Allegra (3 page)

Music theory is my second class on Wednesday morning. It's the one class I can find easily, having been here just yesterday. I pause at the door, feeling nauseous, but force my legs to propel me into the room. I almost wish Mr. Rocchelli had busted me for the forged signature, because now I feel indebted to him, and that makes the whole thing even more awkward.

A quick glance around, and I realize he's not here yet. The music stands have been shoved into a corner, and the chairs are arranged in a small circle. A few kids are already seated. I groan inwardly. It looks like he's trying to create one of those intimate, “safe” places to learn. I just want to hide behind the rest of the kids, do the work and get out of here.

I sit in a chair away from anyone else. A moment later a backpack plunks onto the chair next to mine. Glancing up, I see that it belongs to Julia, the girl who was in line in front of me in the office yesterday. She's chattering away to someone a couple of chairs over. She plants herself on the chair next to her backpack. Inhaling deeply, I slouch lower in my seat, staring at a point on the floor in the center of the circle, not wanting the others to see how uncomfortable I am about being here, not knowing anyone, and mad because I shouldn't be in this class in the first place.

I let my thoughts drift back over my morning, and they settle on my mother's strange behavior. When I got up she was already in the kitchen, putting coffee on. I noticed dirty wineglasses standing beside the sink. Two glasses. She must have come home and waited up for my father, or perhaps it was the other way around. As I popped bread into the toaster, I watched as she wiped the already clean counters. She was still on edge, for some reason. I'd have thought she'd be happy to have him home.

My thoughts are interrupted by Mr. Rocchelli's arrival. The nausea I felt earlier intensifies, and I wonder if I might throw up. I glance about, wondering where the nearest washroom is.

Mr. Rocchelli takes the remaining chair and smiles at the circle of students. I won't meet his eyes, keeping my gaze on the window behind him.

“Welcome to music theory,” he says. “I'm Mr. Rocchelli, your teacher. My friends call me Rocky. If you feel comfortable with it, you can call me that too.”

Despite myself, I look at him to see if he's serious. Whoever heard of a teacher giving students permission to use a nickname? Mr. Rocchelli must be even newer to the teaching profession than I'd guessed.

“We're a small group,” he says, “which is awesome. It'll allow ample opportunity for one-on-one instruction.”

I swallow a groan and sink even lower in my chair, noticing that Julia sits up a little straighter in hers.

“So, let's get going,” he says. “I want us to build community in this room, and in order to do that I have some games for us to play, to jump-start us.”

The morning careens from bad to worse. I hate this touchy-feely stuff.

The first game is one I'm sure I played in third grade. We each have to tell two truths and one lie about ourselves, and the others have to decide which statement is the lie.

“I'll go first,” Mr. Rocchelli says.

He thinks for a moment. “I have a collection of over a thousand vinyl
LP
s. I am a wannabe jazz musician. My father is a beekeeper.” He points to the guy on his left. “Well, which is the lie?”

We each take turns guessing. I go last and guess that he's lying about the
LP
s. He smiles. “Those of you who guessed the
LP
s are right, though I do have over seven hundred.” A murmur runs through the circle. “Why don't you go next?” he says to me.

I take a deep breath and spew out the first three things that come to me. “I was only three pounds when I was born, my dad is the bass player for the Loose Ends, and I have four brothers.”

Without exception, everyone guesses that the lie is my dad being the bass player for the Loose Ends. For some reason, when it's his turn to guess Mr. Rocchelli passes and doesn't say why. When I tell the class I'm an only child, I see looks of surprise and even disbelief cross a few faces.

“Are you serious?” a guy asks. He looks familiar, but I can't place him.

I just nod.

“That is so cool,” he says.

“It looks like Allegra got you all on that one,” Mr. Rocchelli says. “Well done. Julia, why don't you go next?”

The game continues, and I have to admit, some of the truths are pretty interesting. One guy has actually swallowed a live goldfish, and the boy who asked if I was serious about my dad has the autographs of two hundred well-known musicians. I'm impressed.

When everyone has had a turn, Mr. Rocchelli explains the next game. He asks one of the boys to stand and then takes away his chair. “In this game, the person without a chair has to name one thing that they have never done. Everyone else who has never done the same thing has to get up and take an empty chair from someone else who has also never done it. The person who ends up without a chair goes next.” He looks around the group, then adds, “And please keep the activities clean and legal.”

“I have never eaten snails,” the first boy says. Most of us jump up and scramble to find a chair. My butt hits a chair at the same moment that Julia's butt hits the same chair. She gives me a shoulder-check and I slide off, barely managing to stay on my feet. “Looks like you're up next,” Mr. Rocchelli says to me.

“I have never owned a dog,” I say. A few chairs are exchanged.

“I have never worn braces.”

“I have never colored my hair.” Mr. Rocchelli jumps into the fray on that one and, not wanting to shove any of his students, ends up losing.

“I have never been fishing,” he says. About half of the group scrambles to get to an available chair.

“I have never been on a diet.”

“I have never broken my curfew.”

“I have never made my curfew.”

The game gets slapstick and silly, and even I find myself laughing. One guy keeps losing on purpose so that he can say ridiculous things. “I've never kissed a girl.” All the girls switch chairs while none of the boys move, despite the goading a few of them get.

“I've never cheated on an exam.” A surprising number of kids stay in their seats.

“I've never cheated on my girlfriend.”

“Okay, that's enough,” Mr. Rocchelli says, clapping his hands to get our attention.

Reluctantly, we settle back into our chairs, but the chatter continues. The game has prompted a lot of silly conversation. As I watch him hand out the course outline, I realize that the tension I'd felt at the start of the class has subsided. Maybe Mr. Rocchelli knows what he's doing after all.

He goes over the units we'll be studying, outlining some of the assignments, and then asks for questions.

“Rocky, what percentage of our grade will the final exam be worth?” Julia asks. “I'm, like,
so
bad at exams,” she adds.

I scan the faces of the other students, wondering if anyone else feels like rolling their eyes. The guy who looks familiar makes eye contact with me. That's when I realize he's the guy from the office yesterday, the one who was arguing with Ms. Jennings. Spencer. He smirks and nods in Julia's direction. I nod in return, feeling a sense of silent camaraderie. Neither of us likes Ms. Jennings or Julia. After a few more questions, Mr. Rocchelli dismisses the class, but he adds, “Allegra, will you stay behind a moment, please?”

Oh man, I think. Here it comes, the lecture about how lucky I am that he hasn't turned me in. I'll probably have to apologize before he'll let me leave the room. The relaxed mood brought on by the games evaporates in a single moment.

I remain in my chair, trying not to act as nervous as I feel. Spencer smiles when he passes by me, and I try to smile back, but I think it comes off as more of a grimace. When everyone is gone, Mr. Rocchelli goes to his desk and comes back with a file folder. He hands it to me and then takes a seat a couple of chairs away.

“What's this?” I ask.

“Open it up.”

I flip it open and read the words on the top of the page:
Music Theory 11 - 12 . Final Exam
. I look at him, confused.

“I forgot to mention,” he says, “that you can challenge the course. Take the exam early and be done with it.”

As the words sink in, I become angry. Why didn't he mention this at the start? It would have saved me from embarrassing myself the way I did in the school office yesterday.

I guess he can see the flush working its way up my cheeks, because he leans forward and says, “I owe you an apology, Allegra.”

I still don't say anything. I'm too dumbfounded at the direction this conversation is going.

“I should have told you yesterday that you wouldn't have to redo all the work you've already done.”

I find my voice. “Yeah, you should have.”

He just nods.

“So all I have to do is write this exam and pass it, and I'm done with your class?”

“Not quite.”

I look at him, waiting.

He takes back the file with the exam. “You'll be done with Music Theory 11-12. But you won't be done with my class.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Like I told you yesterday, Allegra, this is not a dance school. If you pass the exam, I have another project in mind, one I think will challenge you to actually apply all the music theory you know. You may even want to call on your knowledge of dance.”

“Why won't you just let me sign up for another class?” I know I'm whining, but I don't care.

“I've read your file, Allegra. I know that both your parents are musicians. That's why I said
Pass
in your round of the two-truths-and-a-lie game. I believe you do have a sound background in music. That said, I am committed to the philosophy of this school. We are about all the arts. I want you to push yourself in more areas than just dance. Believe me, it will help you bring even more to the dance studio.” He pauses and leans forward. “You have to trust me on this one, Allegra.”

For the first time all morning, I meet his gaze and stare back at him. I feel a sense of defeat.

“Your other option would be to take drama, I guess. Or painting.”

There's not a chance I'm doing that.

“Well?” he asks when I don't respond.

I sigh. “How soon can I write the exam?” I nod at the file.

“Attagirl!” he says, beaming.

Despite myself, I notice how nice he looks when he smiles. “Whatever,” I say.

T
hree

Ms. Dekker teaches all of my dance and movement classes. She's the one the girl from my English class told me about. During my first ballet class, I can feel her eyes assessing me during barre. I try to ignore her and focus on the exercises, but she keeps hollering out instructions. “Shoulders down, Allegra! Stretch your feet! Pull up, chest bones to the ceiling! Ribs closed, soft neck!” I try to do everything she says, but there are too many things to think about at once. When I'm thinking about my arms, I forget to point my toes, and when I'm worrying about my legs, my posture sags.

With a click of Ms. Dekker's remote, the music stops and our exercise comes to an abrupt halt.

“Allegra,” she scolds, “I see that you've picked up some bad habits along the way. Where have you been studying up until now?”

“Turning Pointe,” I tell her.

“Well, the teachers at Turning Pointe should be ashamed of themselves,” she says. “Your feet are terrible and your turnout needs a lot of work.”

I stretch out my leg to do a
grande rond de jambe
and she bounds right over to where I'm working. Bending down, she grabs my inner thigh and rotates it upward.

“There,” she says, standing up and assessing my new position. “That is proper technique.”

It feels all wrong. My
développé
is overcrossed, and the way she's twisted my leg makes my hip feel out of place. “Are you sure?” I ask. “It doesn't feel right this way.”

“I'm sure,” she says. “And I expect to see you use your turnout from your hips from now on, not forced from the knees.”

In the mirror, I make eye contact with the girl from English class. She tilts her head, eyebrows raised in a question. I nod and decide that I might not avoid her in English after all.

Mom and Dad swing around to look at me when I enter the living room. I've just arrived home from school, and they obviously haven't heard me come into the house. They smile, and Dad gets to his feet, but I feel the tension in the room and note their stiff postures. “Hey, Legs!” Dad says, using the nickname he gave me when I was a little girl. He pulls me into a hug. I relax into his arms. The smells of the road cling to his sweatshirt—another musician's stale cigarette smoke, the greasy fumes of coffee-shop food and the body odor from nights on the tour bus, sleeping in his clothes. He must not have done his laundry yet or showered. He probably slept all day.