My Seventh-Grade Life in Tights (17 page)

That could only mean DeMarcus. He propped his hands on the fence. “Hey, Dillon. These your friends?”

Maybe? I figured right then wasn’t the best time to ask. “That’s Carson. And that’s Austin.”

Carson waved. “You’ve, um, got a really good arm.”

“Thanks. Little sore right now, though.” DeMarcus laughed. A little louder than I would’ve expected him to. Sore arms weren’t
that
funny.

Austin shrugged. “I saw you fumble it once.”

I thought Carson was going to bite Austin’s face off. Luckily, DeMarcus didn’t hear him. A couple of other first stringers had walked up talking to him.

Carson leaned toward me, whispering. “My mom’s taking us to Davie’s Diner. Do you want to come?”

“Seriously?”

“I was thinking about texting Kassie. Maybe see if she’d come too so we can all talk. Like a crew meeting.”

My stomach went all warm and stingy. Partly because the thought of seeing Kassie again was like a fiery ninja sword dancing ballroom in my gut. But also because at least one of my friends still wanted to hang out with me.

But I never had time to answer.

“
There
you are,” a silky-smooth voice butted in. Sarah. She slid in next to me, wrapping her arms around DeMarcus’s gigantic shoulder pads. “Ready to go? Everyone’s waiting.”

He tugged at his jersey collar and Sarah let go of him.

“Hello, Sarah!” Austin said. Way too loud. He had to have noticed, because his face went all blotchy red.

“I was just saying hi to Dillon’s friends,” DeMarcus said. “The dancers.”

“Is that what they call themselves?” Sarah said with a smirk. Carson shot her a tight-lipped scowl. She rolled her eyes. “Just a joke. Calm down.”

“Whatever.” Carson let out a loud sigh and looked at me. “So, the diner?”

Austin punched his arm. “You invited him?”

“Yes, I invited him,” Carson said, rubbing his arm. “You in, Dillon?”

“Um, no. He’s not in,” Sarah said.

“Excuse me, but you don’t get to decide for him. He can make up his own mind.”

I cleared my throat. “Maybe I—”

“Shut up, Dillon, you’re coming with us,” Carson said, still glaring at Sarah.

“Dude, you didn’t even ask me first!” Austin hissed.

Sarah beamed an eyelash-fluttering smile at DeMarcus. “Babe, why don’t you go find the others. I’ll catch up.”

DeMarcus looked at me, then back to Sarah. He sighed, said goodbye, and disappeared into the sea of jerseys and helmets. Sarah grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the fence.

“I swear I’m not in the crew anymore. Kassie—she kicked me out. You can ask them.”

Her jaw tensed. “You need to remember what I said about her reputation.”

“But—”

“No. Now, you need me more than I need you. So you either listen to your teacher or this is finished. I’ll make one call and tell them you got caught shoplifting or something and they’ll replace you faster than you can say
grand jeté.
”

Sarah stared me down. I slung my helmet against my leg. Tired. But not from running. Because I’d barely even done any. No, what had me feeling like I could collapse were all the looks. All the constant orders. All the trying to be someone different.

“Look,” she said. “I know I’m still being tough. But that’s because you really have gotten better. I think you’ve got a good chance at this.”

I shook my head. She might’ve thought so. I wasn’t so sure.

“And also because, believe it or not—” She looked me up and down. “Me and you are a lot alike.”

If I had any laugh inside me, I would’ve let it out right then.

“We both know what it takes to get to the top. We both know that sometimes you have to ignore the people you care about to get there. Am I right?”

I looked toward the fence. Carson and Austin were watching like they were witnessing a ten-car pileup. I was crashing in slow motion and I was caught in that in-between moment where I had to either stay in the car and get smashed into a million pieces or fling my seatbelt off and dive-roll out.

Behind them, my parents were weaving down the bleachers, shaking hands and saying hi to people they knew. If this were a movie, I’d toss my helmet on the ground and stomp off toward the fence. Maybe beg my way back onto the crew.
The Return of the Kung Fu Kid.

But this wasn’t a movie.

This was real life. And I was stuck right in the middle of it. So what’d I do?

Practically the opposite of all of that. I mustered up the best smile I could, shot it toward Carson and Austin…

And walked away.

O
n the way to Dance-Splosion that Saturday, Sarah kept texting me in all caps to not forget all the stuff she’d told me to remember.

If I hadn’t needed my phone, I would’ve tossed it out the window.

Even through the phone she couldn’t stop yelling at me.

We pulled into the parking lot and I stared up at the building. This time it didn’t look as huge. A little less intimidating.

But my stomach still decided to take a nosedive down toward my feet.

I tightened my grip around the straps of my duffel bag. My mom put her hand on my back and gave my shoulder a little squeeze.

But Dad? Ever since our conversation he’d been all closed off. I couldn’t tell if he was mad at me for back-talking him or what. Every now and then, though, I’d catch him and Mom whispering to each other. And not the gushy my-parents-are-totally-in-love type of whispering, either.

Inside Dance-Splosion, a big-screen TV had their commercials playing on loop.
Dance-Splosion…where real dancers are made.
After the third one, Dad let out an uncomfortable-sounding sigh-grumble. “Why can’t I just wait in the van?”

Mom smacked his arm and put on a friendly smile for the girl at the front desk. It was a different girl than before. “Hello, we’re here for the scholarship candidates’ audition. Dillon Parker. From Sunnydale. He’s in the top three.”

“She’s got it, Mom, thanks,” I said.

The girl wrote something down on a piece of paper. “Just follow the hall to auditorium three. Good luck today, Dillon.”

I lit the room up with a quick blush and followed my parents past the desk. We went by one room with an all-guy group full of leg muscles that were about to pop through their tights. Dad’s jaw dropped and I just knew he was going to make some comment about all that strength going to waste or something. But he never did. He just mouthed
Wow
and kept on walking.

We stopped outside the auditorium doors. Mom tried to smoosh my hair down and tuck in my shirt.

“Mom, stop. I’m gonna be changing into my dance uniform in a minute anyway.”

“You need to make a good first impression, sweetie,” she said, turning me around, stuffing as she went. She gave me a quick kiss, smeared away the lipstick with her thumb, and headed up the stairs, following the sign that pointed them toward the “viewing room.”

As soon as they were gone, I dug my shirt out of my sweat pants and took a deep breath.
This is it,
I thought.
What it’s all been for.

I walked inside. The room was just like the photo on the website: the pale blue walls were lined with those stretching bars and the floors were polished wood. The knot in my stomach loosened just a bit.

On the far side, two other dancers were warming up. To the right was a table where a man and a woman were sitting, both with a stack of papers in front of them. Something to my left caught my eye and I looked up. A large window showed the viewing room, where people could sit and watch. My mom was pointing frantically, probably at my loose shirttail, and getting a few laughs and looks from the other parents.

I didn’t see a spot where I could change, so I made my way up to the table. The man—a bald guy with nerd glasses—was busy typing something on his phone, but the woman, who had super-short hair and a friendly face, welcomed me with a smile.

“Hi. I’m Dillon. I’m here for the audition?”

“We’re just about to begin,” Mrs. Smiley said.

“Do you know what music I’ll be dancing to?”

“All three contestants will be dancing to the same music,” Mrs. Smiley said. “You can take a seat in the back while we get ready, okay?” She smiled and pointed to the far corner.

I found a seat next to the two other dancers. I pushed my legs out straight to warm up, glancing at my competition. A guy who looked like he belonged in an Axe Body Spray commercial and a skinny girl with wavy brown hair. Her legs were as long as my entire body and as thin as my arms. She looked around my age, but probably a foot taller. Her feet were together, pulled all the way toward her. She grabbed her ankles and butterflied her knees. I glanced down at her tights. There was a hole in one of the knees and the blue color was all faded everywhere else.

“Hi,” she said. I jerked my eyes away, but it was too late. She’d already seen me staring. “My name’s Avery. Broadway.”

“Cool last name.”

Avery laughed. “No, I
dance
Broadway. My last name’s Yates.”

“Oh. My name’s Dillon. I dance, um…”

I didn’t want to say it. Not while I was sitting in the middle of a dance studio. No,
the
studio. Saying the words
ninja freestyle
would probably get me thrown out. Besides, that part of me was gone.

I wasn’t the Kung Fu Kid anymore.

“You don’t know your style?” the guy next to us said. He’d had his legs stretched out in front of him with his head buried in his knees since I’d sat down. I thought he’d fallen asleep like that.

“I know my style. It’s just going through some…changes.”

“What does that even mean?” he asked, with his head all smothered in a cocky grin.

It means I don’t like your face, jerk.
I wanted to say that. But I didn’t. The studio probably had rules against things like that.

Mrs. Smiley stood and walked around the table.

“Hello, everyone. First of all I want to congratulate you all for making it this far. My name is Jackie. I’m a senior faculty member here at Dance-Splosion. I teach contemporary and ballet.” She turned toward Mr. Baldy. “And this is Robert. Another one of our wonderful contemporary instructors. He’s usually not this shy.” He rolled his eyes, but she didn’t seem to care.

“We’ll begin by asking you some questions about your dance history. There are no wrong answers—we’re just wanting to get to know you. Afterward you’ll be performing your improvised solo. Again, don’t worry about getting it wrong. We’re only looking for your interpretation. Are there any questions?”

We all stayed quiet.

“All right. We’ll be conducting the auditions in alphabetical order.”

I straightened up. Avery was a
Y
and I was a
P.
We had the end of the alphabet pretty much taken care of. Going last was the ideal spot. I pulled my sweats down over my football pants, glancing at Mr. Stretchy. That’s when I spotted the name on his equipment bag: Kenton Whittenbarger.

The jerk was a
W.

“Dillon?” Mrs. Smiley said. “You’ll be up first.”

I should’ve told them my name was Dillon Zachary. Or something cool like Dillon Zeus. I took a deep breath and walked to the table.

“So, Dillon, how long have you been dancing?” Mrs. Smiley asked, sitting down.

“For about a year and a half. But it feels like a lot longer.”

She laughed. But not Mr. Baldy. He looked as amused as an old woman at a rap concert.

“That’s good,” she said. “You seem like you enjoy it.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.” Manners. Nailed it.

“Where did you learn to dance?”

Saying
I never did, that’s why I’m here, duh,
probably wouldn’t have been smart. So I stuck to the safe answer.

“I guess I just taught myself. From watching other dancers and stuff. Oh, and from when I took karate.”

Mr. Baldy’s head snapped up. “Karate?”

“Um, yes, sir. Some of my moves are—
were
—sort of inspired by it when I took it.” Just saying that in front of them sounded stupid.

“Interesting,” he said, writing something down. But the way he said it made me wish I could take it back.

“So no formal training, then?” Mrs. Smiley asked.

“Um, no, ma’am. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry, Dillon.” She made a quick note, then looked back up at me. “What made you decide to send in a video?”

I knew they’d bring it up eventually. “Yeah, about that. I’m sorry for sending that in. I would’ve made another one, but the deadline was almost over.” My face felt like it was about to catch on fire.

Mrs. Smiley held up her hands. “No, no, no—I wasn’t asking about that. And wardrobe malfunctions happen more than you’d think, trust me.” She put her hands down. “I just wanted to know why you entered the competition.”

My lungs froze. Telling them I’d entered because my dance crew leader wanted me to sabotage their competition was probably a bad idea. But I wasn’t there for that anymore. A long sigh escaped through my lips. “For the longest time, I’ve been trying to get better. But I never had anyone who would teach me. Then I saw your website with the contest announcement and thought—I should just go for it. This is where real dancers are made, right?”