The Dance (6 page)

“You're probably right.” Melanie had taken the easy route, not wanting to argue with Bryan, but she knew she couldn't miss rehearsal. Every minute she was at the studio there was the possibility of finding out something about Paulie.

And there was so little time until the recital and the show. She couldn't think of their shortened version of two ballets as a recital. This was a performance. She was sure Madame Leona was doing it to show off her star dancers and perhaps to lure more pupils to her school. So she wanted it perfect. And as long as Melanie was a part of the troupe, she wanted to dance well, too.

Melanie sank back on the couch gratefully, glad her mother wasn't home from work, then fell asleep. When she woke the light outside the windows was dim. What time was it? She glanced at her watch—three o'clock. Oh no! Quickly she called a cab. She didn't feel much better, but if Madame Leona had enough confidence in her to make her part of the troupe, she should certainly not let a cold keep her from practice.

The taxi took forever to get to her house. When she got to the Lafayette, she paid the cabbie, then dashed into the theater. Once downstairs, she paused in front of the studio door. She sneezed, wiped her nose with a bunch of Kleenex, then opened the door. She hoped, prayed, that Leona's watchdog wouldn't be on duty. No Frau Voska. Thank you, heavenly stars, she thought.

Hank was at the bars with Laurie, Jean, Anne, and Janell, the last two girls still strangers to her, even though they'd been together for a week now. They hadn't been friendly, left immediately after rehearsal. Melanie had made no overtures to get acquainted.

Jean Whitney, nearest the door, saw her first. “Well, the teacher's pet, here at last.” Jean tossed the wisecrack over her left shoulder to Laurie, but Melanie had no trouble hearing it. She ignored the greeting.

Hank stopped stretching and hurried over to her.

“Hi, Hank.” Melanie started to cough. Just speaking irritated her throat.

“You don't sound so hot.” Hank put her hand to Melanie's forehead. It felt wonderfully cool. “You've got the crud, haven't you?”

Before Melanie could answer, Madame Leona appeared beside Hank. Melanie hadn't heard her approaching in her soft slippers.

She stood, tall, majestic, and beautiful, as usual. “You're late, Melanie. But now that you're here, change quickly.” As soon as she'd spoken to Melanie, smiling—Melanie had expected her to be angry—she frowned at Hank.

The unspoken reprimand that Hank had broken warm-ups to speak to Melanie didn't stop Hank from speaking. “Melanie's sick, Madame Leona. She probably shouldn't be here.”

“Sorry, Madame Leona.” Melanie apologized for being late, not for being sick. She wished Hank hadn't mentioned it. She didn't need Hank taking up for her. “It's just a cold. I went home from school and fell asleep. I called a cab, but it was slow picking me up and even slower getting here. It's still snowing and the streets are awful. But I can dance. I want to dance.”

Madame Leona put a hand to Melanie's cheek, softly brushing aside her hair. “You do feel hot. Go and change. I'll have something for you that I think will help.”

Melanie headed for the dressing room. On the way she looked back at Hank. She didn't want Hank to think she didn't appreciate her concern, but now that she was here, she was certainly going to rehearse. Hank had gone back to the bar without a wave. Melanie could smooth over any bad feelings later.

Frau Voska sat “guarding” the dressing room instead of the front door. In her beefy arms she held Murmur, the house cat, creating an incongruous picture. Melanie smiled, but Voska's eyes held a stern “you're late” echo of Madame Leona's words.

She changed quickly, sneezed twice, then walked back onto the varnished wood floor of the studio. How was she going to dance with a Kleenex to her nose?

She was startled to find Hank and Madame Leona by the tape deck in the middle of an argument. Melanie joined the loose circle of girls around the two. The audience included all but Nicol. Nicol stood beside Leona as if taking her side. Glancing around, Melanie spotted Frau Voska standing expressionless by the office door. She was still holding Murmur in her arms. The cat cuddled, and Melanie could imagine its contented purrs.

“Actually, Madame Leona, my body does what I want it to do, jewelry or not.” Hank's hands, balled into fists, were placed on her hips. “Tchaikovsky won't turn in his grave if I rehearse without the neck armor.”

Melanie was frozen on the spot. This was new. This was scary. The others seemed also suspended in space. Was this the first time anyone had dared defy Madame Leona?

“Hannah …
Hannah
.” Madame Leona sighed, but seemed not the least bit angry or tossed off-balance. “Is it so much?”

Melanie shot a glance at Hank. There was a painful pause before Hank returned it, looking quickly at Melanie with no expression that might say, “help” or “my fight” or “I'm doing fine.” Just a quick, nervous glance.

“It's not that it's
much
of anything,” Hank said. Her voice had significantly dropped a decibel or two. “It's a matter of my knowing that I'm good. If we were performing, of course I'd understand wearing it—part of our costume, or our image, all that stuff.”

“Ah … but, Hannah. You are performing. For yourself, for the others here. For me. For … Melanie.” Madame Leona turned toward Melanie.

Suddenly all eyes were on Melanie. She hated the feeling. To make it worse, she felt dizzy—the cold, the fever, she guessed. What she said next surprised her, though. She had never intended mentioning it.

“Well—I don't know if it's something else, or the necklace, but I'm getting a painful rash when I wear mine.”

This was true. She had developed a rash earlier in the day that itched and burned like crazy. It had popped out along a line beneath the necklace.

“I thought it might be this cold—a fever-whatever.” Her voice trailed off.

Madame Leona walked slowly, gracefully, perfectly, Melanie thought, around the circle of girls. In front of each, she slid her fingers beneath the medallions. Silently, she presented each for Hank to see.

“You are special, Hannah. We are all special.”

Melanie knew the look Madame Leona was giving Hank. Though her teacher's back was to her, she felt just by seeing Hank that Madame Leona was drilling her unnerving dark stare into Hank. It amounted to the exact opposite of Hank's now-absent smile.

All in a rush, Hank took her necklace, which she had held dangling in her left hand, and pulled it over her hair, into place around her neck. She cast Melanie a weary “oh, well” look.

Madame Leona and Hank stood eye-to-eye for a moment longer. Melanie lapsed into a serious coughing spell, not planned to take the pressure off Hank. But it did so anyway.

“Melanie,” Madame Leona said, turning from Hank. She seemed free of any hostility or aggravation. Smiling what to Melanie seemed like a true, warm smile, Madame Leona handed her a bottle, about half-pint size, which contained a dark, translucent, golden-colored liquid.

“Don't feel self-conscious,” she said. “I don't have a spoon. Just take a sip—take two sips. You'll feel better right away. Have a seat and let it start to work. And, oh,” she continued, seeming to have been struck with an afterthought, “the rash is normal, I'm afraid. As far as I know, it might be the particular silver in the necklace. The others have had the same. Hannah had the reaction also. It should be gone by tomorrow. Do you like the piece? It's the most valuable of the group, so you must match its qualities with those of your own.”

“I'll do my best, Madame.”

Melanie didn't feel good about Madame Leona's confrontation with Hank, but for the moment she went to one of the dark wooden benches, got comfortable, and drank from the bottle. Two swigs, she said to herself. The taste was sweet, spicy, not unpleasant. After recapping it, she set the bottle aside and let herself relax and drift very pleasantly.

Madame Leona returned to the far end of the studio. Again she and Hank seemed to disagree. Melanie felt she was hearing bits of their conversation piped to her through a mailing tube.

“Hannah, I want you to do the ‘Delibes.' If you can master the
entrechat
you'll be that much ahead.” She turned to Frau Voska. “The ‘Delibes'—”

“No gripe intended, Madame Leona, but I've done the ‘Delibes' before. I know it inside out, upside down, and backward.” Hank's mood—from Melanie's viewpoint—seemed affable enough, all things considered.

“Hannah—please?” Madame Leona coaxed with what Melanie deemed an edge to her voice. “Let's show the ladies how it's done.”

The “Delibes” began, from the ballet
Coppelia
. Melanie had tried the dance herself but wasn't far enough along to do it justice. It was a very difficult piece.

The girls thinned out to form a broad circle around Hank. For a moment, Melanie imagined that Madame's syrup was doing its job too well. Light in the studio was fading.

“Down to blue, Frau Voska,” she heard Madame Leona say.

The studio was in semi-darkness. Where Hank and the others were, the floor and troupe were bathed in blue light from the gelled spots below the ceiling.

Hank began to move with the music of
Coppelia
. Melanie realized that this would be the first time she had seen Hank dance a solo.

What she was soon seeing was not the Hank of the wisecracks, the jokes, the easy, loose approach to things, which seemed her trademark. Hank turned beneath the blue light, swept into musical movement as a feather in a warm breeze. Dressed in a blue leotard, even with blue leg warmers, and in the blue light, Hank was a study in azure. Melanie couldn't stop watching her. She felt as captivated watching her as Hank seemed to be by the music. The name “Hank” was suddenly wrong, Melanie thought. This is Hannah Brooks I'm watching.

Madame Leona walked slowly around the other girls, touching them lightly on the shoulder, which signaled each to join the dance and move as Hank did. Before stopping behind Nicol, she waved to Melanie.

There was no mistaking the gesture. Melanie hurried to join in. She picked up the dance suite from
Coppelia
as far as her memory would allow, improvising where it failed her.

Hank kept her place in the center, while Melanie and the others remained in a circle. Frau Voska directed them counterclockwise.

Melanie had never, never felt so free. She and Hank made eye contact once, but Melanie neither expected nor received a smile, nor did she feel that she needed the reassurance from Hank anymore. She felt caught up in a second skin, the music encasing them all, bringing them together as one.

When Madame Leona walked into the group and took Hank by the hand, it was over. The music stopped and the light cross-faded to the normal studio lighting.

“Thank you, Hannah,” Madame Leona said.

Melanie felt like a dancer for the first time in her life. She smiled at Hank and Hank smiled at her.

“We're approaching our public performance quickly, ladies. I'll want you for an additional hour on Tuesdays and Saturdays. If there's a problem, please talk to me later.”

Melanie stepped up beside Hank. For a moment she felt uneasy, remembering Hank's confrontation with Madame Leona. Hank, however, seemed to have danced away the tension and was—Melanie hoped—the Hank she had come to know.

“You were
wonderful!
” Melanie said.

Hank touched her medallion with its blue stone, and then, surprising Melanie, reached out and touched the red alexandrite stone. “So were you. Where did you learn the ‘Delibes'?”

“When I was in junior high I stumbled through it. And I do mean stumbled.”

Hank pulled her leotard down and her leg warmers up. With the back of a hand she wiped perspiration off her brow. “Mel, you just danced the toughest set from
Coppelia
like it was written only for you.”

“I did feel … wonderful.”

“Well, madame, you were. I dropped concentration toward the last two phrases and watched you. You were the best.”

Madame Leona walked from her office to Melanie and Hank. From there, she turned to the others.

“Here's how I want things at this point, ladies,” she said. “Laurie and Jean, I want you both to remain in Julie Pedigren's class. The extra work will be of benefit. You can trust her, she's first rate. Madame Greenway left a very competent teacher in Miss Pedigren.”

“Who's Madame Greenway?” Hank leaned close to Melanie and whispered.

“She used to run this school before Madame Leona came here. She was really good. We were all sorry when she left.”

“And Melanie,” Madame Leona said, turning toward her. “You don't need the advanced class. I'll tell Miss Pedigren. You can spend the extra time with me on Tuesdays and Saturdays.”

Madame Leona paused as Murmur tiptoed across the floor.. Then she walked toward the tape player. The big, gray tabby dashed off toward Frau Voska, who picked her up immediately.

“Look, Voska's smiling.” Hank whispered again. “That's one of the few times I've seen Voska smile.”

“It's Murmur,” Melanie replied. “Maybe she's human after all. Only the cat realizes it.”

Both girls smothered a giggle. Melanie glanced up in time to see Jean give her a very dirty look. Was it because of her friendship with Hank or because Leona said Melanie didn't need the advanced class and Jean did? Melanie had usually been able to ignore petty jealousy from other dancers. It was common when there was competition. But she was sorry. She would like to become close to everyone in the troupe.

Melanie was amazed at how relaxed she felt, and Hank seemed normal again. “Oh, I feel so much better. No more sore throat and I've stopped coughing and sneezing.”

Hank laughed. “You sound like a television commercial, Mel. A miracle cure? ‘Delibes' is that potent?”