,” Aunt
Lucy
replied, slightly distracted by a stunning photo on the wall of a
waif-like dancer caught in mid-grand jeté. Tony
noted it
was autographed, but he couldn’t make out the signature.
“Oh! Um, okay. Has he taken any classes before?”
the girl
asked, looking him over. Tony held up a duffle bag, and she grinned; he
liked that. “Okay then. How many years?”
Aunt Lucy looked at Tony and he sighed. “Six.”
The girl behind the counter laughed. “Oh you are going to
make
Mr. Mike’s day! A cavalier right off the street!”
It didn’t take long after that, and even though he tried to
talk
Aunt Lucy into going, she insisted on watching class through the window
onto the main studio. Tony hoped once she got bored she’d
leave
and come pick him up when class was over.
He changed in the boy’s locker room, getting into his belt
and
tights, pulling on the long sleeved black tee shirt and taking a breath
before putting on the slippers. They were getting snug, and he scowled
a little.
Tony liked ballet. It took a lot of concentration and at the same time,
it was all about power and control. Back in California he’d
gotten into it because his mother took classes, and being a curious
first grader, he was fascinated by how hard she worked to make all that
jumping and spinning look so easy.
Her teacher, Alana, thought Tony had potential and enrolled him in the
beginner class where he shone. Oh behavior-wise he was always a
handful, and he could get frustrated by certain moves, but on the whole
everyone, even his bemused father thought he had talent.
“Hey, as long as you still go out for softball or soccer and
keep
the grades up, it’s all right,” Howard Stark had
sighed.
“Just . . . no arabesques in front of company,
okay?”
As he’d gotten older, Tony had realized ballet
wasn’t a guy
thing, really, but he liked the precision that it took, and that it
made him strong. He needed that, and he knew it, especially when other
guys made cracks about how short he was.
And in classes, the girls thought he was great—that part was
fun
too. Most of them were okay; a few of them were pains in the butt, but
it still felt cool to be in a place where everybody knew what it took
to be good. Where everybody did the same sorts of warm-ups and
stretches and moves.
Where you couldn’t fake it, or buy your way to the top.
He made his way out to the main studio, to the tall man in black who
stood watching a line of little six year old girls who were struggling
with first position; the one on the end actually fell over on her
bottom as Tony hid a grin.
“All right, Katie, get up. All dancers fall down once in a
while,” the man told her gently. “Up we go. Again,
ladies--” He turned and looked at Tony, his gaze kind and
sharp.
Tony held out a hand. “I’m . . . Eddie Dellarosa.
Jill from
downstairs told me to come up and introduce myself.”
“Michael Francisco; Mr. Mike to our students. Well well,
properly
attired; let’s have you warm up and I’d like to see
your
repertoire if you’re up to it, Mr. Dellarosa,” Mr.
Mike
told him, calmly shaking the proffered hand. Tony nodded and moved to
the end of the barre, behind Katie. All the little girls were peeking
at him over their shoulders, some wide-eyed, a few giggling. Tony moved
to first position, his expression serious.
Quickly the girls followed suit, each one working diligently as the
taped music played behind them from the stereo under the windows. Tony
relaxed into the melody and moved to the called directions easily,
feeling his body respond to the familiar positions.
“All right, very good. Ladies, move to the floor for port de
bras; Mr. Dellarosa, petite allegro if you please . . .”
Class went on for forty more minutes, and Tony felt better at the end
of it. He’d messed up a few times, but Mr. Mike
hadn’t done
more than comment, “Again, please,” letting him
have a
second chance. By now the little girls had done their
révérence and most were packing up. A few were
watching
him dance, bright-eyed and cute.
Tony wished he had a little sister.
“All right, very good, Mr. Dellarosa,” Mr. Mike
interrupted
his musings. “I would like to see you for the Intermediate
division classes, at least two times a week or more, whatever schedule
best fits for you. Your moves are clean and your jumps powerful, but I
would like to see smoother transitions, and not so much whip-snap in
your stops. And you’re going to need new slippers.”
Tony looked down and blushed; his left big toe was beginning to work
through the end of the slipper.
***
*** ***
Warm-up exercises were always kind of boring, but Ginny knew they were
important. The routine was familiar, working at the barre,
and
she went through each motion with care, making sure to hold her limbs
at just the right angle. Precision in all things, Mr. Mike
always
said, and she never forgot. She wanted to be good.
“Tendu,” her teacher called, and Ginny and all the
other
girls obeyed, moving in careful coordination. She watched
herself
and the others in the mirror--ten little girls lined up at the barre,
all alike if you didn’t look close.
But they weren’t sisters. Well, two of them were,
the Inoue
twins, but even they didn’t look alike, because Izumi wore
her
hair short and Setsuko’s was almost to her waist.
Ginny’s best friend Trish had skin the color of the chocolate
Ginny’s mom used to make cake frosting, and Ginny herself had
orange hair that she hated.
But none of that was important in ballet. What mattered was
moving together, precisely, perfectly. Being part of the
pattern,
and doing it right.
Ginny loved ballet.
When warm-ups were over, Mr. Mike clapped his hands, calling the
students together in the big studio. “All right, I
have a
couple of announcements before we move on.”
They settled down to listen. Mr. Mike was tall and slender
and a
very good dancer, and Ginny admired him very much. He was a
tough
teacher, but if you couldn’t do something he would work with
you
until you could.
He beckoned, and a boy a few years older than Ginny came up from the
side of the room. “First, Edward Dellarosa is
joining our
classes,” Mr. Mike said, which made the students murmur to
each
other. Boy dancers were rarer than girls, and there were only
a
few younger ones. “He’s been studying
for...six
years?” He glanced down at the new boy, who
nodded.
“Six, then. Go have a seat, Mr.
Dellarosa.”
Edward looked around and chose a spot at the edge of the group, but
Ginny didn’t think it was because he was shy. He
had black
hair and dark eyes, and he looked...sulky, she decided. Maybe he really hates ballet.
Some of the boys did, but their parents made them take the classes
anyway.
But he sat down gracefully, and Ginny looked back to Mr.
Mike. “Second, tryouts for The Nutcracker start
next week. There are lots of roles to fill, so anyone who
wants
to audition should, no matter how long you’ve been
dancing.”
Ginny felt a thrill, and glanced over at Trish, who grinned at
her. They had both been in last year’s production
of The Nutcracker,
dancing as children in the party scene, but Ginny was hoping for a
bigger part this year--maybe one of the mice, or a
Polichinelle.
“Good.” Mr. Mike clapped his hands
again.
“Up, up--junior division, let’s begin.
The rest of
you, clear the floor.”
Most of the dancers left, and Ginny’s group gathered together
to
begin. Ginny focused on Mr. Mike, but she couldn’t
stop
smiling.
I’m going to
try really hard and make Mom and Daddy proud of me.
After class was over she and Trish changed into street shoes and ran
outside, shivering at the cold. It was Ginny’s
father’s turn to pick them up, and so they waited for the
station
wagon, talking about school and how much they both hated their art
teacher.
As they were waiting--Mr. McGann usually got stuck in traffic--they saw
a long white car pull up at the curb. Several of the students
at
the Academy got picked up by limousines, but they didn’t
recognize this one.
“That’s an old one,” Trish said
curiously.
“See, it’s got the historical license
plate.”
The studio door swung open, and the new boy came out, barely glancing
at them as he jumped down the steps. He was moving fast as he
climbed into the big car, but Ginny got the feeling that he was still
not very happy.
“He doesn’t have a coat,” she said,
frowning.
“Maybe he forgot it.” Trish watched as
the car pulled
out into the street and moved away. “If
he’s rich
probably nobody cares if he loses it.”
“I guess.” Ginny zipped up her own
jacket, wondering if he were cold.
The next car to arrive was the McGanns’, and the girls piled
into
the back seat. Ginny’s father turned to smile at
them. “How was class?”
“They’re going to do tryouts for The Nutcracker!”
Ginny said excitedly.
Her father’s eyes crinkled as he smiled wider, but he looked
tired. “Going to go for it this year
too?”
“Of course,”
Trish said, rolling her eyes, and Mr. McGann chuckled.
“Of course. Belt up, ladies, dinner
awaits.”
Ginny fastened the buckle and sat back, dreaming of
Polichinelles.
Later that night, as she was getting ready for bed, Ginny looked at
herself in the mirror, something she did a lot while dancing but almost
never at home. It was different when she wasn’t
trying to
hold her shoulders and head right, and she did a slow pirouette,
turning her head to watch herself as much as possible.
The room behind her was neat as a pin, with ballet posters up on the
walls and a bookcase filled with books, and pink sheets on her very
tidy bed. But the figure in the mirror was not as
satisfactory.
I’m so short.
It
bothered her a little, she was still wondering if she was ever going to
grow. Both Mom and Daddy were tall and thin, which was a good
dancer’s build, but Ginny still wasn’t showing any
signs of
tallness.
You’ll grow
when you grow, Mom had told her, tugging gently on one of
Ginny’s braids. Wait until you’re
twelve at least before you start to worry.
But she couldn’t help thinking about it sometimes.
Lots of
the girls in her class were starting to develop, which wasn’t
surprising; ever since she’d skipped a grade Ginny had been
used
to being on the small end of things. Even Trish’s
mom had
started talking about training bras, which always made Trish make a
face and ask what she needed to be trained for, but that part
of things Ginny was happy to put off. Dancers had to be
thin.
She heaved a sigh, and went to brush her teeth.
***
*** ***
New York took some getting used to, Tony admitted. The weather mostly;
as a kid from California, it was hard to deal with the change of
temperature, and think to grab a jacket when heading out.
Ah, but the proximity! Everything seemed to be right around the corner,
unlike LA, where it could take you ten miles to get to the nearest fast
food, or grocery. Tony couldn’t get over how amazing it was
to
have the electronics store, hardware place and pizza joint all within
walking distance. For the first few weeks, Jarvis accompanied him at
Aunt Lucy’s insistence, but later, Tony convinced her to let
him
go around the block alone and reluctantly she did.
“It looks weird for me to have a bodyguard; makes me stand
out
MORE,” Tony told her. “Nobody else walking down the
street
has one.”
“There are more dangers out there than just
kidnappers,”
Aunt Lucy warned, but softened a little. As a lifelong resident of New
York, she understood how secure her own neighborhood actually was, and
how savvy Tony had become even in his short time with her.
“Oh
all right honey, but only in daylight, you got it? You have a watch;
once it gets dark I want you inside with no argument, capice?”
Tony did; it was reasonable, and he wasn’t interested in the
nightlife. He took the inch, and plotted quietly for the mile.
***
*** ***
The tryouts were scary. They started on a Saturday morning,
because they took all day, and Ginny and Trish got to the school early
to warm up and get ready. They weren’t the only
ones, and
the hallways and studios were crowded with dancers of all ages
stretching and practicing.
“Do you think we’ll get our parts?” Ginny
whispered
as she and Trish watched some of the older girls at the
barre.
“You will,” Trish said with confidence.
“You’re really, really good.”
Ginny blushed a little, even though she knew it was true. She
had
only been dancing for three years, but Mr. Mike said she had a lot of
talent, and she could tell that she was just as good as some of the
students who had been studying longer. “Well, I
think
we’ll get to be party kids at least.”
Trish tilted her head. “Guess we’ll
see.”
She had been dancing as long as Ginny, but she wasn’t quite
as
good. It never seemed to bother her, though. Trish
thought
dancing was fun, and she practiced a lot, but she didn’t love
it
the same way Ginny did.
When it was time to begin, the students were all split up into groups
by age, and Madame Rostov came to oversee the auditions.
Ginny
was a little scared of her; she had been a prima ballerina in Russia
for many years, and taught the most advanced students. She
was
tall and crooked, and her hands were bent with arthritis; she
didn’t dance anymore, but everybody said she was the best
teacher
around. Ginny had never seen her smile.
She took a seat at the front of the room to watch as the groups were
called out to dance, starting with the youngest. Each
group’s teacher would have them run through a routine, and
then
each student was asked to do some steps individually. When
they
were done, the whole group was dismissed, but almost everybody stayed
to watch, crowding around the edges of the big studio.
The junior division came second. Ginny and Trish clutched
each
other’s hands and watched the first group perform.
Ginny
was so nervous that she could hardly concentrate, but as the
girls--there were no boys in that division--went through their steps,
she thought that none of them were really good enough to do any of the
really complicated roles.
Then it was their turn. Ginny took a deep breath as her
division
assembled in the middle of the room, lining up neatly in two
rows. Mr. Mike stood facing them and gave them all a quick,
reassuring smile before drawing himself up. “All
right,
ladies, let’s begin...”
He led them through various movements, and Ginny concentrated
hard. Her hands were sweaty with nerves, but the moment they
started to dance, she felt calm, as though her body knew exactly what
to do.
When it was time for the individual tryouts, Mr. Mike took them
alphabetically, so Ginny was seventh. She watched Trish, who
was
sixth, go out to the middle of the floor, and crossed her
fingers.
Trish always had lots of energy when she danced, and Ginny dared to
glance at Madame Rostov, but Madame’s face didn’t
change
expression at all.
Then it was her turn. She walked out to the center, fixed her
eyes on her teacher, and waited. The rest of the room seemed
to
disappear, and all she heard was Mr. Mike’s voice, telling
her
what to do.
It seemed to take forever, and no time at all, and then Mr. Mike was
nodding at her and sending her back to the wall so Susan Perrine could
take her place. Ginny realized her heart was beating fast and
hard, and she went and leaned against the mirror, putting a hand to her
throat.
“You did great,” Trish whispered in her ear, and
squeezed
her hand. Ginny smiled at her. She didn’t
think
she’d messed up, but she couldn’t really
remember.
“So did you,” she whispered back, and meant
it.
They stayed to watch the next division. That one had a few
boys
in it, and Ginny thought it was a little unfair; there were so few boys
in the school that most of them were guaranteed to get parts in Nutcracker
if they could dance well at all. Some of the roles of boys
could
be taken by girls, and probably would be, but there were several--most
importantly the Nutcracker Prince--that had to be filled by
boys.
Still, that was the way it always was. Ginny stood with Trish
and
they watched. Most of that division was good, mostly better
than
their own, but that made sense since most of them had been dancing for
longer. The new boy--Eddie--was very
good, Ginny noticed. But when Mr. Mike called him out to
perform
individually, it was almost like he was showing off how good he was,
and that made her wrinkle her nose.
“He’s trying to make it look easy,” she
whispered to Trish, who giggled.
“Maybe it is
easy for him. I heard Mr. Mike say he was a
natural.”
“Just don’t tell him
that,” Ginny whispered back, though she had the feeling that
Eddie knew it already.
They stayed to watch all the auditions, straight up through the
seniors, dancers who would soon leave the school. Some
already
had places in dance companies, and Ginny and Trish were in awe of them
all. Tall, graceful, they spun and leapt in steps that the
girls
knew were years away from their own abilities, and Ginny sighed,
wishing she could learn faster.
Be patient,
Mr. Mike always told her. Some things have to wait until
your body is stronger. And she knew he was
right, but it was hard.
As the last group left the floor, Ginny glanced at the row of people
and the chair where Madame Rostov was sitting, and almost jumped when
she saw Madame looking at her.
For a second Ginny was frozen, but then she gathered her courage and
smiled at Madame, trying to look respectful. Madame raised
her
brows very slowly, and then turned away.
Ginny let out her breath in a rush, wondering if she’d
offended
Madame, but the old woman hadn’t changed her
expression.
Then Trish tugged at her arm. “Let’s
go,” she
said, as all around them the watchers stood up.
“I’m
starving.”
“We can get pretzels,” Ginny said, and they slipped
through the crowd to change clothes and go.
But all day she kept remembering Madame looking at her, and
wondered.
***
*** ***
The tryouts for The
Nutcracker were almost an afterthought; Tony knew
he’d be cast as something
for it. One of the advantages about being a guy in ballet was that you
were in demand for almost any production.
He liked Nutcracker; there were enough solos and pas de deux to be a
bit of a challenge, and the costumes were more fun than most. Tony had
done both the Nutcracker Prince and Herr Drosselmeyer in simpler
productions back in California, so he went into the auditions and made
it a point to put some flair into it, working to make sure his leaps
were good.
Out in the audience he caught sight of an older woman watching, her
gaze stern enough to make him hold back a bit, although Mr. Mike was
nodding. He made his révérence and walked off,
trying not
to let the woman’s countenance faze him. Instead, Tony tried
to
guess who would be cast.
The littlest ballerinas—the Giggle Girls as he thought of
them—would be children at the party, no problem. There was
one
boy in the junior division who looked to be about eight and perfect for
Fritz, Clara’s brother and there was a group of dancers so in
synch that they’d be doing the Arabian dance or the Sugar
Plum
fairies, Tony knew for sure.
Tony looked over the group again and picked out his competition for
Nutcracker Prince; a boy about a year older than he was, blonde and
thin, with icy blue eyes. Steve, Tony remembered. A pretty good dancer,
and taller, of course.
Scowling, Tony looked around, trying to figure out who would be Clara.
His gaze swept over the assembled ballerinas, and he zeroed in on the
redhead for a moment. A little short, but really graceful.
She’d
be easy to lift, too, he thought. Like a doll.
He hoped she’d get it; a pretty redhead would be great for
the part.
After auditions, Tony got back into his street clothes and made his way
to the payphone in the hallway. Jarvis told him he’d be there
in
fifteen minutes, so Tony spent the time cross-legged on the hall floor,
buried in a notebook, writing a little computer code and making a list
of stuff to pick up at the hardware store. He didn’t notice
the
shadow looming over him until he looked up and saw Steve standing
there, his eyes hard.
“I just wanted to say that I watched you, Dellarosa, and
you’re not
going to get it,” Steve announced in a low voice.
Tony stared up at him blandly; no point in showing how pissed he was.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. The only person around here who thinks
you’re hot
shit is you, DellaDouchebag,” came the snide comment.
“And
you’re too short.”
Before Tony could shoot back a comment, a car outside honked, and Steve
strode off, shoulders set in an arrogant swagger. Tony watched him go
and growled inwardly.
He’s probably
right, the jerkoff, Tony sighed to himself, and settled
mentally for Herr Drosselmeyer.
Tony hoped he could talk the makeup people into letting him wear a
goatee for it; that would be cool.
***
*** ***
School was...not too good. Tony knew public school would be
different from the amped-up private place his parents sent him to, and
it was never easy coming in after the school year had already started,
but he wasn’t prepared for the sheer size
of it. Not that the building was all that much bigger, but
there
seemed to be ten times as many kids crammed into it, and the noise
level was enough to make him wince. Tony had never realized
how quiet Freeman
Prep was.
It was nice not having to wear a uniform, sure, but that was about all
that was cool about the place. The building was ancient, with
wonky heating that made the classrooms either freezing or broiling, and
the desks and equipment seemed to be left over from forty years
prior.
And the classes--at first Tony wasn’t sure he could
cope.
Too many students for the rooms, half of them not paying any attention
to the teachers, and when he came out with all the right answers a lot
of the ones who were paying
attention gave him dirty looks. He tried not to
care. Tony
was used to being one of the smartest kids in the room, if not the smartest, but
usually the rest of the students were at least using their brains
too.
The teachers were a mixed bag; some of them knew what they were talking
about, a few didn’t. Some of them liked him for his
smarts,
and one or two tried to cut him down. Tony rolled with it as
best
he could. There was no point in kicking up a fuss, even if he
did
get a rep as a ditz for not looking up when they got to
“Eddie
Dellarosa” on the attendance sheet.
The cafeteria was the worst part. Tony stared down at his
tray at
the start of the second week, not sure that what sat on it could
actually be classified as food.
The Styrofoam platter held a scoop of fake mashed potatoes about the
consistency of paste, a handful of unidentifiable brown lumps in a
watery substance that he guessed was supposed to be gravy, and an apple
that looked like someone had used it as a baseball. Even the
too-small sugar cookie looked underbaked.
And none of the other meals he’d had so far had been any
better. Even the Friday pizza was pathetic.
With a sigh Tony pitched the entire contents of his tray into the trash
and headed for the snack machines, grateful that he had money in his
pocket. I
don’t care if it’s dorky to bring a bag
lunch. I can’t eat this crap.
If Jarvis wouldn’t make him one, he’d do it
himself, or
just pick something up at a deli each morning. He was getting
regular allowance money along with letters from his parents, delivered
every Saturday with grave punctuality by Mr. Feinberg, and there was
more than enough to cover five lunches a week.
As he fed coins into the machine, though, Tony had to swallow back a
wave of misery. I
hate this place.
I want to go
home.
The measly package of peanut-butter crackers that dropped into the
dispensing tray only seemed to emphasize the dreariness of the whole
thing.
***
*** ***
Ginny stared at the cast sheet, hardly able to believe what she
saw--her own name, Ginny McGann, right at the top of the
sheet.
She’d expected to get one of the children’s roles,
she knew
she was good, but not this.
Next to her Trish clutched her arm and squealed. “Clara!
You got Clara! Gen!”
Ginny felt a big grin stretch her face, and she turned to hug her
friend. “I can’t believe
it!”
“Believe it,” said a deep voice behind them, and
both girls
turned to face Mr. Mike. He was grinning too, but he raised a
brow in the stern look they both knew so well.
“We’re
going to work you like you’ve never been worked, Miss McGann,
so
don’t think it’ll be easy.”
“I know, Mr. Mike.” Hastily Ginny
composed herself, trying to appear mature and sensible.
“Good girl.” He winked at them both and
kept walking,
and Ginny spun back around to stare again at the list, still trying to
take it in. She’d hoped for a bigger role this
year, but
she had hardly dared to dream she could take the principal
children’s role. For one thing, she was still so
short even
if she was nine--
Trish hugged her again, and bubbled over with glee.
“Oh,
you’ll be the best Clara ever, I know you
will!” She
peered at the list. “Who’s going to be
your
Prince?”
Ginny hadn’t even looked that far. She read further
on the list. “Ummm...Steve
Graham.”
“Stinky Stevie? Ooh, yuck.”
Trish wrinkled her nose.
Ginny shrugged, trying not to care. “He’s
an okay
dancer.” She wished, though, that he
hadn’t been
chosen. Most of the boys in the school were way too old to
dance
the Nutcracker Prince.
“Yeah, but he’s creepy.” Trish
looked again at
the list. “It’s too bad Eddie
didn’t get
it.”
Ginny bit her lip, thinking. Eddie Dellarosa was, Ginny
thought,
pretty darn good, but he was still new. “I
don’t
think he’s been here long enough.”
“Too bad,” Trish repeated, giggling.
“He’s cute, too.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. Eddie was kind of cute, when he
wasn’t scowling, but he was an annoying jerk.
“He
thinks he’s the best at everything. I’d
rather dance
with Steve.”
“Liar liar, pants on fire.” Trish poked
her, and Ginny poked back, giggling in turn.
“What did you get?” Ginny scanned down
the
list. “Oh, a Polichinelle!
That’s
good.”
“Yeah, that’ll be fun! I like the skirt
thingie.” The Polichinelles came out from under
Mother
Ginger’s huge skirt, and that entrance had always fascinated
Trish.
Ginny looked at her, a little uncertain. She had assumed that
they would probably get the same roles, and be able to practice and
rehearse together. “It’s going to be
kinda weird, not
dancing with you.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Trish sighed, but
then grinned
again. “I’ll watch you from the wings,
and make
faces. Maybe I can crack you up.”
“Yeah, right.” Ginny laughed.
“Besides, in Act II I get to watch you.”
She shoved her friend, and Trish shoved back, and they went off to
class excited.
After class, Mr. Mike had them sit down again, and explained the
schedule for rehearsals. “Since everyone has other
things
to do besides dance--shame on you--” He waited for
the
laughter to die down. “--Classes will only be held
for
those not dancing in Nutcracker
this
year. All the performers will use class time to learn their
parts
instead, and yes, if you had the same role last year, you still need to
come to rehearsal.”
He looked stern at the groans, though Ginny knew he was mostly
kidding. “As we get closer to mid-December,
rehearsal times
will increase, so remember to plan for that. There are
schedules
out by the phones, so make sure to pick one up when you
leave.”
He clapped his hands. “Dismissed! Miss
McGann, stay for a minute, I need to talk to you.”
As they all scrambled up, Ginny glanced at her friend. It was
Trish’s mom’s turn to pick them up, and she was
usually in
a hurry. But Trish gave her a thumbs-up.
“Don’t worry. She’s gonna be
thrilled that we got our parts, she’ll
wait.”
Ginny nodded, and went to Mr. Mike. He waved her over to the
barre wall, and bent his head to look at her. “I
know
you’re excited to have the part, Miss McGann, and
I’ll tell
you straight out that Madame Rostov and I both think you’ll
do a
wonderful job with it.”
That made Ginny blush with pleasure, but Mr. Mike wasn’t
finished. “But I need to know if you really think
you can
handle the hours it will take. You and Mr. Graham will be
dancing
more than anyone else in your age group, and it’s going to be
pretty intense. You’ll have homework, too,
don’t
forget.”
Ginny raised her chin and looked straight back at him.
“Yes, I can do it.” Her homework was
usually pretty
easy, and she was used to doing it right away so she would have more
time for dancing.
Mr. Mike nodded slowly. “All right, then.
Tell your
parents to call me if they have any questions,
okay?”
Ginny nodded, and he smiled. “Good. Go on
then, and
don’t forget to take a schedule with
you.”
She smiled back and ran out, snatching up a flyer as she passed the
phones and wondering suddenly if smiling at Madame had made a
difference.
When she got home, Ginny ran to the kitchen, doing a couple of
jetés just for sheer joy.
“Mom! Mommy! I
got Clara!”
Her mother, standing at the sink, turned with a wide smile and held out
her arms. “That’s wonderful,
sweetie!”
Ginny pirouetted into the hug, and they laughed together. Her
mom
had danced when she was little, too, but then had switched to
cheerleading instead. Ginny couldn’t imagine
wanting to do
that, but at least it meant she had someone to talk to who understood
dancing. Trish’s whole family was into
soccer.
Ginny laughed up at her mother. “Where’s
Daddy?”
Mrs. McGann’s smile faded a little.
“He’s lying
down for a while. Let him sleep; you can tell him at dinner,
okay?”
“Okay.” It was more fun to tell it twice
anyway.
Ginny gave her mother the flyer and went to hang up her jacket,
returning to the kitchen to scrape carrots for supper.
“Is
Daddy feeling sick again?” she asked as the orange curls
dropped
into the sink. He had been very sick a couple of years ago,
but
he’d gotten better.
“I think he’s just tired,” her mom said,
opening the
oven to check on the casserole. “Winter makes him
slow
down, you know.”
“Yeah.” Ginny snapped off a bit of carrot
to
munch. “Oh, Mr. Mike said to tell you to call him
if you
have any questions about Nutcracker.
He said it’s going to be a lot of work.”
Mrs. McGann regarded Ginny for a moment, smiling, then smoothed a hand
over her daughter’s hair. “I’ll
remember that,
but I think as long as you keep up with your homework we
won’t
have any problems.”
Ginny smiled back, and kept peeling carrots. She liked
school,
and even being a grade ahead didn’t make things very
hard.
Math was her favorite subject, and she usually got As and Bs on her
report cards, even when she was taking three or four dance classes each
week. Daddy warned her that it would get harder later, but
Ginny
wasn’t ready to worry about high school yet.
When dinner was ready, Mrs. McGann sent Ginny in to wake her
father. He was lying on top of the bedspread on her
parents’ bed, wrapped up in a sweater, and Ginny slid onto
the
bed next to him to hug him awake, which is what she always
did.
He was bony but good to hug, and when she squeezed he sighed and
growled and opened his eyes, hugging her back.
“What’s up, Tangerine?”
It was her private nickname, based on her hair, and he was the only one
who was allowed to call her that. Ginny grinned into his
shoulder. “I get to dance Clara in Nutcracker.”
Mr. McGann laughed, low and contented. “Oh, I knew
you
could do it.” He squeezed her tighter, and Ginny
squeaked.
“You did not! I thought for sure Celia Barricelli
would get
it!” She lifted her head to look him in the
eye.
He just smiled at her. “You dance
better.”
Ginny giggled. “Dinner’s
ready.” She sat
up out of his hug and bounced off the bed, and Mr. McGann followed more
slowly. He still looked tired, Ginny noticed, but she figured
he
was hungry.
At dinner they all talked about The
Nutcracker and
scheduling. “Picking you up could get
tricky,” Mrs.
McGann said, frowning a little in thought.
“We’re
going to go on standby shifts soon for the holiday, and we might not
always be available.” Both of the McGanns worked at
a
hospital, and it always got busier around Christmas; and they only had
one car.
“That’s true,” her husband said, raising
his
brows. “And we can’t expect Angie to do
all the
driving.”
Ginny knew they were right; Mrs. Louis was pretty busy.
“Maybe we could take the subway sometimes,” she
proposed. “I mean, it would be me and Trish most of
the
time anyway, and she’s almost ten. And we
wouldn’t be
stupid.”
Her parents exchanged glances. “That’s an
idea,” Mrs. McGann said neutrally, and Ginny understood what
that
meant--they would have to discuss it with each other before they made
up their minds. “We’d have to talk to
Angie first
anyway.”
Ginny nodded, and ate another bite of casserole. She
wasn’t
worried about making the rehearsals; Mom and Daddy had always helped
her dance, no matter what. But sometimes it did take up a lot
of
time.
She decided to pick up some bus schedules tomorrow and see if that
would help.
***
*** ***
He saw the cast list posted at last, and even though Tony had geared
himself up for losing the role, it still galled him to see
Steve’s name listed there for the Nutcracker Prince.
At least he was understudy for the part, so he’d made a good
impression to some degree. Tony scanned the list, not sure of
people’s names yet, but he smirked when he saw little Katie
listed as one of the children at the party, and he hoped she could keep
her balance.
There he was for the Herr, just has he predicted; Tony began thinking
of how to jazz up the role. As he stood there, lost in thought, a soft
pat on his arm jolted him, and he looked to see the redhead timidly
smiling at him.
“You’ll be a really good Drosselmeyer,”
she told him
in a soft little voice, and then she darted off, backpack bouncing on
one thin shoulder as she scooted towards the girl’s dressing
room.
Tony smiled to himself.
***
*** ***
Rehearsals were broken into blocks and acts, and Tony found himself
with the first act crowd in the big studio as Mr. Mike began blocking
out the dances. He watched the littler kids following directions,
occasionally messing around only to be herded back into formation by
Mr. Mike’s assistant, Jill, who was pretty patient.
The redhead was there; Ginny, along with the kid playing her brother,
and the two older students playing the parents. Most of the school
seemed to know each other pretty well and he understood that; it had
been the same way for him and his group back in California. Here,
though, a few of them did make it a point to talk to him, and Tony
appreciated that, even if he wasn’t too friendly himself.
It was tough. He’d been warned by both Mr. Feinberg and Aunt
Lucy
about talking too much, and Tony himself was a little shy, despite his
dancing confidence. He listened to Mr. Mike, and positioned himself for
his entrance, trying to be patient. The music cue came, and he darted
out . . .
Only to collide with Katie, who promptly landed on her bottom again,
looking up at him with wide, startled eyes. Tony circled around her and
slipped his hands under her armpits, lifting her up as Mr. Mike hid a
laugh by clearing his throat. “Oh dear, are you all right,
Katie?”
“Yeth,” she nodded, still looking at Tony, who
stood beside
her. The rest of the line of children were off on the right side of the
main studio, watching curiously; a few were giggling.
Mr. Mike cocked his head. “That’s good. You need to
keep
your eyes on Misha and Lien next to you, Katie, and when everyone
starts to move, go with them so you don’t get run over, all
right?”
He waved for everyone to return to their original places; as they did,
Tony bent down and whispered to her, “Hey Katie, beep, beep;
Drosselmeyer coming through!”
She snorted a giggle in her chubby hands, and looked at him.
“Okay!”
The next run-through went much more smoothly, and Tony enjoyed the
chance to weave around the little ballerinas and pretend to hand them
presents. Mr. Mike spoke over the music to them all. “Eddie
will
be handing you things, and when we move across the stage there will be
a basket behind the curtain to put them in so we can use them again
next time. Right now, we’re just pretending---”
After a good half hour of practice, Mr. Mike dismissed the children and
beckoned Tony, Ginny and Phillip, the boy playing her brother, forward.
“Now that you three are sufficiently warmed up,
let’s try
the Nutcracker toy scene. Ginny, do you remember the routine I wanted
you to do, starting from downstage left and crossing with Phillip
mid-stage?”
She nodded confidently. Tony took his place on the right side, waiting
for his entrance as Mr. Mike cued up the music. After the first few
beats, Ginny did a beautiful set of pirouettes, moving diagonally and
landing on her mark as Phillip managed a few clunky pas de chat jumps,
looking more as if he were stomping in puddles than dancing.
Tony tried not to laugh. In reality, the stomping was much more in
character for Clara’s brother, but it wasn’t
dancing.
“Mis-ter Gerard, what was that?”
came the chide. “A little more gracefully, please.
Again.”
Ginny and Phillip moved back to their starting positions and ran the
segment again, with better results. Mr. Mike nodded to continue, and
Tony leaped out, moving easily between Ginny and Phillip, concentrating
on his footwork. He turned to Ginny and they did a small side by side
chaine, perfectly in-step on the first try. He repeated it with
Phillip, but the boy was a second behind and the move looked awkward.
“Gentlemen, let’s try the chaine again. Phillip,
follow Eddie’s lead—”
The second try went more smoothly, and Mr. Mike called for a break as
he re-cued the music. Tony walked a bit to keep his muscles loose, and
found himself pacing with Ginny. She was humming to herself, and he
understood why: it was easier to concentrate that way. He nodded to her
and swung his arms a little to keep loose.
Mr. Mike struggled a little with the cassette, and Tony stepped over to
help him, by sticking a pinkie in one of the cassette holes to rewind
it a bit and pick up the slack tape that was wobbling out of the spool.
“Thank goodness we’ll be using a pianist in the
next few
rehearsals,” Mr. Mike murmured, adding, “Thank you,
Eddie.”
Tony nodded and moved back to the center of the studio; Ginny came over
and set herself next to him once more.
“Now, remember you are Clara’s uncle and fond of
her,” Mr. Mike pointed out. “Part of what you have
to
convey is just that fact.”
“How?” Tony asked, looking over at Ginny, who was
slightly pink.
Mr. Mike cocked his head, then motioned for Tony to step back. Moving
in, Mr. Mike stood next to Ginny, softly murmuring, “All
right,
Miss McGann, Let’s try the chaine again, and at the end, look
up
at me, arms in first position. Begin—“
Moving lightly, Ginny and Mr. Mike did the chaine together; she looked
up at him, arms down, eyes bright. He did an exaggerated head tilt and
patted the top of her head. Ginny bit back a giggle; it was funny to
see her teacher actually dancing, even though she knew he was very good.
“Pat her head?” Tony asked, grinning a bit himself.
Next to him, Phillip was bouncing on his toes.
Mr. Mike nodded. “A simple gesture, but make large so that
even
the back row can see it. If the two of you were a bit older, I might
consider a lift, but for now, this
will do nicely to project the relationship. Shall we try it?”
Ginny and Tony got into position; Phillip looked at Mr. Mike.
“Do I have to get petted on the head too?”
“Good question,” Mr. Mike replied thoughtfully.
“Maybe at the end of your chaine together, Eddie can honk
your
nose.”
“Hey!” Phillip protested, but Tony grinned.
“I’ll be gentle. I won’t break it off, I
promise.”
Phillip scowled, but a clap of Mr. Mike’s hands got them all
ready to try a run through. He cued the music and played it. Tony and
Ginny did the chaine and he patted her exaggeratedly, then she stayed
in position while Tony did the second chaine with Phillip and pretended
to tweak his nose. Phillip snorted a giggle, and Mr. Mike sighed.
“Mr. Gerard----”
“It tickled,” Phillip cheerfully admitted.
“And his fingers smell like chalk.”
“Be that as it may, the gestures work well,” Mr.
Mike
decided. “Both of them. Let’s take this once again,
from
right before Herr Drosselmeyer’s entrance . . . .”
When they were dismissed, Phillip scooted out at high speed.
Tony
and Ginny followed more slowly; his legs were longer, and he got to the
studio door first, holding it open for the girl to pass
through.
The hall outside was empty, Phillip already gone, and they paused to
look at each other.
“You’re really good,” Ginny said
judiciously, brushing a wisp of loosened hair from her
forehead.
“Yeah, well, so are you.” Tony stretched
his arms
over his head. “This is gonna be fun, I
think.”
Ginny smiled. “Maybe.”
Tony dropped his arms and looked at her consideringly.
“How
old are you anyway?” She was short, but she
didn’t
sound like a third-grader.
She raised her chin. “Nine.”
“Wow, I thought you were older.” Tony
grinned at her.
“I’m in fifth grade,” Ginny answered with
pride. “I skipped one.”
“Me too.” Tony grimaced, hit with a
sudden pang of
homesickness. “Man, I miss my old
school.”
“Where did you go to school before?” she asked, and
Tony wanted to smack himself. You’re not supposed to
talk about where you come from, dummy, remember?
“Somewhere else. Look, I gotta go. See
you next time.”
He jogged off down the hall, taking refuge in the boys’
locker
room and ignoring Phillip as the younger boy darted past on his way
out. Stupid.
Be more careful.
He didn’t really think the bad guys were going to find him in
the
middle of New York City, but running off at the mouth was a bad habit
anyway. Scowling, Tony grabbed up his duffel and went to
change.
***
*** ***
Rehearsals were fun at first. Ginny was glad she had already
learned the party children’s pieces last year, though of
course
she would need to practice with the others and remember, because there
was so much more to learn. Mr. Mike held special single
rehearsals for her, teaching her the rest of the role, and Ginny
studied them hard. When she wasn’t practicing at
home or
doing homework, she watched tapes of other Nutcracker
performances to see how Clara was danced.
“Be careful with those,” Mr. Mike warned
her.
“It’s good to know the variations, but
don’t get them
mixed up into your choreography.”
Ginny made sure she didn’t. Working with Mr. Mike
was a
privilege, and she paid close attention, trying to imprint the steps
into her muscles as well as her mind.
But all too soon, she had to start rehearsing with her
Prince.
Stinky Stevie wasn’t actually smelly, she had to admit--no
more
than any other dancer, anyway. But he was mean. He
liked to
scare the youngest dancers and then laugh at them, and he sometimes
shoved the other boys in his division around, because he was
taller. Ginny thought he was probably one of those boys who
really didn’t like dancing, even though he was pretty good at
it.
They didn’t actually have a lot of dancing together, but it
was
not going to be fun, Ginny realized with dismay. Steven was
supposed to act like her knight, but she got the feeling he was annoyed
at having to dance with her, and she never felt secure when he was
supporting her.
She didn’t want to complain. Steven had danced the
role of
the Prince the year before too, and he was a more experienced
dancer--though only by a year or so, Ginny reminded herself
stubbornly.
Mr. Mike seemed to sense it too. “Mr. Graham, you
are
dancing the role of a prince. You need to act like
one,” he
told Steven, who flushed. “Clara is not your
despised
younger sister, she is your lady. The audience is going to
pick
up every emotion you express, so you need to make them
believe.”
Steven nodded obediently, but when he turned back to Ginny he was
scowling. “At least Francie was cute,” he
said under
his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.
“Maybe they
can get you a wig.”
Ginny flinched. Francie had danced Clara last year, and she
had curly blonde hair and a sweet face. And she was tall.
The only reason Francie wasn’t dancing Clara this year, Ginny
thought glumly, was because she had moved to Boston over the
summer.
But it’s me
this year, and I’m going to do it right. Stinky
Stevie or not.
So she danced, and Mr. Mike smiled at her, and that made her feel
better. Clara was the focus of the first act, and whether
Steven
liked it or not, she was the one who had to make the story
work.
Orange hair and all.
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