I Wanna Be Where You Are Page 13

  “I have an eight a.m. class,” she says to me. “I’m gonna head back now. Ready to go?”

  “Yes.” I stand up quickly and try to ignore my tingling hand.

  Larissa gives Eli a quick forehead peck and tells him she’ll see him tomorrow.

  “Bye, Chlo,” Eli says.

  He smiles at me. It isn’t his wolfish smile. This one is open and genuine, almost innocent. It’s a smile that will be stuck in my head.

  “Bye, Eli.”

  * * *

  I avoid looking at Larissa on the walk back to her dorm. I have a feeling she’s going to ask me about her brother.

  “I’m so happy the two of you made up,” she finally says.

  “Me and Eli?” I don’t know why I say that, because of course she means us.

  “He was so upset after your accident. You would’ve thought somebody displayed all of his artwork for the world to see, and you know how he gets when people look at his art without permission.”

  She stops walking and puts her hand on my shoulder to stop me, too.

  “He’s a good kid, right?” she asks. “I know he can be difficult sometimes, and it’s hard to understand why he acts the way he does, but underneath it all he’s not so bad, is he?”

  She looks worried. Almost like a mom asking a schoolteacher about her child’s behavior in class.

  “No,” I say, and I find that I really mean it. “He’s not so bad.”

  Chapter 20

  Audition Day

  WEDNESDAY

  I barely slept last night. I was too excited and nervous. In the early morning hours when I finally drifted off and eased into that space between asleep and awake, I imagined that I was in the audition studio building. I walked through the hall, wearing my homecoming dress and shoes, and even though this was out of the ordinary, I wasn’t alarmed. Somehow, I felt like I would be okay. But when I rounded the corner, I saw Mom. She stood with her arms crossed, blocking the studio door, disappointment etched into her features.

  I froze, torn between asking for forgiveness and begging her to move. She opened her mouth, and I waited for her to berate me, to tell me all the ways in which I was a lying and untrustworthy daughter. But, instead, the noise she made sounded like an alarm clock.

  “I hate eight a.m. classes,” Larissa grumbles, stopping the alarm on her phone.

  It’s 7:30 a.m. I’m curled up in a sleeping bag on Larissa’s dorm room floor. Wei is snoring, and Larissa is groggily getting out of bed. This is where I am, not in a hallway about to be confronted by Mom.

  This is reality. It’s audition day.

  * * *

  Larissa walks me outside, where Eli and Geezer are waiting. She gives me a long hug good-bye.

  “You’ll be perfect,” she whispers in my ear. “Let me know how it goes, okay?”

  I nod, wondering if she can feel how clammy my palms are.

  I’m trying to stay in the present and focus, but my thoughts are all over the place. That dream with Mom really spooked me. What would she say if she knew what I was doing right now? And my thoughts are on Avery Johnson, too. What will he be like in person? How good will the other dancers be?

  Eli and Larissa say their good-byes, and I step back to give them privacy. They hug, and when she pulls away, she holds her hands on either side of his face. She speaks to him in a whisper, and Eli listens, nodding intently.

  “See you at Easter!” Larissa yells as we head for the parking lot.

  I’d like to bring her with me, but I know I’ll be okay without her, too. I wave until she turns around and jogs away to class.

  When we’re back on the road, Eli fidgets with his phone, trying to hook it up to the aux cord and drive at the same time.

  “Give me that,” I say. “You’re going to get us into another accident.”

  “Sorry.” He smirks and drops his phone into my lap.

  I’m not sure how to act around him since yesterday. I forgave him, and I really meant it, but now where do we stand? Are we friends? Maybe. But then why did I feel strange whenever he touched me yesterday? Why did I stay up late last night, wondering what I should have said when he invited me to his dad’s house? I don’t have to go home right after the audition, and now I might not want to. I just wish I knew if he really meant it. He hasn’t brought it up again yet.

  This is bad timing. I can’t wonder about Eli and try to focus on my audition.

  “Hello, what’s going on over there, DJ?” he asks.

  Right. I’m supposed to be picking a song to play. I scroll through his music library but none of his songs feel right, and I can’t find a song to play on my phone either. Nothing speaks to the mood I’m in: overwhelmed.

  “Is it okay if we don’t listen to anything?” I ask.

  He glances at me. “Yeah, that’s cool.”

  I close my eyes and try to remind myself of how calm I felt while dancing in the studio yesterday. But that makes me think about how Eli interrupted me. And once again, how it felt to touch his hand.

  “Are you ever going to let me see that picture you drew of me yesterday?” I ask him.

  He grins as he checks the rearview mirror and switches lanes. “Didn’t I say I’d show you when I was finished?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t believe you.”

  He laughs. “You don’t have to believe me. That doesn’t mean I won’t do it.”

  “What if you don’t finish until October or something? Will you fly back just to show me?”

  “I’d do that,” he says easily.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  I start to say that the six-hour flight from San Francisco to New Jersey might be a big reason not to fly back randomly in October, but my voice gets caught in my throat when we suddenly start slowing down. There are construction signs everywhere, and the cars in front of us look like they’re backed up for miles. It isn’t even bumper-to-bumper traffic. No one is moving an inch.

  “Shit,” Eli says. “Why would the GPS take us this way?”

  “This isn’t happening.” I lean forward and cover my face with my hands. “This can’t be happening.”

  My phone vibrates in my lap. It’s Reina FaceTiming me. She’s probably just trying to be a good best friend and wish me luck, but I can’t even bring myself to answer.

  “I can’t miss my audition,” I say, double-checking that the time is correct. “I didn’t come all the way to North Carolina just to miss my audition!”

  “Calm down,” Eli says, putting his hand on my arm. “You’re not gonna miss it.”

  “Yes, I will. This is all karma for lying to my mom.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  I don’t say anything and stare at the license plate of the car in front of us, willing it to move.

  “You’re not gonna miss your audition,” Eli repeats. “Look, it’s starting to pick up again.”

  We start to move, but really slowly, like we’re trying to drive through a lake of molasses. Everyone has to merge into one lane to get around the construction.

  After what feels like years, traffic finally starts to move along, but we’ve still lost time. If I’m not late to my audition, I’ll definitely be cutting it close.

  Eli guns it the rest of the way. I don’t complain about his speeding, or how he zips from lane to lane like he’s in a racing video game. We won’t have time to drop him off at the train station before my audition, or to talk about whether or not I’ll go with him to his dad’s. Eli agrees to drop me off and wait until my audition is over.

  “It will last most of the day,” I tell him.

  He shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ll find a park for Geezer or something.”

  When we take our exit, I’m ready to fly out of the car. And that’s exactly what I do once Eli pulls into the Carolina Dance Center’s parking lot.

  “Fuck shit up!” he calls after me, which I guess is his way of saying good luck.

  I keep running and wave my hand in the air, hoping he know
s that means thank you. My dance bag slaps against my leg as my feet pound faster.

  When I burst through the lobby doors, I’m exactly one minute late. There’s a young guy standing behind a desk gathering papers. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that says THE AVERY JOHNSON DANCE THEATER. If I wasn’t in such a rush, I might ask if he’s one of the company dancers. Instead I practically shout, “I know I’m late, but I’m here, and I really need to audition. Can I please sign in?”

  His eyes widen, and he runs a hand through his short dreadlocks. “I’m sorry—” he starts to say, but then stops when Jeffrey Baptiste, the artistic director of the conservatory, approaches the table, seemingly out of nowhere, and says, “David, can you give me everyone’s paperwork? I want to look it over while they’re warming up.”

  I’ve never seen Jeffrey Baptiste in person, only in YouTube videos, where he’s always so eloquent and poised. His bald head is even shinier in person, and he’s wearing his trademark black blazer with slim-fit jeans.

  I stare at him, starstruck. After a few seconds, he finally notices me.

  “Can I help you?” he asks. His eyes go to the dance bag over my shoulder. “Audition sign-in ended already.”

  “I know, I’m really sorry.” I stand up straighter and fight the urge to smooth down my hair. “There was construction on my way here, and traffic was really backed up.”

  “That’s an excuse,” he says, taking the paperwork. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “Come back next year, and come back on time.”

  I feel like I’ve just been hit by a bus.

  Jeffrey Baptiste turns around and walks down the hallway without another word. David gives me a sad smile. Neither of them knows that I won’t be able to come back next year. This is it for me.

  I stand there, feeling the heat gather in my cheeks, wiping away tears. Maybe if this happened on Saturday, when I’d originally planned to audition, I would have turned around and left, hopeless and defeated.

  But I think of Trey’s and Larissa’s words. Be fierce. Believe in yourself.

  And then Eli’s advice: fuck shit up. If I left without auditioning, I’d be doing the complete opposite.

  “You’ll regret not letting me audition,” I call down the hallway to Jeffrey.

  He turns around slowly. He raises an eyebrow and looks me up and down. “Excuse me?”

  “I said you’ll regret it if you don’t let me audition.” My voice shakes a little. I have no idea what I’m even saying. And I’m saying this to Jeffrey Baptiste, of all people! But there’s no way I’m leaving without auditioning.

  He doubles back so that he’s standing by the table again. David’s eyes dart between us like he’s about to witness a snake swallow a mouse.

  “Is that so?” Jeffrey says.

  “Yes.” I force myself to look him in the eyes. “I’m really good. And one day you’ll see me dancing with another company, and you’ll think back to this moment and wish you’d never turned me away.”

  It’s like a confident and fearless version of myself has taken control of everything I do and say.

  I swear, for a second it almost looks like Jeffrey smiles at me. “What’s your name, young lady?”

  “Chloe Pierce.”

  He eyes me for a few agonizing seconds. My heart hammers in my chest.

  Finally, he says, “You have one minute to change into your shoes to warm up. No more, no less.”

  Did he just say what I think he said?

  I don’t know what made him change his mind, but I don’t let him second-guess his decision.

  “Thankyousomuch,” I say.

  I race down the hallway like my life depends on it. Which I guess it does.

  “Wait!” David chases after me. He hands me a number to pin to my chest. He smiles at me, genuinely happy this time.

  “Merde,” he whispers, which is what dancers say to each other instead of good luck.

  Luck. I can’t believe I’ve received so much.

  Chapter 21

  Merde

  The studio room is huge, at least twice the size of the studios at the Philadelphia Center for Dance. There are a few boys here, but mostly girls, and more than half of the dancers are Black. Something about that helps me relax. The best part is that everyone is dressed in simple leotards and tights. No one is wearing my Homecoming dress.

  I quickly claim a space at the barre and begin stretching. A hush falls over the room as Avery Johnson and Jeffrey Baptiste walk through the door. Avery Johnson is even more striking in person. He’s tall, and his deep-brown skin is luminous.

  “I am so, so very happy to see all of you,” he says. “When I decided to start my own conservatory, I never thought so many students would want to enroll.” He looks around the room and his eyes fall on each and every one of us. When he looks at me, I hold my breath. “Some have said that starting a dance school is a risk that I’m not ready to take, but at every audition I’ve seen so much talent, and I’ve been completely blown away. I’m so thankful that you’re here today and that you believe in my vision.” His smile widens. “I guess my point is that no matter what happens today, you should continue to follow your dreams. That’s the only reason I’m standing in front of you right now.”

  Real-life Avery Johnson is nothing like the cruel version in my dreams. I didn’t really expect him to walk around the room, examine us, and then tell me to do a bunch of fouettés, but it’s a relief that it won’t happen.

  Jeffrey Baptiste quickly takes over and gives us the audition rundown. We’ll start with barre exercises, then move on to center work, and we’ll end with learning a piece. Our audition instructor is Alina Pavlova. She used to dance with the Joffrey Ballet, and she’ll also be an instructor at the conservatory. Now there are three people we need to impress.

  When we begin barre exercises, Alina walks around and surveys us, correcting some people as she passes by. As she gets closer to me, I feel my muscles tense up, but I remind myself that I just did barre exercises yesterday, and practically every day of my life. There’s no reason for me to be tense. I relax my limbs and trust that my body knows what it’s supposed to do. When Alina passes me as I grand plié, she nods. I let out a sigh of relief.

  We move on to center work and spread out in rows in the middle of the floor so that Avery Johnson and Jeffrey Baptiste, who are sitting in the front of the room, can see all of us easily. I try my best not to look at Avery too much so that I won’t lose focus. The one time I glance at him, his eyes are scanning the room, and he’s listening intently as Jeffrey whispers something in his ear.

  We begin center work with tendu exercises and then switch to adagio combinations, which are slow movements that give us the chance to show our technique, fluidity, and strength. Alina corrects more people this time, placing her hand on one girl’s back and telling her to elongate, or tapping one boy’s elbows when they aren’t perfectly rounded. I start to worry that I might be making the same mistakes, too, but I hear Trey’s voice in my head: Once fierce, always fierce. I take a deep breath and go with the flow of the music. Alina never comes over to correct me.

  My relief turns to dread when it’s time for us to break into groups for turn combinations. No fouettés, thank goodness. But I try to shake away the thought that my nightmare could become reality as I do piqués, lame ducks, and chaînés across the floor. When I finish without falling out, or, more importantly, without snapping my ankle, I grin so hard it feels like my cheeks might split. Breathlessly, I scurry off to the side of the studio as the next group of dancers takes the floor.

  After what feels like a thousand more combinations, we take a ten-minute break. Everyone is whispering excitedly to each other. I stand off to the side, itching to do a million things: call Reina and tell her how amazing it is to see Avery Johnson in person, tell Larissa that she would have loved Alina Pavlova, run outside and shout to someone, anyone, that my nightmare didn’t come true. A few seconds pass, and I realize that the person I most want to talk to is Eli.


  * * *

  The last part of our audition involves learning a piece Alina choreographed. It’s more contemporary than classical. We’re split into groups of three, and I get placed in the same group as a boy and a girl, both of whom I’ve noticed are really talented. I fight the urge to bend down and adjust my ribbons to hide my scar.

  When the music starts, I trick my body into feeling as light as a feather. I pretend that I’m dancing to my own playlists, and that I’m the only one here. I forget that Avery Johnson and the rest of the dancers are watching me. I’m in my own world as I dance, as if I created the piece myself. And then as I prep and chassé for the tour jeté—I slip.

  I catch myself before completely falling, but that doesn’t stop a collective gasp from spreading around the room. I quickly find my footing again and continue the piece, but I feel like someone has thrown cold water all over my body. I’m no longer in my own world. I’m glaringly aware that I’m at my audition, dancing in front of Avery Johnson, and I just messed up.

  You’ll never be the dancer you once were.

  The horrible words are back.

  How could this have happened? I spent so much time worrying about the silly fouettés from my dreams that I never considered I would falter on something as simple as a chassé. I wouldn’t have made a mistake like this two years ago. This is worse than any nightmare. I’m struggling to hold back tears, but then I hear another voice that’s louder and clearer than my doctor’s telling me I’d never dance the same again. My own.

  It starts here.

  I can’t shout it the way I did yesterday or hold my hand over my heart. But I can recognize that those words are true.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have slipped if this were two years ago, or if I’d never broken my ankle. Or maybe I would have. I’ll never know. I can’t go back into the past and change what happened to me. Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing that I’m not the dancer I was once. Otherwise, how would I grow?

  I continue the piece, because all I can do right now in this moment is pull myself together and finish to the best of my ability. It starts here, with me.