No One's Watching by Sandy Green Page B

standing foot flat on the floor and four times raised on the ball of your foot. Ready?”
    Blake stepped behind me as we all moved to the wall and grasped the barre with our left hands. At least I would be able to show off my extreme flexibility to Blake. If I weren’t so stiff.
    As an Irish jig intro played on the CD, Mr. Sean told us to get high on the balls of our feet. When I kicked, my leg barely reached my waist. So much for showing off.
    Mr. Sean counted out the exercise. “Now in fifth position. Same thing.”
    We crossed our feet with the left toe touching the right heel and the left heel to right toe. This was actually fun. The music was so much more lively than the dull classical piano music played during ballet class. I forgot I was sore.
    We faced the opposite way, held onto the barre with our right hands and repeated everything with our left legs. Blake’s arm jerked away from his side a few times. I breathed deeply, trying to find his cologne with my nose. That messed me up and caused me to lose my concentration. My free hand floated up as if I were asking a question in algebra class.
    â€œCareful with your arms.” Mr. Sean paced along the room.
    I pulled mine to my side.
    â€œTime for cardio work.” Mr. Sean had us face the barre and hold on lightly with both hands. We alternated hopping on each foot in a confusing combination. I sneaked another peek at Blake, and we cracked up. Mr. Sean sped up the music. By the fourth time we repeated the exercise, I was sucking down air like it would make me weightless. Blake’s hand brushed the side of mine as we held onto the barre . I was going to die.
    More jumps at the barre , this time in fifth position switching feet as we landed. Finally, something like a ballet step. We even did entrechat quatre jumps — jumping in the air, beating the heels around each other back to front and landing with the same foot we started with. Blake gave me a thumbs-up. I was sure the overlap between ballet and Irish dance wouldn’t last long. Mr. Sean must’ve been giving us these similar steps to lull us into thinking it wouldn’t be so difficult to learn Irish dance. I had to stick to my convictions.
    We stretched at the barre and on the floor.
    â€œIt’s vital to keep your upper bodies quiet. Think of swans.” Mr. Sean paddled his hands in the air. “They’re working like mad under the water, but their bodies are calm. Our legs work underneath, but we’re drinking a cup of tea on top.” His face was serene as he pantomimed sipping from a teacup. “Irish tea, of course.”
    My stomach, sore from all the crunches, hurt as I joined everybody laughing at Mr. Sean’s illustration. He sure was a different teacher from Mr. Jarenko. I didn’t want to be rude to Mr. Sean and act like I hated Irish dance, and I didn’t so far. I had to keep my ultimate goals in front of my brain. I doubted this detour into Irish dance would achieve my target.
    â€œWe have time for a little circle work and then something from the corner.” Mr. Sean demonstrated running steps to the side, three alternating hops starting with the right foot and a cut to switch sides. “I want you to hold hands so you get the feel of pulling upward and outward. Take up space. Move expansively. In Irish dance, there isn’t much sideward movement.” He waved everyone to their feet. “Let’s stand and hold hands.”
    Blake offered his hand to me. I clasped it, curling my thumb around his like it was something I did every day. I died again. Thank heaven I had perfected my ballet dancer’s face, thanks to practicing in the mirror. Raised eyebrows. Alert and attentive. Not a whole lot of expression.
    I came back to life and held out my left hand to the girl with blond, curly hair who was on the other side of me. She grasped it as if it were made of china. Or a favorite stuffed toy. My insides twisted as she