Toe to Toe (On Pointe Book 1) by Penelope Freed (comprehension books txt) 📗

I take a deep breath and smile at Ms. Parker. “Thanks Ms. Parker. I feel ready. I’m good.” I give her a quick squeeze before she turns to Olivia to check in with her before leaving. Olivia and I are the only ones from our studio who are competing in the contemporary division, so it’s just the two of us backstage this afternoon. Later tonight, when it’s time for the classical variations, it’ll be just me and Lisa.

Olivia is busy stretching, earbuds firmly in her ears, jacket zipped up to her chin. Her blonde hair is smoothly slicked back to a low ponytail, a deep part over her right eye, an olive green scarf tied around the ponytail to match her costume. In the darkness of the wings, her dramatic stage makeup makes her look older than sixteen. My hair is twisted tightly into a smooth French twist, my lips are bright red, my cheeks are contoured and the deep smokey eye makeup I’m wearing makes my blue eyes pop. Unfortunately, one of my false eyelashes is just a little bit off and keeps poking the corner of my eye. Hopefully I have enough time to take it off and re-apply it before my classical variations later tonight, because it is really annoying.

Olivia and I are scheduled to go eleventh and twenty-ninth out of thirty contemporary solos. I’m bummed that Olivia gets to go first and I have to wait until almost the end, I hate being at the end, but it means I can watch her dance without feeling stressed that I’m next.

I sit down next to her and silently start stretching my own legs and feet. We don’t talk, just sit in comfortable silence through the first four solos, each lost in thought and focused on getting our bodies ready. Occasionally, Olivia points to something on the stage and makes a face or mouths “Wow,” and I shake or nod my head in response when someone does something impressive or cringeworthy. The second competitor, I recognize him as the guy wearing the blue t-shirt yesterday, is really amazing. He moves like liquid across the stage, then flies through the air like he’s weightless. One of Olivia’s silent exclamations is accompanied by her fanning herself, which makes me giggle. I mean, he is also pretty cute and his costume is just a pair of flowy silk pants which shows off his toned abs, which I won’t complain about. I elbow her and she smirks, then leans in close to whisper in my ear.

“What number are they on now?”

I listen for the announcer as I see a girl in the wings across from us hopping up and down, getting herself ready to go on. A muffled voice comes over the speakers and she sedately walks to center stage and stops, twisting her arms above her head, knees bent. “She’s number eight, I think.” I whisper, nodding my head towards the girl who just started dancing.

Waiting is the worst part.

I alternate between stretching, hopping around to stay warm and fiddling with my shoes and costume while we wait. I’m wearing a plain navy blue leotard, no rhinestones, frills or skirt to hide behind. It’s got long sleeves and a high neck with big patches of matching navy mesh criss-crossing my arms, stomach and back. I used special glue to stick the bottom to my butt so it doesn’t give me a wedgie while I’m dancing, since I’m not wearing tights for this solo. My skin-tone pointe shoes feel hard against my bare feet.

When the tenth competitor gets called on stage, Oliva hops up, pulls her warm up pants off and unzips her jacket. I take them so I can hold onto them while she’s dancing. I don’t trust anyone else not to step on them backstage. I stand with her in the wings while she waits, bouncing from one bare foot to the other trying to stay warm.

The dancer on stage finishes, bows and runs off stage. As the audience applause dies down the announcer says Oliva’s name and she steps out of the wings to take her place on stage, standing with her feet flat, arms relaxed at her side, chin up and gaze lifted to the back of the audience. She looks confident, poised, and utterly sure of her place in the world. God, I’m so jealous.

I hear a single, deep voice give a lone, “Whoop!” in the silence, then her music plays. She starts swirling, twisting and moving across the stage. Her movements alternate between smooth and sharp—twisted and broken one moment and almost sensual the next. She’s mesmerizing.

Her solo finishes with an abrupt freeze, as if she’s about to take off and run straight off the stage. It gets me every time. The audience erupts into applause and I hear that deep voice again. Is that her dad? I thought he wasn’t coming today? Besides, he knows better than that. Ballet competitions are sedate affairs, there’s generally not a lot of whooping and hollering in these theaters.

“You were fabulous,” I whisper to Oliva as she comes offstage. I hand her back her clothes. Olivia’s sweaty and flushed, breathing hard but she doesn’t meet my eyes as she pulls her pants on and shrugs into her jacket.

“Thanks,” she whispers back, finally, zipping up her jacket. “I’m going to go grab my water bottle.” Without waiting for me to reply, Olivia slips out the side door and disappears backstage, leaving me on my own.

I turn and watch the guy who’s currently dancing on stage. He’s okay, I guess. He doesn’t look like he’s been training for very long, maybe a year or two. He’s really strong, but not very graceful, he still has that stiff hesitation that only goes away when you’ve been dancing for a long time, that innate confidence in how to move your body, the trust you have that your body will do it right without conscious thought.

Just as he finishes his solo, I feel a