Chapter 3
TALLY
“Three minutes and we’re on.” Arya does a full-body shimmy.
“We’re going to be amazing.” I shake out my hands and do a few deep knee bends.
This showcase is worth twenty percent of our final mark this semester.
It’s another step closer to where I want to be; a graduate on my way to becoming a professional dancer.
Top performances tonight mean first choice of studio time in the beginning of semester two, which is huge, so I’m manifesting good things.
“We’ve got this.” Charles and I fist bump.
The rest of the ensemble echoes our excitement.
Tonight we’re performing a modernized, full ensemble version of The Nutcracker. Every performance is preparation for our final showcase of the year. In second semester, we’ll dance as part of a full-class ensemble like we are tonight, as well as with our troupe, plus a solo number.
That my dad is able to attend this time because the Terror doesn’t have a game tonight feels special.
My mother has never missed a single performance.
As a kid, she would even come to rehearsals when she could.
She’s been my biggest supporter, always encouraging me to pursue my dreams. But it’s rare for my dad to make a performance work.
I’m excited and nervous to have him here. I always want to make him proud.
I center myself as the current song ends and the other dance class exits to join us in the wings. I squeeze Arya and Charles’s hands before we leave the wings, the rest of the class falls into place around us on the stage.
I steal a glance at the sea of faces filling the theater.
No seat is empty. I spot my parents with my brother and sister.
Ties and Fenna both look bored, which is understandable since they’ve been dragged to countless performances over the years.
The Babes are a few rows back, and my heart stutters and skips a beat as my gaze finds a group of the Terror guys as well.
Even Flip is here, looking gorgeous and untouchable.
He rejected me, but he still came to support me, which just proves he’s a great friend, and I’m an idiot for having asked him what I did.
The first notes of the song filter through the sound system as the lights come up, forcing me back into the moment. I’ll panic about Flip later.
But for now, I channel all my emotions into our routine as I move across the stage. This is my happy place, where I get to live in the music and tell a story with my body.
Charles steps in behind me, and his hands find my waist. We move as extensions of each other, synchronized and fluid as he lifts me and I float on air. We hold our position while Arya spins around us, and the rest of our troupe follows, a ribbon of graceful bodies twirling across the stage.
I count the beats, every muscle locked tight so Charles can maintain his balance as he spins, and every time we face the audience, my gaze catches briefly on Flip, whose eyes are fixed on me.
My feet touch the ground again, and I leap across the stage, spinning as I weave through our troupe until I’m back in the center with Charles, converging for the final lift.
He sets me on my feet and dips me backward, and I arc over his arm, the crown of my head nearly touching the stage as the final notes drift through the auditorium.
It always feels like it’s over too soon. We hold the pose for a count of four, chests heaving with exertion. The audience erupts in applause. I’m breathless and high on adrenaline as I join hands with Charles and Arya and the rest of the class, and we step forward to curtsy and bow.
Flip stands and whistles with his fingers.
His proud smile makes my silly heart clench.
He probably thinks of me like a little sister.
Embarrassment hits when I’m in the wings.
I can’t enjoy the high of our performance because I’m a giant bag of what-did-I-do?
all over again. For the past week, I’ve buried that conversation under practice and coursework.
But he’s here tonight and I can’t hide from the sting of his rejection.
I don’t know how I’ll recover from the mortification: the look on his face, his disbelief, his definitive no, all play on an endless loop in my head.
As if Flip Madden would ever want more from me than friendship.
And yet, he showed up for me. I don’t even know what to do with that.
“The Terror are in the audience!” Charles grabs my shoulders. He has a thing for hockey players. I get it, truly. “What I wouldn’t give to be in the middle of a Madden and Stiles sandwich.”
“Stiles is married,” I remind him. I avoid commenting on Flip, because I don’t trust my voice.
“Yeah, but in my fantasy world he’s not, and they’re both into me.” Charles’s grin is downright lascivious.
Flip’s previous reputation isn’t a secret. For a while his exploits were splashed across the internet. But it’s been years since Flip has lived up to his fuckboy status.
“I would take Quinn Romero home any night of the week,” Arya adds dreamily.
“He does have that strong, silent type vibe,” I agree. Of all the guys, he tends to be the quietest. Also, I’m happy to indulge infatuations that don’t involve Flip.
“And those freckles.” Arya sighs.
This incites an entire whispered conversation about which Terror player everyone would like to take home for a night while we touch up our makeup for the post-performance reception.
We’re still in full costume as we traipse out to greet our families and friends.
I’m reeling with nerves. Will Flip still be here? Did he leave as soon as the show ended?
My dad is the first to find me. He’s beaming with pride, and that settles my nerves a fraction. “What an incredible performance! You were wonderful up there.” He pulls me in for a hug. “I’m so glad I could be here for this.” He presents me with an excessively large bouquet of roses.
I bring them to my nose and inhale their soft scent. “Thanks, Dad. These are beautiful.”
He tucks a hand in his pocket, his smile sheepish. “Your mom picked them out.”
“I just suggested the color, the rest was all your dad. You were perfect as usual.” Mom’s smile wavers a little, like she’s on the edge of emotion. “I’m so proud of you. You’ve come so far.”
“Thank you for always supporting me and being my cheerleader.”
“Always and forever, sweetie.” She squeezes me tightly, and I return the embrace.
My mom and I have always been close. With my dad on the road three quarters of the year, it was often her and me looking after Ties and Fenna.
Eventually Mom releases me and I look to my siblings. Ties is on his phone, and Fenna is picking at a loose thread on her cuff.
I tap my sister on the shoulder, and she pulls out one of her noise-cancelling earplugs. She’s sensitive to noise in large crowds. “Do you have your scissors in your purse?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you get them out and I’ll fix that?” I nod to the loose thread. Usually, Mom would be on top of that.
“Okay.” She retrieves them for me. Her face brightens as I trim the thread and pass the scissors back.
“Thanks.” Fenna has some sensory issues, and that thread has likely been frustrating her for as long as it’s been loose.
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice that, honey,” Mom apologizes.
“It’s okay. Tallulah fixed it for me.” She turns to me. “I liked the song choice.”
I grin. “I thought you might.”
Fenna’s in grade nine, plays the cello, and basically lives and breathes classical music.
Ties, who is in his final year of high school, drags his eyes away from his phone long enough to give me a thumbs-up. “Good job.” He has a robotics competition next week and being here is probably cutting into his preparation time.
“Once this is all wrapped up, we’ll go for dinner.” Dad glances at Mom before refocusing on me. “Does that sound good?”
“That sounds amazing.” It’s rare enough that my dad can make it to a performance, let alone stick around to celebrate after. I haven’t seen much of him over the past few months because of school and his schedule, so I can’t pass up the opportunity.
My girlfriends step in to give me a huge group hug and a shower of compliments.
“That was flawless.” Fee, my roommate and one of my best friends at Tilton U, makes prayer hands and bows. “You are wildly talented.”
“What she said. You are the music when you’re out there,” Cammie agrees.
“So awesome.” Enid nods her agreement.
I glance around, stomach in knots as I search the crowd. Flip and the other Terror guys are being bombarded by fans, which is not unusual. But he’s still here. Did he feel like he had to stay because everyone else was?
He’s wearing black dress pants, a pale blue dress shirt, and a dark tie. His hair is still a little too long, curling around his ears. He looks handsome and delicious and remains my favorite fantasy and eternally out of reach. Eventually he makes his way over, a bouquet in his hand.
My mouth goes dry, and my palms start to sweat. It’s not like he’ll bring up our last conversation in front of all these people, but the residual mortification is overwhelming.
Still, I take a step forward, though I don’t know what to do or how to act around him now. “Thanks for coming.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You owned that stage,” he says.
“Thanks,” I croak, and struggle with what to say. He brought me flowers, so maybe we’ll be okay. “We worked really hard on that number.”
“It absolutely showed.” He holds out the bouquet, which is a fraction of the size of some of the other flowers I’ve been given tonight, but they’re stunning blooms in shades of pale blue and white to match my costume. It’s like he picked each one with intention and knows all my favorites.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
I bring them to my nose and inhale. “These are beautiful.”
“They match you, then.”
My eyes flare as he wraps his arms around me. I awkwardly pat his back, and my nose mashes against his armpit because I didn’t turn my head in time. He squeezes my waist, chin bumping my temple.
I break out in an anxiety-riddled sweat.
He steps back, his expression is both gentle and amused, but also... “You should be really proud of yourself, Talls.”
I’m flustered, and I want to apologize, but we’re surrounded by our friends and my family. I wave a hand around in the air, then grip the flowers to stop my flailing. “I had a whole team out there with me.”
He tips his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his full lips. Is that empathy or sympathy in his eyes? And which is worse? “Everyone was incredible, but you stole the show,” he says. “You’re phenomenal to watch.”
My stomach is a cement mixer. My stupid heart is all aflutter at the compliment.
But he said no, my helpful brain reminds me.
He’s being kind.
He’s smoothing things over for the sake of our friend group.
He’ll never see me as anything more than his coach’s daughter and a friend.