“Uh-huh. Your look says otherwise.”
“You’ve got to stop assuming things. There’s nothing going on.” Except there is, and I’m starting to think I can’t ignore it anymore. Or suppress it. But regardless, it’s all too complicated to explain right now.
“You know, you can lie to yourself all you want, but I see what I see, and there’s definitely something happening.” Mae nods decisively.
“Maybe you should get your eyes checked,” I suggest dryly. She’s about to retort when Charlotte walks to the front of the room. I tense automatically, but I’m not surprised that she’s trying to take charge. She always has to be the center of attention, and if she’s not on stage, she’ll find another way.
For the last few weeks, she’s basically ignored me, which only makes me more nervous. I have a feeling she’s planning something. Maybe I’m just paranoid. After Jase told her off the other day, she left me alone. Maybe I’m just taking myself too seriously right now, but it all feels off. She wants Jase as her dance partner, and Charlotte always gets what she wants. But she doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it, and the longer I wait for her to react, the more nervous I get.
“We should—” she starts, then stops again. The door opens, and Katie hurries down the stairs.
“Sorry I’m late, I was just talking to Francesca.” She grins. “I get to torture you today. So come on, let’s get started. The fairy-tale forest won’t paint itself.”
* * *
Despite what Pearson said at his assembly, we don’t actually have that much to do with the stage design. The concept was developed long before the semester began by a set designer and the director of the ballet. A large part of the work is done by trained craftsmen because, as Pearson rightly pointed out, we are dancers and not visual artists. If we were allowed to create the whole set on our own, it would probably be kind of mediocre.
So in the end, we’re responsible for the details. But even little things need to be done properly, and after a while, my fingers are cramped from holding the brushes, and the effect of the pumpkin spice latte doesn’t last very long. My body craves more caffeine and exercise. I feel stiff and awkward, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now.
“Zoe! Mae!” I stop working and look up after Katie’s sharp whisper. She’s standing a few yards away and beckons us over, looking excited.
I glance at Mae in surprise, who shrugs. I put my brush down in the drip tray so no paint gets on the floor and stand up.
Mae has already gotten up and dances toward Katie with graceful steps. “What’s going on?” she asks.
“Come on.” Katie peers around to make sure no one is looking and then grabs Mae by the wrist. But none of the others are paying any attention to us. Everyone is absorbed in their work except for Charlotte, who doesn’t want to get her hands dirty and has talked her way out of it by offering to document the process on video. Katie tried to convince her that no one wants to see a video of us painting parts of the set in a less-than-professional way, but Charlotte insisted. At some point, Katie gave up. She probably realized there’s no point in arguing with Charlotte.
Katie leads us backstage, past the changing rooms and the back door and around a corner, until we’re finally standing by the emergency exit.
“Tadaaa!” She lets go of Mae and spreads her arms wide.
“Katie, not to kill the vibe, but that’s a door. Why the excitement?”
Katie rolls her eyes. “Mae, you have to trust me. That’s not just any door.”
“No, it’s the emergency exit,” I add, and Katie wrinkles her nose in annoyance.
“If you keep making stupid comments, I won’t tell you the secret.”
“What secret?” May says, and Katie finally looks satisfied.
“First of all, if you tell anyone about this or tattle to a teacher or Pearson, the next few months will be hell for you. Is that clear?” She smiles at us, but it’s clear she means it. I get goose bumps, but at the same time, my heart accelerates with excitement.
“We won’t say a word,” I promise.
“Won’t tell a soul,” Mae adds, nodding.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Katie reaches for the door handle and pushes it down. It swings open completely silently. “The lock is broken,” she explains. “It has been for years. No one’s noticed it yet, or at least, it hasn’t been fixed, and the door can be opened from the outside.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mae’s voice sounds a little skeptical, but Katie grins.
“What else? We all want to be able to dance on this stage without waiting until we’re seniors. You don’t know how magical it can be until you sneak into the theater at least once at night and dance here all by yourself.”
* * *
Katie’s words stay with me all day. Even when she finally kicks us out of the theater because we’ve done enough for today. Even as I help Mae pick an outfit for her date with Tristan. And even as I’m lying in bed later, tossing and turning, unable to sleep even though I’ve been dead tired all day. Now I’m wide awake.
I almost never break the rules, and the few times I’ve done so can be counted on one hand. My pens are sorted by color, as are my ballet leotards and all the books I own. I like everything to be in order, and deliberately breaking rules isn’t compatible with my perfectionism.
