Previously on Dance Academy: Last Chapter: Christian took Tara to her first dance lesson with very mixed feelings: hope that she could be on the mend, fear that this might take her away from him. How is he supposed to plan his life when it never settles into anything steady?
Mixed Up
Cold Turkey
Four weeks. It's been four weeks since I ''left'' The Company. Three weeks since I started teaching. One week since Tara took her first class.
This life that I have so been looking forward to, my ''real'' life, I'm loving it, and yet not as much as I was convinced I would.
I get such a buzz from teaching Hip Hop at the Academy. It's not easy, far from it. The students there are only just accepting me, especially the third years. There's too much history there to make it a smooth transition from enemy to teacher. It's of course easier with the first years who never knew me, they are all in awe that a guy who has just danced with The Company can also bust tricks. I guess their general relief of doing something else than ballet also counts for their enthusiasm.
I've got two bunch of kids coming to the Memorial and a semi-regular basis. The pain is having to bring them back to base every time new members show up when I want to start pushing on. I'm going to have to find a solution to that, even if it's just the good old 'dive in and try to swim''.
I finally thought I would have plenty time on my hands, and I do, just not as much as I expected. Much of it is spent with Tara. That I can't complain about. Too much of it relates to paperwork. That I'm not so keen on.
So I'm busy, very busy, and yet I'm still restless.
Tara watches me weird sometimes, or puts a hand on my knee when my fidgeting leg gets too much for her when we both sit on the sofa.
I try everything that used to be my outlets. I surf, I skate, and swim, and run... It's still not enough.
The worst of it is that I am continually finding myself standing somewhere near The National Ballet Company, even though that was nowhere near my original destination. Sure it is right round the corner from the Academy and the Memorial, but still!
That's where I am, right now, just beyond it, as I see the people who, not so long ago, were my fellow dance partners.
And then I spot Rebecca.
I don't know quite how but my hand gets up in the air and my mouth is calling her name.
She stops and checks, then recognises me. She doesn't lift her hand. She doesn't cross the road to come and see me, she just stands there.
So I cross. I have no clue what I am going to say until I hear the words come out: 'I was wondering whether I could still come and train with you in the morning.'
'Train with us for what?' She glares at me for what she seems to consider an affront. 'So that you can then go off and dance with another company?'
'What? No!'
She squints as if that's going to help her look straight inside me. She can do that all she wants, I am so caught up in surprise I might as well be an open book.
'I have had endless queries. If you wanted to there are many options for you.'
'But I don't want them.'
There goes the eyebrow. 'Are you looking for employ with us, then?'
'No!' I nearly shout. 'I mean, no, thank you. I just would like to keep up with my training.'
'And what is in it for me?'
That rattles me no end. 'Nothing.'
'We do sometimes allow other dancers to join us for class, for a fee, of course, but it is never long term. There are other amateur classes we do offer...'
'Forget I said anything,' I say, swivelling on my heels.
'Still so impetuous.' She takes hold of my elbow to spin me back round. 'I am sure we can come to an arrangement.'
'I told you to forget it.'
'Christian, you haven't changed much and neither have I. A favour for a return. You can train with us in morning class, every morning, for the return favour that you will accept to be a stand in if ever we need you to. That's is not a very hard compromise, I think.'
I want to toss her offer right back in her face and kick myself in the chin for having been so impulsive. My advice to Tara clearly should not apply to me. But here I am again, in the power of this temptress ready to give me what I want, but never for free, ever.
'Morning class whenever I want or can, no obligation to come every morning.'
'I am glad we are bartering, Mr Reed. Let's add to that occasional practices too, for you would be of little use to us if you are not familiar with our repertoire, it would be for corps work only, of course.'
'That sounds okay.'
'For the time being,' she says with that trade mark smirk that can pass as a smile, just. 'When Ballet catches you, it doesn't let go easily.' She turns back to the staff entrance of The Company. 'Pleasure to make business with you, Mr Reed, as always.'
And I am left standing, torn between feeling like I've been played and yet at the same time internally rearing to go and wanting for it to be tomorrow morning already.
Coming back is, of course, not as easy as I thought. Four weeks is a life time in top level dancing, and my body who was being so adamant it needed to be pushed is now rebelling and telling me to ease off. No amount of massage is getting the ache out of my Achilles, even less the one in my neck.
Tara says I'm too stressed, and maybe I am. I keep on thinking that it will get easier when I find my stride with my teacher's role. Being in front of class, no issues. Assessing, I am getting the hang of it, halving the time it first took me. Planning to fit the assessment criteria, that's fine. But dealing with the reactions to the grading? That's when I want to disappear.
But I won't be a coward. It's their grades. If they're not happy with them, they can just work harder.
Mixed
I wanted a simple life.
I wanted to teach.
Sounds easy enough.
And then I had to put my messy mixed up spin on it.
So now I'm training with The Company in the mornings. The rest of the dancers look at me like I'm a freak. They are quite right.
I meet up Tara, I take her to her class. She lets me watch now. She has her ups and down. But at least she dances with more smiles than frowns. I keep telling her she needs to trust her body. That she knows. I doubt she finds that very helpful, no matter how right I think I am.
After that I teach one of my kids group at the Memorial. Tara tends to stay around. She wishes we could move the boys on to ballet already. There's no way this is going to work just yet. They are struggling already as it is.
And then I teach my Hip Hop, tolerate the ensuing paperwork, cope with the students that are still resisting the art form, the ones who think they know it all, and the ones that are completely lost. That last group make me feel useless.
Then it's back at Tara's for dinner and TV, not that I ever get to see the end of whatever it is we might be watching. Not great friend material, let alone the potential boyfriend I am trying to show her I could be. I think she's as oblivious as can be, or maybe even worst, she see right through me and ignores it completely.
I should be there right now, but tonight we had a staff meeting. I came ready to be treated as substandard due to my age and subject... Well, I should have readied myself for even worst. I came out of it seething so bad I went straight for an empty studio and danced my rage and last bit of energy for more than one hour.
I'm calmer now. That's what dancing has always been for me: exploding what was festering inside.
I'm glad I stayed over so late though. I love the Academy like this, the corridors dark and deserted; the sound of my steps echoing against the walls with no bodies about to cushion the effect. And yet there is a buzzing, a dull sound disturbing the emptiness.
It becomes more distinct as I follow its lead towards the furthermost studio.
Studio bookings end at 10pm. It's 11.30. No one should be here this late, not even me.
The pounding sound of electronic music that I hate effortlessly blares through the thin walls. I slow down before I pass the large windows. Even in the dimness of the corridor my eyes have to adjust to the semi darkness within, the studio being only lit up by the side lights in the waiting area.
I get all teacher-y, my back straightening, my brow furrowing, ready for telling off whoever is breaking the rules, feeding on a confidence I don't actually possess, one that I haven't yet earned. A fake. But still.
I scan through the room to size up my opponent but there's no one to be seen. Maybe a student just let a CD on before they left.
My hand reaches for the door handle but freezes mid-way.
A long, slim figure dressed in what looks like red leotard and tights uncurls from the middle of the floor.
He might be turning his back to me and looking down, but there is no mistaking his short poker straight hair. There is no confusion either about what is going to happen. His feet are in fifth, toes to heels, his arms softly curve at his side: Masukio is about to dance.
The thumping track melts into another.
Masukio shifts.
From that soft pose, his moves switch to bold and strong, very masculine as he leaps.
That shouldn't shock me, he is an athletic ballet dancer. Nothing surprising there. But it's still all wrong. Are my ears going wrong or is he really dancing classical ballet to techno music?
Without preamble or direct response to beat he shifts again. He softens into something so much gentler, his body shaping up in high-rise arabesques, in dainty pirouettes.
There isn't much I should like in this, and yet I am mesmerised.
And that's when I notice something else is off. Masukio is tall, but not this tall. And his turns have a different quality, as if his centre of gravity has changed. My eyes scan down his body as he circles the room until I spot his feet, arched up and thinned out. Pointe shoes. Red ones. Of course my mind flashes back to Tara. How could it not? The arabesques, the rounded arms, the gentle fold of the legs for the soft pliƩs. Masukio is dancing like a girl.
But before I can get my mind around it, it has changed again. The leaps grow in strength, in stealth, regaining their masculine traits, the fast turns, the bold arms. He is back at the centre and does what looks like a thousand turns, his legs changing position, at times straight or folded, in sharp lines or curved ones, once again mixing the genders. There seems to be no pattern, no premeditation, but as I watch more closely it becomes obvious that there is a response to the music, but not harmonious, not what so ever.
At first he effeminates the moves when the music feels strongest, and does the most masculine ones when the beat softens into the trance-like parts, but actually this is wrong too. He balances them equally. It makes it unpredictable and therefore even more mind blowing.
The song drifts to an end.
In the sudden absence of noise, my stomach clenches as if I am the one in the wrong place at the wrong time and about to be caught. Maybe there is truth in this. But as a teacher, even a casual one, I have more rights to be here than he does.
Before I can get my thoughts organised Masukio has rewound through the track to rehearse the last few moves again.
This was indeed choreographed. My chest fills up with the weird kind of pride, as if I have just struggled against a tricky puzzle and came out victorious.
And then Masukio disappears in the darkest corner where the stereo stands and I shuffle from foot to foot. What the heck am I supposed to do now?
I don't get to choose.
Masukio opens the door, his face a whole head higher than mine. His eyes grow wide in surprise, then fill with greyness. That's when I notice the paleness of his face, the length of the lashes, the blueness of his eyelids, all the way to the eyebrows. Make-up.
In a knee-jerk reaction I am suddenly staring at the floor, as if I can't bring myself to look at him, at his embarrassment, his shame. If I were to go through with this motion I would also step back and let him through. But I stay in his way.
I force myself to look back at him, level in my gaze and in my stance. 'That was something else.'
Mazukio's neck seems to shrink into his shoulder, his eyes refusing to meet mine.
'I have never seen anything like it,' I continue, till I realise how that could be taken and misread.
'How long have you been working on it?' I add as quickly as I can.
Masukio shrugs. Not something I associate with Japanese culture. Masukio must be learning the Aussie ways fast.
'My mate Sammy had to dance on pointe to strengthen his ankles, he said it hurt like hell. Well, his feet looked like they had gone through hell for sure,' I try to joke.
Masukio's features, normally so soft and unassuming, become hard.
'I not gay,' he spits out. He steps back, as if I have now turned dangerous.
In an invisible line of symmetry I take a reverse step too, my hands going up in peace offering. 'Okay.' I shrug. 'Neither am I, and neither did I think you might be. Not that I would care anyway. I have plenty friends on either side of that fence. It's all good with me.'
His gaze softens then. It takes me a second too long to realise it softens too much. Masukio slides all the way to his haunches, his bag slipping to the floor.
'My parents not see that way.'
I crouch low to his level, at a safe distance so that he knows I am respecting his personal space. When he finally sits down, so do I.
I am about to tell him what I think of parents as a rule when I remember how Tara is becoming with me. How she doesn't pry, how she gives me time.
'Hmm,' I say, copying her. If he looked up he would see that I am empathetically nodding too.
When nothing comes out of him I ask ,'They think you're gay?'
Masukio sighs heavily and leans against the wall. 'Not before. But they see me dance like I do.'
'Like you did just now?'
He nodded.
'Dressed like this.'
'No.' Masukio huffs, another very Aussie reaction. 'But had make-up on,' he added after a while. And then it's like gates that had been shut for a very long time are finally been released. 'And I not gay. I told them. I told them again and again. They don't trust. They don't believe. They think me sick, sick in head. Maybe they right, maybe I sick in head.'
'Mate, we're dancers, we all have to wear make-up and the weirdest thing when we dance. I had to be the Mouse King in first year. That mask was something weird alright!'
Masukio shakes his head and makes to stand up. I swallow with difficulty. And it only dawns on me that his attraction to make-up obviously extends to beyond the stage. I mean, I never wore my full costume unless I HAD to. He is wearing make-up at just before midnight for an out of boundaries solo rehearsal. This listening malarkey isn't coming to me easy, is it?
'They saw make-up and dancing and they got wrong. I like girls, I like girls a lot.'
I stand up with him. Even in the grey light and under the pale powder on his face I can guess the heat spreading in his cheeks, one that would make next to no difference on his skin or mine, even in full light, but I am no stranger to the sensation. 'My parents not listen. Not trust. That one reason why here.'
'What? They thoughts Australian ways might help straighten you out? When we're one of the most accepting culture I can think of?'
Masukio's eyes narrowed as if he didn't understand anything I said. I'm about to say it again but he shakes his head, so slowly, so sadly.
'Here away from eyes. Here no shame to family. Here still training. Here maybe change. If no I never return.'
I rack my brain. I search for what Tara would say to me when she is in her listening mode, when she makes me feel safe, when I can tell her mostly anything. But I fall short, so short and empty.
So instead I tap his shoulder and say what I feel. 'I'm sorry.'
He nods and grabs his bag.
'Thank you, Christian,' he says in his strong accented voice. 'Please tell no one.'
'I won't, of course I won't. But Masukio, I have to tell you, this is good, really good. I hope you'll show it to everyone one day.'
I see pride running through his eyes, and then worry, and fear, and then defeat pulls his shoulders back down.
'Maybe not now, but hopefully one day you will. Oh, and by the way, you really shouldn't be in the studio that late. If you do make sure I'm not around, or I'll be duty bound to do something about it, okay?'
Masukio smiles at me, a smile that thanks and mocks in equal measure. Fair enough. He might dance in women's shoes, but I'm not entirely comfortable in mine either.
Author's note: Nearly there, the 8 months lapse is nearly over!
