My Seventh-Grade Life in Tights (14 page)

Sarah shrugged. “Like I already said. Dance is a sport. You can’t win without making some people mad.”

Somehow I made it through the rest of the day alive. Practice with Sarah was the quietest it had ever been. We ran the routine over and over. I stepped, I extended, I leaped, I reached. I did all the moves I was supposed to.

My feet were pointier than ever. My legs straighter. I never fell out of a single spin. The dance winds were blowing me toward the scholarship faster than I ever thought they would. And all I could think about was how bad I felt. Every step I took toward Dance-Splosion was one step away from the Dizzee Freekz.

But if I jumped overboard now and tried to swim back?

I could be kissing my chance of ever becoming a real dancer goodbye.

During the week, I texted Austin like a hundred times and never got more than a one- or two-word answer back from him.

Me:
u ok man? i didn’t mean to hurt ur feelings.

Austin:
im fine.

Me:
i rly think ur videos are awesome.

Austin:
thnx.

And I didn’t want to text Kassie or Carson, either. Not yet. I think I was scared I’d get less than a couple of words. Or maybe I’d get a lot more and they’d be something I wouldn’t want to read.

The game on Thursday didn’t pull me out of my funk. Kassie, Carson, and Austin were all there. Normally that’d make me sitting on the bench feel almost tolerable.

But not now.

I turned around and accidentally caught Kassie’s eyes. She had herself buried in her hoodie. She gave me the smallest wave a human arm could give. I waved back and turned around to pretend to watch our team continue to thrash Dogwood Middle.

On Friday, she sent a text to everyone reminding us that we didn’t have practice on Saturday. Her great-grandmother was turning ninety-three and her family was driving up to Kentucky to visit her in the nursing home.

I should’ve been bummed I wouldn’t be dancing with my friends. Honestly, though? I wasn’t sure if I would’ve been able to show up.

Yeah, I missed them. But the Kung Fu Kid was stuck in the middle of a fight between the Dizzee Freekz and Dance-Splosion.

And he was tired of getting his butt kicked.

T
he worst part about having parents who entertained their business clients at home was that I always got stuck cleaning.

Sure, my mom and dad helped, but it still wasn’t fair. Especially since this time they were making me clean out a closet. In the basement.

“Are we planning on giving them a tour or something?” I asked Dad as I pulled out a box of some of my old junk.

“No. But we may play some hide-and-seek, so we need this cleaned out.”

“Can you imagine Mom trying to stay quiet enough for that?” I asked. “After like ten seconds, she’d be yelling at someone to come find her.”

Dad laughed. “I’m telling her you said that.”

“So who’s coming over?” I asked as I dug through my stuff. “It’s not that old lady who does the knitting, is it? She smells like cat food.”

“No, it’s Alan.”

“The penny guy?”

“He’s not just buying—” Dad groaned, tossing a stack of cracked plastic bowls onto the trash pile. “Yes. Alan. The
old coin
guy.”

“Mom’s idea?”

He nodded. “But we need his business. I know his idea sounds weird, but it can make us a lot of money. Don’t worry, though. I’ve already told him to prepare for the Spanish Inquisition.” He said the last two words in a high-pitched British voice.

“The what?”

“The— Never mind. Just be ready for a very long dinner.”

By the time Alan finally showed up, my stomach was about ready to chew its way through my shirt. Mom cooked chicken Parmesan and the smell filled every inch of the house. Alan didn’t look like a guy who’d think buying up pennies was a good idea. He looked more like an elementary school principal. Short, skinny, with a smile that stretched almost as wide as his bow tie.

While I ate, I kept eyeballing Mom, waiting for her to say something about pennies. But she never did. The conversation sort of rolled around, touching on the food before bouncing to the weather and then all the construction on Interstate 40.

Eventually, it landed on sports.

“So, Dillon,” Alan said, wiping his mouth. “Your dad says you play football?”

I nodded.

“What position?”

Was
bench
a position? Before I could come up with something, Dad butted in. “He’s got his eye on a few different ones right now.” He winked at me.

“This might be my last year, actually,” I said, staring at the pile of green beans in front of me. Someone’s fork scraped across their plate. I looked up. “I want to concentrate more on my dancing.”

Alan’s eyebrows slowly inched up his forehead. “Dancing?” He glanced at Dad like he was waiting for him to translate. “Never mentioned dancing.”

“Dillon’s on a dance crew,” Mom said, smiling. “He’s up for a scholarship to Dance-Splosion.”

“So, you…” Alan set his napkin down. “You’re a ballet dancer?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t have, like, anywhere near the skills for that. I’m learning contemporary. I also do some hip-hop. Sort of.”

The old guy’s face pinched up like he was confused. Dad started to say something, but Mom cut him off. “Lots of boys dance, Alan.”

He laughed. “Oh, sure they do. I’m just a little surprised you’re letting Dillon do it, though.”

“Why?” I asked, only halfway trying to keep my voice at a normal, calm level.

“Uh, I think what Alan’s trying to say is, um—” Dad cleared his throat and put on a smile. “It’s just a little unusual. For boys to dance, I mean.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No, not unusual,” Alan said. “Maybe a little risky, though.”

He had a point. Dancing with me wasn’t always the safest best. But I was getting better. I hadn’t fallen into a bookshelf in weeks. “Football’s risky, too. In our last game, some guy broke his finger so bad it was bent all backwards.”

“Dillon, not while we’re eating, honey,” Mom said.

Alan propped his elbows on the table. “I’m talking about different kinds of risk. I was the assistant principal at a middle school for eleven years.” Nailed it. Almost. “Trust me, kids can be pretty ruthless. Chuck, you get what I’m saying, right? About it being risky?”

Mom shot to her feet. “Okay, how about coffee? Coffee, anyone?”

Later on, after Alan left, Dad came up to my room, where I was trying to do my homework. But all I could think about was Alan and his comments.

“Maybe Alan’s right,” Dad said, sitting on my bed. “You’ll be in high school before you know it. I can’t imagine boy dancers have it very easy at that age.”

I put down my pencil. “Nobody cares if boys dance, Dad. When Sarah took me to Dance-Splosion, there were tons of guys there.”

He held up his hands, trying to calm me down. “Okay, but still. Boys who dance get called a lot of things, Dillon. I don’t want you to have to go through that.”

“I don’t go through that, though. And even if they did call me names, I wouldn’t even care.”

“But
I
would. And so would your mom.”

It finally made sense. He wasn’t scared of what it’d do to me if I got called names for dancing. He was scared of how embarrassed he’d be for having the son who pranced around onstage instead of sitting on the sidelines during the football games.

“I just want you to be safe,” he said. “And I guess dancing does seem like sort of a risky hobby to have.”

My face tensed up so hard I was surprised my forehead didn’t rip. “Good to know you care.”

During the week, I made myself forget about the whole Alan-the-penny-buying-jerk incident. I used every second of my spare time to run routines after school. I was hoping I’d have one of those lightbulb moments where it all suddenly seemed so clear. And I was
really
hoping it’d come before practice on Saturday. But instead, thinking about what my dad said just made things worse and put me into a seriously bad mood. I kicked my dresser, sending my toe into a concussion.

I hopped around the room trying to muffle the bad words coming out of my mouth. Apparently it didn’t work, because around the sixth or seventh one, someone knocked on my door.

“Dillon, are you okay?”

I sat down on my bed, staring at the damage. It felt way worse than it looked. “Yeah. Just trying to find the piece of my foot I just broke off.”

The door opened and Mom came in. She put her palm on my face. Like she could tell how bad the injury was by feeling whether or not I had a fever.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Just banged my toe a little.” Or a lot.

“Okay. If you’re sure.” Mom smoothed my hair away from my eyes.

I shoved my backpack out of the way and spotted the Dizzee Freekz pin I’d attached to one of the straps. “Mom, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s say there’s this—gum you like. I mean you
love
it. Can’t go a day without chewing it. But the more you chew it with your friends, the more the flavor gets sort of lost. And then someone offers you a different flavor.”

Her eyes grew wide.

“So you try it and it’s good, too.
Really
good. But you know if you start chewing that kind, it’ll make your friends hate you. Which one do you choose?”

Mom sat on the edge of my bed and grabbed my hand. “Sweetie, is this about drugs?”

“What? No! Mom, it’s about—gum. Just gum.”

She let out a long sigh of relief. “Good. That’s good. But you understand if someone offered you drugs—”

“Mom, seriously. No one’s offering me drugs. I swear.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Okay. Because your father and I—”

I fell back on my bed with the loudest moan I could manage. This was pointless. Why were parents so stubborn? “All I want to know is what gum to choose, Mom!”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” She held her hands up like she was offended. “If this is just about gum, and I had to choose? I’d always choose the one that made me the happiest.”

“What about if you know it’ll hurt someone?”

“Then you talk to that person. And if they’re a real friend, they’ll understand.” She stood, picked up my laundry basket, and opened my door. “If all through school I’d just done what others wanted me to do, I’d have never married your father.”

That evening I finally got the official email saying I was a finalist and what to expect for the second round of auditions and how proud I should be of myself for making it this far.

Proud.

I should’ve been.

Not sure how I was supposed to reach past the guilt to pull that emotion free, though.

By Friday morning, the pain was nearly gone. Both pains. The watermelon-sized knot my toe had turned into was going to take a little while longer to heal, but the volcano-hot fist that had my stomach in a death grip was on its way out. The talk I’d had with my mom was good.

Annoying, sure.

But still good.