Chapter 1: Our Thing: Chapter 1

Sweat beads on my forehead as my ballet partner pulls me into our final sequence. The other performers are in a semi-circle formation around us. The music has peaked, and the audience is in a state of silenced awe.

I’m en-pointe, floating across the stage in an ethereal motion, when the spotlight bounces around the audience. As it momentarily illuminates the faces of the people seated, I catch a glimpse of a boy I haven’t seen in many years. So many in fact that I’m surprised I’ve recognised him at all. Joshua, I think his name is.

One summer on my front lawn, he and my brother had gotten into a fight. Fists and bats were swung. He’d nearly knocked my brother unconscious.

But that’s not why I remember him.

Warmth spreads through me.

I remember him because that was the first time I’d seen the notorious bad boy of the District. Oh, he’d only been young then so his reputation hadn’t yet formed roots, but there was no mistaking his strength. His single mindedness. Dominance. That boy with the grey eyes had been a complete stranger to my brother and I and yet, he’d jumped into the rumble. After dragging Joshua away, he’d effortlessly laid him out across the grass. Then he’d wandered up the street as if nothing had even happened. Well, something had happened. . . He’d made an impression.

A lasting one!

My attention is drawn back to my dance partner as he pulls me into our closing position. We still, smiling and breathing heavily. The crowd stands and coos. As the curtains slowly draw shut to the sound of applause, his name lingers in my mind.

Max Butcher.

He is the boy I dream about at night. Until recently, I’d never seen much of him, but my sister Flick has started to date someone in his circle and now he’s everywhere.

Much to my delight and discomfort.

Lost in thoughts, I’m taken off guard as my ballerina squad ambushes me in our private sanctuary behind the fabric that separates us from the audience. They jump and squeal with excitement, congratulating me on my successful final show as Nikiya. I hug a few girls, two or three. The exact amount of embraces unknown because I’m so drained from my performance.

I hope no one can notice.

Rushing down the hall towards my dressing room, I pass by dancers that are being embraced and gifted flowers under waves of excitement. It’s not until I’m pushing the door open and the silence and stillness of my dressing room surrounds me, that I’m able to focus on myself. Not on Max Butcher or the day he’d rescued my brother from a bully.

No. Not on that!

Sitting down in front of the mirror, I stare at myself and sigh. ‘You’re eighteen today.’

Right now, Flick is probably blowing up balloons and ordering caterers around in preparation for my arrival.

Today was the final day of my tour as Nikiya, the main female role in La Bayadere. It was a beautiful production about how love conquers all despite the three big A’s – Angst, Action, and Anguish. And I showed the audience that emotion in motion. I expressed it through movement and lived with it in my body for the past six months while really absorbing her character, and yet I have no real-life experience with any of the A’s.

I am, for lack of a better phrase, A-less.

Leaning closer to my reflection, I focus on myself. ‘Why are you thinking about Max Butcher and Angst and Anguish and Action? Cassidy? Are you listening to me? He doesn’t even know your name. . .’

A knock at the door snatches my attention. Clearing my throat, I swivel in my chair to face it. ‘Come in.’

The sound of the girls celebrating another successful show suddenly radiates into the room. On a flood of energy and good vibes, my bestie enters, holding a bunch of white tulips. ‘Darlin, you were amazing!’

He struts over to me and places the bouquet on my dresser. ‘Oh my.’ His mouth drops open as he cups his cheeks in mock-horror. ‘Are you talking to yourself in the mirror again?’

The truth plays with my mouth. My lips twist into a grin. ‘It’s a very one-sided conversation.’

Despite his overly broad shoulders, and thick waistline, Toni is still one of the prettiest guys I know. He is half-Chinese, half-Italian and rocks the best of both worlds, with his delicate Asian features and long ink-black lashes that sit under thick chocolate-brown hair. His skin is the perfect tone of caramel. He is pretty and butch – it’s a beautiful combination.

Grabbing a stool from the corner of the room, he pulls it up beside me and makes himself comfortable. He faces the mirror, giving himself a once over before rubbing his jaw to check for stubble. ‘You were incredible out there, my queen.’

‘Thank you.’ I turn back to my reflection and now another name plays on my mind. A big sigh escapes me. ‘Konnor didn’t come tonight. He’s not coming at all.’

Toni’s over-the-top attitude softens. Despite his usual humour, he knows that when it comes to my brother, I don’t appreciate jokes. Konnor is, without a doubt, my favourite person in the whole world, and he’s been through so much. He’s adopted, but I’d like to see anyone tell me he isn’t my real brother. They’d soon be sporting a Cassidy shaped fist in their abdomen.

Toni’s smile is tight. ‘He lives on the other side of the state, eons from the District. It’s too far. He’s got classes and rugby and heterosexual male stuff to do. Darlin, you’ll have more fun without him tonight, don’t worry. He’s kinda a drag when it comes to you.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I huff. ‘But I’d still like him here.’

‘I know you would. But you have this drag.’

I grin at him and lift my feet onto his lap. He immediately gets to work, unwrapping the ribbon from my pointe shoes and peeling me out of my confinements.

‘Oh my gawd, that feels so good.’ I wiggle my toes. ‘Flick says his punishment is ‘Crazy Grandma Duty’ next Christmas.’

Toni’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. ‘Does she still call him ‘The Fake Grandson’?’ Toni asks as he rubs my feet.

I try not to giggle because she’s harmless and Konnor knows it. ‘Yep, every time. But they both get drunk, argue, and then end up discussing the universe and religion and communism. It’s like clockwork.’

‘Are they for or against communism?’

‘Hard to say. I think they both agree in a kind of socialism?’

Toni laughs again. ‘Your brother is so intense.’

‘I know.’

‘So can you get your fanny up and get a move on!’

Nodding, I face myself in the mirror. ‘My birthday. . . Lots of people. Profiteroles, maybe. Cocktails, definitely. Speeches, I hope not! Presents. . . Maybe I’ll get the Bert and Ernie leotard I’ve been asking for. . . Hey, have you ever noticed that Bert has a monobrow, while Ernie doesn’t have any eyebrows at all?’

‘No, I didn’t. But I did notice they sleep in the same bed, so I blame Sesame Street for my homosexuality.’

I pull my feet from his lap and twist to face the mirror. ‘You should write to thank them.’

‘I will. Now let’s get that makeup off, because you kinda look like a baby prostitute.’

‘I think I’m the last person in our entire city you can call a prostitute,’ I point out as I begin to wipe the makeup off my eyes and cheeks.

‘You have no one to blame for your abstinence but yourself. Guys wanna get up in there.’ He smirks and thrusts his hips suggestively. ‘You just won’t let ’em.’

I copy his thrusting and giggle. ‘I don’t have time for guys to get up in here.’

‘Get a dick up ya already.’ He laughs loudly. ‘You’re all wound tight! We’re not living in a John Hugh’s movie; you’re not gonna lose it to the boy you will marry and have annoying little brats with.’

I scoff as I continue to remove my makeup. When someone knocks at the door, I immediately sing out, ‘Come in’ without thinking.

My casual attitude changes as soon as I see who strides in. Two middle aged men in coats greet me – one with a wide smile and open arms. I don’t need an introduction to know who he is. It’s a formidable sight to see Jimmy Storm striding into my dressing room. I’ve never met him before.

Why would I?

But I’ve seen him on the District News enough to know that he’s Barack Obama to some and Al Capone to others. I swallow, finding it hard not to notice that Toni’s suddenly ashen beside me.

‘Cassidy. What beauty. Thank you for that performance,’ he says, his accent so thick it’s like he’s only just left Sicily.

‘Hi, Jim-, I mean, Mr Storm.’

‘Jimmy please.’ He extends both hands and sandwiches mine between them. He smells like smoke and bourbon and something else – something like. . . shoe polish?

I grin at him and feel my cheeks heat. ‘I’m glad you liked it.’

‘Liked it? M’arricriài!’ He gestures theatrically. ‘You are a very talented young lady.’

My eyes move to the man beside him, who is standing so staunchly I reckon a bullet wouldn’t chip him. I wonder if he’s intending to appear intimidating or if he’s just antisocial. I glance back at Jimmy. ‘Thank you.’

Jimmy releases my hands and croons, ‘I love the ballet. Did you know it originated in my country? Not France. It was Sicily. The romance. The passion. The drama. Ballet is my soul, Cassidy.’

‘Well. . .’ I chuckle awkwardly, unsure of what to say to a stranger that talks with such sensibility. ‘Well, mine too.’

He laughs loudly. ‘Yes. I could see that when you were on stage. I had to come here and thank you.’ His eyes haven’t left mine. ‘You need to dance at one of my events.’

‘Yeah, for sure,’ I find myself saying. Dancing in front of people comes as naturally to me as breathing, so why wouldn’t I just say yes? And given he’s incredibly famous and somewhat of a philanthropist, he’s probably just referring to a charity event or a play he’s sponsoring. . .

Well, that and he’s Jimmy Storm, so it’s not as if I even have a choice.

But maybe I do? Maybe I should have said, ‘Maybe’?

Stop maybeing!

‘For sure,’ he nods, repeating my words. ‘I will see you soon then, Cassidy Slater.’

‘Okay,’ I say with a half giggle that sounds nervous even though I’m not.

I’m not.

He turns and walks out, tailed by the other man. As soon as the door clicks shut, I swivel to face Toni. ‘What. The. Actual. Frick? Did that just happen?’ I say, my mouth nearly as wide as Toni’s eyes.

‘Oh my, you’re in trouble,’ he says, his lips now a mischievous curve.

‘Who would have thought that Jimmy Storm likes ballet?’ I rub my cheeks in disbelief. ‘Hey, why am I in trouble? Don’t say that.’

He looks at me, animated as usual. ‘A private viewing for Mr Storm.’

‘Stop it. He never said he wanted a private viewing. Jebus, Toni!’

‘Jesus, darlin. It was subliminal.’

‘You’re subliminal.’ I chuckle as I turn to the mirror to finish removing my makeup.

Toni sighs with disappointment. ‘I’d like to be subliminal in a sexy boy by now, but we’re still here. Here, instead of being at your party.’

I turn my nose up. ‘I don’t get it.’

He stares down at his phone, which is always pinging away with gossip. ‘That’s because you are an asexual pigeon.’

‘I’m not an asexual pigeon,’ I sulk, giving my face a final wipe before dabbing moisturiser below my eyes.

‘Yeah, you are.’ He lowers his phone and I already know he’s about to start a monologue. ‘You’re scared and way too picky. You know, you could have any one you want. . . Nearly anyone – not me. I mean, I’d give you a pity hump, but I’d be thinking about Mark Walberg. But no, you, my girl, have big girl-boners all the time, but you tuck them in your leotard and get back to acting like an asexual pigeon. You are too afraid that a slice of cock will derail your ambitions. ‘ Toni coos like a pigeon.

I scowl at him half-heartedly and feel the need to say something dirty. ‘Well, I think the guy I like has a whole cake, not a slice.’

Toni cracks up laughing. ‘Look, let’s go get feral, and I think you should just, like, purr all over someone’s face tonight.’

‘I’m not going to lose my virginity on my eighteenth birthday. It’s too cliché.’

Looking straight at my reflection, dead serious, he raises a sharply tweezed eyebrow. ‘Look, darlin. Firstly, purring on his face isn’t going to take away your V-card. I know most guys are dickheads, but it doesn’t work like that.’

I giggle, pulling the bobby-pins from my hair and letting it cascade over my shoulders.

‘And secondly.’ He suddenly frowns at me. ‘Are you leaving your hair like that?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

Toni looks exasperated. ‘You have incredible hair. Long. Strawberry-blonde. Wavy. Don’t you want to wash it so it isn’t all sticky and stiff from that hair Viagra they spray on you?’

I laugh. Grabbing my leave-in hair conditioner from inside my cosmetic bag, I spray it all over my hair and rub it in. ‘Better? Why does it matter? Everyone knows I’m coming from performance.’

Toni smirks, a secret clearly lingering on his smug lips.

My eyes narrow. ‘What do you know?’

‘I saw a tweet just before I got here,’ he says, still brandishing a big grin. ‘And, well, ya know, apparently a certain Butcher boy might be coming to your party.’

I clear my throat, but wish I hadn’t because Toni is now smirking like a fricking fox that’s just caught a hen. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Look, I know I have this little crush and I said a few things, but it’s not a big deal. Please . . . please don’t make it a big de-‘

‘Firstly, I’d call it an infatuation, not a crush. You’re seconds away from drawing hearts with little M’s in them on your leotards,’ he objects. ‘And secondly, you have never crushed on anyone. Ever. Before. And then you happen to crush on the most notorious man whore in the District? This. This is a sign. Prove you’re not an asexual pigeon and take his enormous cake and eat it. Tonight!’

I stand and turn from him evasively before sliding my leotard down my shoulders and shimmying it past my legs. My heart begins to race. I shift from one foot to the other, trying to pull it off. ‘I doubt he even knows my name,’ I mumble.

‘Maybe not. But he will after toniiiiight. Purr. On. His. Face.’

My pulse thunders in my ears. Max Butcher is the last person on earth who would find me the least bit interesting. I have spent my whole life studying and dancing. I have no social skills. I’m awkward and weird and completely inappropriate and so very uncool, especially whenever I open my mouth around intimidating people – like him.

Finally managing to tug my stockings off, I chuck them towards my bag. ‘He’s coming to hang out with Flick, you know that. It has nothing to do with me.’

I don’t want to keep talking because talking to Toni right now is just going to freak me out. But if I don’t talk to him then he’ll know I’m freaked out. Which I’m not. Unless he talks to me.

Feeling my skin flush, I don’t look at Toni, but I can sense his eyes on me. When I’m down to my underwear, I riffle through my bag to find clothes for tonight. Clothes that I know aren’t in here because I didn’t pack any ‘Max Butcher’ appropriate clothes because I didn’t know I would be fricking needing them! After moving the same three pieces of clothing around again and again, I finally pull them out. Acting like that hadn’t just happened, I turn to face Toni with a feigned grin. ‘So red playsuit and cream ballet flats, it is.’