Step Up and Dance by Thalia Kalipsakis

the middle of it all, Lesley seemed to have grown an extra pair of hands – pinning one costume, scribbling lists on a bit of paper and calming one of the nervous mums.
    â€˜Eisteddfod time,’ said Bec from the doorway, watching with her arms crossed.
    â€˜I need to do a wee!’ cried one of the tiny tots, clutching desperately at her tutu before being scooped up by her mum.
    Bec and I stood back from the doorway as the pink ball of tulle rushed past.
    â€˜Get used to it, hon!’ Bec called after them with a wry smile.
    I laughed, then leaned again on the doorway, watching one of the little girls admiring herself in the mirror. Slowly she lifted one leg, then pointed her toe, transfixed by the look of her own leg in tights.
    I smiled. Then rested my head on the doorway and sighed. Those were the days. That was when dancing made my heart sing, and we had a whole year to learn two easy numbers. Practising in the lounge room until Dad kicked me out. Counting down the days until the best day of the year: eisteddfod.
    All that seemed like a long time ago. Princesses and fairies were a world away from corporate sponsorship and television broadcasts.
    â€˜Get warm people!’ called Lesley through the pin sticking out of the corner of her mouth. ‘We have to finish the opener today. And I have three new time-outs to do.’
    With a smile for one of the tots as I passed, I headed for my usual spot at the barre and began the steady soothing routine of warm-up kicks. They felt good, like a satisfying stretch in the morning.
    This was what it was all about – the height of a kick after years of practice, an automatic point, the way my muscles knew precisely how to lift my leg and turn out just so . . . Dancing might have become work for me now, but there was still nothing else in the world that could make my body feel like this.

    I stretched my leg behind me, reaching forward in an arabesque. And hold.
    Right on cue, Abe twirled in front of me – falling into a dramatic floor pose to start her solo. She danced with a soft kind of beauty until she arched to one side. And hold.
    Last of all came Andrew: more kicks, a daring somersault. Then he, too, was reaching forward. And hold.
    For a moment, the music seemed to pause, a moment of anticipation. Nine bodies stretched and held in perfect position. Luxurious statues.
    Then the music let itself go and so did we, moving forwards into formation. The same head flick. The same sideways reach. All of us moving as one.
    I always liked learning a new routine. Lesley was an amazing choreographer. Each new number seemed to push us a bit further, work us that little bit harder. And this opener was no exception. It was fast, and full of moves that felt strange in my limbs.
    When we got to the end, everyone was panting.
    Everyone except Lesley.
    â€˜Abe. Do this.’ In the mirror, Lesley did one of the moves. A hip roll followed by a flick of the head.
    Abe followed perfectly – like a sensual black-lycra snake.
    â€˜Good. Sexy,’ called Lesley. Then she pointed at me. ‘Now Saph.’
    I did the move. Hip roll, then flick of the head.
    Lesley put her hands on her wide hips. ‘Technically perfect. But not sexy.’
    I bit my lip. This number was tough. Sexy in a way that made my cheeks go pink. What would Dad think if he could see me now . . .?
    â€˜Abe again,’ said Lesley, pointing.
    Around went those hips. Flick went that head. She had a sexy kind of confidence that would never be mine.
    â€˜Can you see what I mean, Saph?’ asked Lesley.
    â€˜Yeah, but …’ I held out my hands indicating my sixteen-year-old body and short Greek legs. ‘I’m not like that.’
    Lesley’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re a dancer, Saph. If the dance calls for sex, then you dance like that.’
    Yeah? Pity I’d never had sex . . .
    I made a freak-out face and tried to laugh.
    Lesley was watching me closely.