Phantom's Dance

  “You’ve heard of the Wakefield Phantom, haven’t you?” Van asked and I shook my head. “There’s a legend of a ballerina who died one night after a performance at the Griffith. She threw herself from the balcony because she’d been jilted by her lover.”

  Jenna pitched her head back and snorted. “Jilted by her lover. You’re making that up.”

  “No, it’s true,” Van insisted, “It really happened. And now you’ve seen the evidence. It was a ghost, a phantom.”

  “There was no phantom,” Jenna said. “The evidence was a lost piece of jewelry. There’s probably someone already at the office looking for it in the Lost and Found. Stop being such a doofus.”

  “If I’m such a doofus, how do you explain the broken glass?”

  Liam cleared his throat and mumbled softly, “Van, I told you I didn’t…”

  “Be quiet,” Van ordered.

  Jenna was right. They had a secret.

  “There’s something weird going on here,” I said.

  “I know. I know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Van reiterated. “All kinds of weird things have been happening around this place. They found a chip bag and soda can up there last week.”

  “How is that weird?” Jenna asked. “A ghost wouldn’t eat Doritos and drink Coke. It was probably a stage hand’s trash.”

  “No, I’m telling you the place is haunted. Someone should call Paranormal Response Team and get Mason Riggs and his crew in here.”

  Jenna and I both laughed then and she said, “So that’s what this is about. You want to be on TV.”

  Paranormal Response Team is a reality show on the Exploration Network. It’s a hugely popular ghost hunting show, and Mason Riggs, a hotty I’d ghost hunt in the dark with any day, is its host.

  “You have to admit, it would be cool,” Van said. “Think about it. The Wakefield Center could have its own Phantom of the Opera.”

  Jenna raised a halting hand. “Whoa, wait a minute there Andrew Lloyd Webber. There is no ghost. All this was the two of you, wasn’t it?” She pointed an accusing finger at the boys. “Admit it.”

  “Nuh-huh!” Liam shook his head vehemently. “I’m telling you, I didn’t do that. I didn’t smash that stage light.”

  Jenna crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him doubtfully.

  Suddenly, I remembered something Mom had mentioned some time back, and I gasped. “Please tell me you guys didn’t do that break-in at the Wakefield office.”

  The three of them turned their surprised faces to me and after a split second of silence, they all chimed, “What break-in?”

  Chapter Three

  All the color drained from Liam’s face, and he swerved, panic-stricken, to his friend. “Van, what is she talking about? Why would the phantom break in to anything?”

  “Someone broke into the Wakefield office?” Jenna said.

  “It was a while ago. I’m not sure, maybe two weeks,” I replied. “Mom told me someone picked the lock and stole the cash receipts.”

  “Oh, man,” Liam wailed, bouncing restlessly and twitching a hand frantically in the air. “We are so gonna get busted.”

  “You guys did that!” I exclaimed. “You took that money?”

  “No, of course not,” Van snapped. “We’d never do anything like that.”

  “Then what exactly is it that you have done?” Jenna demanded.

  Van tucked a thumb into the band of his sweatpants and scratched the back of his head with the other hand. “We a… we may have planted some of the phantom evidence, but we had nothing to do with a robbery.”

  Liam’s chest heaved so that I feared he would hyperventilate. “We didn’t trash that stage light either. We didn’t. I swear. You believe me, don’t you?”

  Jenna gripped Liam’s shoulders. “Calm down. Stop wigging out. If you say you didn’t do it,” she looked at me dubiously, “then we believe you.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure there’s an explanation for everything,” I reassured him. Then I glanced at Van. “You said you staged some phony phantom clues?”

  Van nodded. “But I don’t know anything about the light or the necklace. I figured Liam did it.”

  “I didn’t!” Liam sputtered, his face splotched purple with dread.

  “It’s probably like Jenna said,” I told Liam. “The light fixture was faulty. Those lamps are sensitive. They can explode if not taken care of properly. And the necklace could have belonged to anyone. It’s a coincidence that’s all.”

  “You think so?” Liam said, his breathing coming under control.

  “Right, right” Van said. “It was coincidence, man. That’s all.”

  “So we’re good here?” Jenna asked, and the boys bobbed their heads in agreement. “No more phantom, though,” she added. “You’re liable to get yourselves into a world of hurt if you keep it up. I mean if we suspected you of the break-in, the cops could have as well.”

  “I’m done with it,” Liam said, relief relaxing his features. “Count—me—out.”

  We waited for Van to acquiesce. Grudgingly, he pressed his lips together and diverted his gaze. “Whatever, man.” And with nothing further, he tapped Liam on the arm and motioned for Liam to follow him.

  Jenna and I let the boys go and took our time falling in behind them. When they were out of earshot I commented, “None of that explains the necklace.”

  “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure I know where the necklace came from,” she replied.

  “Yeah, where?”

  “Somebody was up there hooking up.”

  “Eww, seriously? Hooking up—on the catwalk?”

  We’d arrived at the school door, Jenna opened it, and we entered. “Sure, the staff—custodians, theater and stage hands, even the male dancers—they do it all the time. Take a girl up there, make promises to get her an audition, and then get a little action.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” she teased and wiggled her eyebrows.

  My mouth dropped open and I stammered, “Y-you went up there with a guy? You actually, well, you know? Up there?”

  Jenna grinned. “I never kiss and tell,” she said. Then she left me standing there, gaping after her, as she walked to the dressing room to put away her dance bag.

  Jenna was the first person to welcome me to the Rousseau Academy of Dance. Actually, she’d been the only person to welcome me to the Academy. The dance world is extremely competitive and it’s difficult to spend eight hours a day with your competitor-slash-friends and have genuine relationships. Jenna, however, had been the real deal. She seemed to have an innate ability to push aside the competition aspect and simply be herself. But part of Jenna being herself was her fascination with getting a reaction from people. She loved to BS and as a result, I wasn’t always certain she was being truthful.

  I scurried to catch up with her in the dressing room but decided not to press her about the catwalk anymore. It was a subject I wasn’t comfortable with anyway.

  By the time we’d stowed our things and made it to the studio, class had begun. Scattered across the floor, our classmates were already warming up. Their violet-blue leotards, pink tights, and breezy movements made them look like delicate butterflies gracing the studio floor.

  “Well, look who decided to join us.” I cringed when our instructor Ms. Zaborov’s voice cut across the room.

  The warm-up came to a screeching halt then as the pianist on the other side of the room ground out a note that echoed the length of the studio, and all eyes locked onto us.

  “You said she wasn’t going to be here,” I whispered.

  “She wasn’t supposed to be,” Jenna replied.

  “I hope she lets us in.”

  We stood inside the door unsure how to proceed. If a dancer was late to class, he or she couldn’t enter unless invited. After our effrontery, I wondered whether Ms. Zaborov would allow us to participate in the first class of the day or make us sit out.

  “Perhaps you would like to
join the rest of us, no?” she said in her heavy Russian accent.

  Embarrassed, I mumbled a thank you, ducked my head, and found my place on the cold vinyl floor.

  In front of the mirror, legs extended before me, I stretched my neck and shoulders and tried not to look at my reflection. I knew my face would still be red because I could feel the remaining flush. When I finally glanced up, I caught sight of Deirdre O’Connor beside me, a frown on her face. With her next stretch, she leaned out to be closer to me and snarled, “You’d better be glad she didn’t take it out on the rest of us.”

  Deirdre had every reason to be annoyed with Jenna and me. Lena Zaborov was old-school. To her, everything must be traditional and done by the book. A former principal dancer with a company in Russia, it’s said that if she hadn’t been a dancer, she would have made a hell of a KGB operative.

  I was about to apologize to Deirdre when Jenna, on the floor behind me, arched forward to grab her toes and chimed, “Piss off, Deirdre.”

  Unmoved, Deirdre gave us both dirty looks and continued her warm-up.

  Several minutes passed, while Ms. Zaborov weaved in and out of the dancers splayed across the floor, her face impassive and giving no hint of what was going through her mind. In spite of my complaints, I’d learned a lot from her. In her day, Lena Zaborov had been one of the most sophisticated and skilled dancers to perform. I’d seen YouTube clips of her work and she appeared to float when dancing. It was like her toes never really touched the floor. She was Russia’s darling and every aspiring ballerina strove to be like her. The Rousseau Academy of Dance was lucky to get her as an instructor.

  It was because of her and others like her, that we’d moved here in the first place. I hated to leave El Paso—my school and friends—but I’d gone as far as I could there. My parents knew being a student at the Rousseau Academy would increase my chances of getting into a prestigious ballet company like NYCB. I would give anything to get into the New York City Ballet. We’d visited there for my thirteenth birthday, and I’d not stopped dreaming of it since. For now, though, I had to get into a junior company like the Rousseau II for pre-professional training, and I wasn’t going to do that by being late to class and making an instructor angry.

  Once we’d completed floor barre exercises, we moved on to technique. It appeared Jenna and I’d gotten away with our tardy—until class was over.

  “Christine!” Ms. Zaborov bellowed after dismissing everyone. “You and Jenna will remain.”

  “Oh, man,” Jenna moaned as we hung back. “She’s pissed.”

  One by one, dancers left the room, some giving us pitying looks before exiting. Deirdre was last to walk by. She opened her mouth to speak, but slammed it shut when she saw Jenna’s cold glare. Instead, she squared her shoulders and gave us a superior grunt before sashaying out.

  “I hate that girl,” Jenna murmured.

  We turned to Ms. Zaborov then, and she dipped her chin, slightly lowering her gaze to a point on the floor obviously meant for us. Jenna and I scuttled over to that location as she tapped the toe of her sensible, leather and suede teaching shoes.

  “It would seem,” she said, an invisible line holding her spine erect, “the two of you have the time on your hands, no?”

  “We’re really sorry, Ms. Z.,” I began. “We went to the…”

  “Nyet!” She cut me off with an impatient yip. “I do not wish to hear the excuses.” Pursing her lips, she smoothed the front of her skirt before clasping her hands in front of her. “I think I have the solution for dancers with the time on their fingers.”

  Beside me, Jenna stifled a giggle as she tried not to react to Ms. Zaborov’s misuse of the slang.

  Aware we were about to be sentenced, I swallowed the dread rising in my chest and remained serious.

  “Solution?”

  She might be no bigger than a hummingbird, but Lena Zaborov could reduce a ballerina to tears with a single look.

  “Our esteemed artistic director, Mr. Darby, has asked me to help with a promise he made to the board member, Mr. Chaney. It seems Mr. Chaney has a nephew who plays—oh, what is it …” Ms. Zaborov twirled her hand delicately in the air as if to grasp the right word. “The football! He plays the football.”

  I looked at Jenna and her eyes grew big. She shrugged her shoulders and made a motion with her hand to her mouth to say Ms. Z. must have been drinking.

  “One of the trustees has a nephew who plays the football, and he would like us to teach the team ballet.”

  “Football players want to take ballet?” Jenna questioned.

  “That is correct. And since you and Christine have much time, you will teach them.”

  Chapter Four

  “I don’t understand, Mrs. Zaborov. You want us to show football players how to dance?” I asked.

  It wasn’t unusual for upper-level dancers to teach or mentor younger students. Sometimes we did private tutoring, but that was with children.

  “It is quite simple, my dear Christine. Tomorrow afternoon, the director will bring the football players, and you and Jenna will be here to greet them. Then we will set a time for classes to begin and you will assist.”

  Jenna’s mouth moved but no sound came out. I was at a loss as well. But Ms. Zaborov, pleased she’d meted out punishment suiting the offense, gave us a dismissive snap of her head. “Now, I have a class waiting. You will excuse me.” Then she proceeded, dainty and light-footed, out of the room.

  In the aftermath, Jenna sputtered, “What the hell just happened?”

  “It looks like we’re going to teach football players to dance,” I replied.

  “No way. Nuh-uh. Not me. I’m not teaching a bunch of knuckle-dragging no-necks how to plié, much less pas de deux. Think what they’d do to our feet!”

  “I’m not sure we have a choice.” We stared at each other a few seconds before bursting into laughter.

  “Oh em gee!” Jenna mocked. “We’re going to have jocks in here!”

  “I know. Can you imagine?” I glanced at the clock on the wall and dropped the laughter. “We’d better get moving, or we’ll be late to pointe.”

  “Right,” Jenna agreed. “Because if we’re late to another class they’re likely to make us teach the chimps at the zoo to pirouette.”

  We changed into clean, dry dance clothes and made it to our next lesson on time. It was difficult to concentrate, though. Normally I didn’t have a problem dancing en pointe. Being on my toes made me feel like a winged fairy, but Ms. Zaborov’s punishment flitted around the back of my mind. I’d never attended a football game and had no idea what to expect of football players. I wasn’t even sure what Ms. Zaborov had in mind for us to do. Somehow, I found it both exciting and terrifying.

  By noon, it was all over the school. Van wanted the scoop when he plopped his tray down at our lunch table. “So it’s true? You’re gonna teach football players to dance?”

  “It’s your fault,” Jenna complained. “If we hadn’t gone to the theater with you and Liam to check out that supposed ghost sighting, we wouldn’t have been late to class.”

  Van grinned and said, “Bite me, Jenna. And it’s a phantom not a ghost. Besides, you had fun and you know it.”

  Before they could get any testier with each other, several members of our class joined us and talk shifted to teaching football players the difference between ballet slippers and pointe shoes. By the end of the day, I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I kept envisioning the Disney movie where hippos wearing tutus perform to Ponchielli’s Dance of the Hours, only this would be helmeted, oversized teenagers sporting enormous shoulder pads above their tutus.

  That afternoon, I waited outside the school for Mom to pick me up and debated as to whether I should tell her about being disciplined by Ms. Zaborov. She’d be miffed and there would be the inevitable lecture to follow. I decided to tell her the school’s artistic director asked us to do it. She’d never question that. She’d likely see it as an opportunity to suck up to Mr. Darby.
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  When twenty minutes had passed and Mom hadn’t shown up, I pulled my phone from my bag. There was a text message for me to call her when I got out of class.

  “Christine,” she said breathlessly, picking up after the fourth ring. “I’m in a meeting. I stepped out to take your call. I’ll be late this evening so I’ll have my assistant call you a cab.”

  “Mom, I don’t need a cab. I can—”

  “Just stay there. I’ll bring dinner home with me. Gotta go, sweetie. See you later.” Then the line went dead.

  Resigned, I put my phone away and walked across the plaza to the fountain, where I heaved myself onto the concrete ledge to sit and wait. The air blowing across the cascading waterfall was cool, so I poked around in my bag for my iPod and settled back to relax.

  Car after car drove by, but there was no cab and I became impatient. This was ridiculous. Leaping from the ledge, I grumbled, “Screw how it looks. I’m leaving.” Then I swung my bag over my shoulder and started down the street.

  With the music in my ears and the thrum of the busy streets around me, I felt energized, in spite of a full day of dance class, and it occurred to me that it was the first time since moving here that I’d done anything without Mom—even if it was only a walk home.

  Maybe it was time to get my driver’s license. Dad would buy me a car if I did, and I wouldn’t have to rely on Mom to get back and forth to school any more. We’d talked about it before the move, but after arriving and attending class eight hours a day, school work at night, and the mental weight of it all, I had been too overwhelmed to think about learning to drive. Plus, I was terrified of learning to drive on the ant-farm streets of Houston.

  A few blocks down, I slowed my pace. The traffic was lighter, the street quieter, and a rhythmic beat intruded into my own music. I stopped and plucked an earbud from my ear. The sound was ahead of me somewhere, so I stepped across the street and moved toward it. Taking out the other earpiece, I shoved the iPod into my bag.

  The cadence flowed from an alley running behind a brick office building. Curious, I made my way down the building’s side in that direction. Cautiously, I checked my surroundings. Within a couple of blocks of the theater, everything around me had changed. The street was dirtier and the buildings more decrepit. The aroma of ground coffee no longer poured from the Starbucks a few blocks back. Something acrid floated in the air now. It smelled like a steaming cocktail of motor oil and urine.