No One's Watching by Sandy Green

shoes, holding the soles up to my discarded ballet slippers to compare the size. “These ought to work. Now for poodle socks.”
    Megan and the rest of the little girls wore bumpy, white socks landing halfway between their knees and their ankles. She handed me a pair. “Since you’re wearing your ballet tights, you can save the socks for tomorrow. They’re regulation.” She stood and snapped the hem of her spandex shorts. “Do you have a pair like these?’
    I had several black pairs in my room. I nodded.
    â€œWear them tomorrow, too.” She squatted and gave me a pair of the funny black shoes. “Try these on.”
    â€œI thought you wore something like tap shoes.” I held the shoes by their laces as if they were dead rabbits.
    â€œThey’re called hard shoes and only for more advanced students, like Lindy and me. I’m twelve. You get them after you study Irish dance for a couple of years. With hard shoes, the steps are quick.” Megan nodded toward the others. “The rest of the girls have only had a little Irish dance.”
    My mind went numb as I fit black shoes on my feet. The supple leather was softer than ballet slippers. Megan untied her shoe and showed me how to pull the laces so they tightened along the top of my foot.
    â€œSome Irish dancers wrap the rest of the laces around their ankles and tie it off. I like to wrap it first under my arch and then around my ankle. The shoe doesn’t gap that way. And don’t forget to make a double knot.”
    I copied her until the laces resembled a black web against my foot.
    â€œStart over.” She frowned. “If you pull them too tightly, you’ll strangle your foot. If the laces are too loose, your shoe will flop and you’ll trip.”
    I tried it again and showed Megan. She tested the laces by picking at them as they lay across the tops of my feet. It stung where she snapped them. Her four-leaf clover green eyes shone approval.
    â€œAbout ready?” Mr. Sean rubbed his hands together.
    Megan brushed her hands off. “That’s as good as it’s going to be for now. Stand up.”
    I blinked dumbly and stood. Yesterday I was in the advanced ballet class. Today I was taking orders from a twelve-year-old. Could I sink any lower?
    Apparently, yes. I stood at the barre in the middle of the pack of future middle schoolers, my head poking above them as if I were Snow White. Blake was by himself at the barre facing the mirror. So much for us sticking together.
    Mr. Sean spoke from the front of the room. “Today, we’ll have an introductory class so Kitri and Blake can get used to moving in a new way. We’ll be doing something I choreographed for my students. We’ll learn the choreography for our piece sometime next week which should give us plenty of time for rehearsals.”
    Megan exchanged a glance with a blond ponytailed girl and shook her head.
    â€œLet’s start with basic posture.” Mr. Sean stood straight in first position, with his arms against his sides so no light shone through. “Nice and tall, even the neck is long. Relaxed, yet completely pulled up.”
    We mimicked him.
    â€œRelax. Not so stiff. It’s dancing more under yourself. I’ll try to give you the French ballet terms for steps similar to the Irish steps, although it’s a style all its own. Irish dance isn’t ballet with stiff costumes and curled hair.”
    Curled hair? Were we expected to curl our hair for the performance? This morning I used a gallon of hairspray trying to keep the wisps from poking straight up on my head. Lucky this was my first and last exposure to this form of dance.
    â€œKeep your arms flat against you. They always remain at your sides.” He demonstrated.
    Irish dancers keep their arms at their sides?
    â€œAlways?” I blurted. Considering my ballet teachers never relented on my flailing arms, that was the first good news since I