Panic (14 page)

“I feel you,” Justin admitted.

Lil Bit tore at a hole in her tights. “The thing is, there's just no way Diamond would have run away. No freakin' way. And why would she want to? It makes no sense.”

“I know!” Layla chimed in. “She's got parents like out of a storybook. Her mom is a teacher; her dad is lawyer. They go to places like Disney World every summer. She's crazy about her folks and her little sister. Who'd run away from that?”

Jillian flexed her toes back and forth, then said
carefully, “Sometimes what you see on the outside is not the real deal.”

Layla shook her head vehemently. “No. It is—at least for Diamond.” She paused, then, after a moment, added, “I wouldn't have gone with him.”

“Why not?” Justin asked.

“Donny would hate me being a movie star,” she admitted.

“So your decision wouldn't be based on danger, but on Donovan?” Justin asked. He couldn't believe what she was saying.

“Not that it's any of your business, but what does it matter? I'd be safe either way.” She scooted away from Justin and crossed her arms across her chest.

Shoot! Now he'd blown it! “I'm not judgin',” he said quickly, trying to calm her down. “We're just having a conversation here.”

“Guys! Guys!” Miss Ginger said gently. “The anxiety in this room feels like a rubber band about to snap. Let's do some stretches, then you can say or ask anything that's in your heart.”

“Anything?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes wide. “There's some stuff I'm scared to ask out loud.”

“Anything. We're family here,” Miss Ginger assured her.

She chose the song “Tender Shepherd” from the original, Mary Martin version of
Peter Pan.
She turned it up just a bit, then said in a soft, soothing voice, “Now, each of you, bend forward, reach past your toes on your right leg. Good. Now stretch. Slowly. Once again. Good. Now the left leg. Once again. Good. Now, both arms up.
Stretch. Reach for the ceiling. Right arm. Reach. Circle it. Again. Left arm. Reach. Circle it. Again.”

The song, a delicate lullaby of intertwined children's voices, pipes, and violas, trilled with tones of hope and safety and comfort.

As the dancers rolled on their backs, stretched their hips, their legs and arms, and their torsos, they all started relaxing. Miss Ginger switched the song to Whitney Houston's “Where Do Broken Hearts Go?” as she pumped up the intensity of the workout.

The words made Justin's breath catch in his throat as he moved to the music.
“Where do broken hearts go/Can they find their way home . . .
”

When the workout was over, Miss Ginger turned the music down low again and let everyone catch their breaths.

“I know this is not what we usually do in class, but I'm not in the mood for leaping and cavorting right now, and I know you aren't either.”

“Thanks for the stretches, Miss G.,” Jillian said. “We needed that and didn't even know it.”

“I feel a little better,” Mercedes admitted. “I haven't slept much the last couple of nights.”

“Me neither,” Layla said.

“Are we still gonna do
Peter Pan
, Miss Ginger?” Zizi asked.

“Yes, we certainly are,” Miss Ginger replied.

“I'm really excited about being the crocodile and Nana the dog,” Zizi said, giving a convincing growl.

“Why?” asked Justin, glad Zizi had changed the subject to a lighter tone.

“Well, duh! It's character acting! Anybody can do a stupid lyrical solo, but it takes skills to convince people you've got a tick-tocking clock in your belly. Can you cue up the second song, Miss Ginger?” Zizi asked, passing her iPod to her teacher. “I've been working on my piece already!”

Miss Ginger nodded, scrolled through the iPod, and pushed
PLAY
. The song “Tick Tock” from the movie
Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows
exploded from the speakers. The music was mysterious and dramatic, with the slightest ticking rhythm pattering in syncopation in the background. Zizi seemed to exult in the deep bass notes, the minor key, twisting her body across the floor in time with the power of the music. She crawled on her belly. She stretched her arms and legs as if she really were a swimming crocodile, a beast on the hunt. Justin was impressed.

When the song ended, with drums, cellos, and that subtle ticking, the whole class gave Zizi a round of applause.

“What a great piece of improv work!” Miss Ginger exclaimed. “We'll have to work that into the show.”

Zizi stood up and bowed deeply. “Choreography by ZZC! That's my stage name,” she explained, grinning. But then she grew serious. “I'm . . . ” Her voice broke. She tried again. “It's not right that Diamond's not here. So I'm . . . I'm dedicating my dance to Diamond.” She sat down, flushed and wobbly.

Mercedes raised her hand. “May I, too, Miss Ginger?” she asked softly. “Sometimes that's the only way I can get my feelings out—I gotta dance!”

“Why, of course! In fact”—Miss Ginger looked to each of her students—“anyone who feels like it, this is your chance.”

As the whole class moved to the mirror-covered wall and sat down, Justin was bummed to see that Layla had chosen to sit as far away from him as possible. Yep, he'd totally blown it.

Mercedes went first. She chose “Everybody Hurts” by Avril Lavigne and let it play for a few bars before she began. She untied her hair and let it swing and fling as her arms and legs matched the wildness of it. Justin could feel her fear and frustration more palpably than anything she could have put into words. The song embraced them all as she danced.

She leaped and pranced and swept across the floor. Justin imagined Avril's words echoed everyone's thoughts.
“So many questions/So much on my mind/So many answers I can't find . . . ”
When Mercedes finished her dance, she was sweating and weeping.

No one clapped. Respectful silence was all that was needed.

Miss Ginger ran to her and hugged her tightly. “And it
will
be okay. I just know it will.”

“Thanks,” Mercedes said breathlessly. “That felt great!”

Miss Ginger escorted Mercedes back to her place at the wall. “Good. You needed that.”

Tara and Tina raised their hands next. “Can we dance together, Miss G.?”

“Don't you always?” Miss Ginger said with a grin.

The twins grinned back and chose “Mirror” by Monica for their piece. As the group listened to the words,
“When I look at myself in the mirror . . . I'll never have to search again . . .,”
the twins danced as if each were looking at a mirror image of herself. Their movements were poised, precise, and identical. They lowered their heads and lifted their left arms upward at exactly the same time and touched palms. Then they extended their right arms, touched palms again, and twisted in unison to the rhythm of the piece. They sprung into the air, legs leaping and landing at the exact same time. They continued the dance, bouncing and twirling across the floor, each one's movements mirroring the other's from start to finish. Justin was amazed—he'd never seen them dance like that before.

The class clapped wildly when the twins finished. They bowed together and sat down.

“I wish Diamond could see this,” Zizi said. “She'd feel so good knowing what we were doing.”

“Can I go next?” Jillian asked.

“Are you going to do your solo from
The Nutcracker
?” Miss Ginger asked. Jillian's snow queen solo was legendary. Graceful and glorious, it was her signature piece. She always won high golds doing it at competitions, gliding regally across the stage.

“No, not today. I just want Diamond to know we care about her and that she's got friends. Would you put on Cris Williamson's ‘Sister,' please?”

Miss Ginger nodded and cued up the song on the iPod. Moving smoothly to the easy rhythms, Jillian's dance was a series of glissades and piqué turns and abstract
contemporary moves that required balance and extreme flexibility. As the melody floated from the speakers, the singer's clear, plaintive voice echoed with the clarity of a crystal bell. Jillian made the words come alive. “
And you can count on me to share the load . . . Lean on me, I am your sister/Believe on me, I am your friend . . . ”

She ended with a deep bow. Everyone exploded in applause.

Each student who chose to dance picked a piece that fit their personality and showed their fear or worry or Diamond's desperation. Justin had to admit the whole experience was powerfully moving.

When almost everyone else had danced, Justin raised his hand. “Miss Ginger, can I do a pas de deux, please?”

“Sure. Who would you like to partner with?”

Justin's heart thudded. But he managed to say her name without stuttering or acting like a seventh-grader. “Layla. If she agrees, of course.”

Layla looked at him with steely eyes, but she rose without complaint and took his outstretched hand. He asked Miss Ginger to start the song—Katy Perry's “Firework.” They had performed to this music for a competition a year ago, and although he was sure Layla had forgotten all about it, he remembered every second.

He hoped she was paying attention to the lyrics—the song seemed to be just what she needed to hear.
“'Cause there's a spark in you . . . You don't have to feel like a waste of space . . . ”

He led her gently through the lifts and turns as the music flowed over both of them, and he could feel her
begin to relax as the song progressed. He knew that even though she might not like him much, she loved this music, and she loved the movement of this dance.

The song ended with a gentle glide and a small turn, which left them facing each other. He smiled at her and, amazingly, she allowed him a small smile in return. He held her hand while they took their bows, hating the moment when he had to release her and return to his seat on the floor.

“That was simply lovely,” Miss Ginger said. “I'm so glad you started this, Zizi. We couldn't have paid for a better therapy session. That's a wrap for this evening. I want you all to go home and get a good night's sleep and say a prayer for Diamond before you drift off.”

As they left the studio, Miss Ginger caught Justin's arm. “That pas de deux was some of the best dancing you and Layla have ever done. It was almost magical.”

Justin felt his face go hot. “Thanks. We were really in sync for a minute.”

“Perhaps I should pair the two of you for a recital piece. Maybe even for summer competitions, if you'd like to do that.”

“It's cool with me. Ask Layla.” It took all Justin's composure to stop himself from leaping across the floor. Miss Ginger winked at him, and Justin could tell she completely understood.

By the time he got his gear together, he saw Layla just leaving the studio. She was walking out to the parking lot, heading, he knew, toward Donovan's Escalade.

“Are all the children chained, so that they cannot fly away?”

—from
Peter Pan

“I saw you dancing with him. I watched through the window.”

“I don't even get a ‘Hey, what's up? How've you been?' before you start jumping all up in my business?”

“You
are
my business. And I watched every minute of that dance. He had his freakin' hands all over you and you were
liking
it!”

Not again! Layla sighed. “What I like is dancing. I don't care who my partner is.”

“But I do. I saw him tryin' to feel you up.”

“He was not! He has to hold on to me to lift me and to make sure I don't fall.”

“You're done dancing with him.
Done!
I mean it.”

“Donny, he's the only guy in our class. The other male dancers are just kids—eleven and twelve. So Justin has to dance with every girl in our class, including me. There's no way around it!” How could he not get this, she wondered in frustration.

Donovan jerked the car to the side of the road and slammed on the brake. The fury on his face made Layla draw back against the door. He ever so gently put a hand up to her neck and just as gently began to squeeze. Layla froze. Donovan smiled, a smile that in any other circumstance would be described as sweet, and said, “Then maybe it's time you quit dancing.”

“Quit?” She tried to jerk away from him. “You trippin'!”

He squeezed harder.

“Donny! You're hurting me!” she said, trying to squirm from his grip.

“I think you need to spend more time with me,” he hissed.

She caught his hands in her own and tried to release the pressure. She had to calm him down. “But we're together every day at school and every day after dance class. What more could you want?”

“More! You go to those stupid classes every freakin' day. For hours. I'm sick of it!” He squeezed harder still.

“But I can't quit dancing,” she wheezed out, clawing at his hand.

“I thought you loved me.” He increased the pressure.

Layla's mind reeled—he was going to kill her if he didn't stop. She could barely speak. “Please. You. Are. Hurting. Me. Stop! Stop!”

He squeezed even harder. “Then you got some decisions to make.”

She felt dizzy. Her words gurgled. “You. Know. I. Love. You. Please. Let. Go.” She could tell she was about to black out.

He released his hand. Layla slumped in relief against the door, inhaling and exhaling sharply. She rolled down the window, gulping the damp air.

A few moments later, as if nothing had happened, he said, “You want to stop and get a burger?”

Still drawing in huge gulps of air, Layla nodded mutely as Donovan put the car in drive and roared into the rain-drenched night.