Previously on Dance Academy: Last Chapter: Christian walked into The Academy ready to take on his post as freelance Hip Hop teacher. He had been warned about paperwork nightmare, but he wasn't quite ready for how bad it could be. The teaching part though, that's a bliss.
A Leopard Doesn't Change His Spots
I knock, I may very well have a key but I'm polite enough not to barge in.
'Come in,' she calls, and I love the way she knows it's got to be me and not a random neighbour out to borrow sugar or something.
The sight of her catches me so much by surprise though that for a second I feel like I need to blink and check again.
Since I started to teach two weeks ago I've been eating lunch with her every day, and I've come over for most evenings too, when I managed to finish my stupid paperwork not too ridiculously late. That Mrs Tankard doesn't joke about with paperwork. It might be her second love after dance. I sometimes wonder if it's not the other way round.
So coming in and catching Tara sitting at the high table, her laptop opened in front of her, that's usual. But she's wearing a suit jacket, and her hair is up in a bun.
And not just any bun, but one of those posh ones that looks like a tornado has been stuck to the back of her head, the wide mouth curling at the top. A quiff like structure sits above her brow, making her chin even more pointy. And she is wearing make-up, eyes lined with blue, cheeks blushed, lips shiny with gloss. Complete with a white shirt and pencil skirt, Tara looks like she is ready to head off for an office job she hasn't got.
I was about to drop my rucksack at the corner behind the door, like I always do, but I hitch it back up. 'Are you going somewhere?'
'Me, no. Why?'
The question is so preposterous I answer with my hands, gesticulating at her attire, before the words come out. 'You're all dressed up.' I state the obvious.
'Oh, that, that's nothing.'
I can feel my right eyebrow rise high on my forehead.
She spots it. 'I'm waiting for a call.'
'Tara, you are going to have to make sense soon, cause I still don't get the link. Who is calling you?'
'Angela.'
'Angela who?'
'Angela,' Tara says, her hands flapping in excitement in front of her face. 'The girl with the party blog in Melbourne, she's going to call!'
'So dressing up is to get into role or something?'
'What?'
'Well, she's not going to see you on the phone.'
'Oh, no, not on the phone, online,' she points at her laptop.
Now that makes a little more sense. But still, I don't get it. Why on earth is Tara pretending to be someone she is not? She is helping organise parties, not going for CEO position in a bank.
I leave it at that though. I have my touchy subjects, this would be one of Tara's. She's respecting mine, I shall return the favour.
'Okay.' I nod. 'Do you want me to go then? I don't want to be in the way.'
Tara glances at me in surprise. 'No, stay. Of course, stay.'
And that's one of the things I love about coming to Tara's. It's not my home, nothing here is of mine apart from one or two spare T-shirts and a toothbrush in case I do stay over to sleep on the sofa. And yet I feel at home here. Nothing in my house would be pink, there would be no trophies or diplomas in sight, and probably no pilates equipment either, that's a given, but when I am here I can be me. Tara and I might talk, we might watch TV, or read books, each on our side of the sofa, or facing each other over the table, both working on our laptops, or we can do something completely different, it really doesn't matter. We are cool, comfy, at ease.
But of course it is not that simple. We have made our peace. I guess it helps that Tara can see how much I am loving teaching, well most of it, that is.
The whole thing about being in front of a class and getting them to move in ways they haven't before, be it the supposedly expert at The Academy or the small bunch of boys who have started coming to the Memorial to get me started, it's just amazing. It's the proof that I was right. That this is it for me.
She can see that in the smile that doesn't leave my lips even when I am exhausted.
And yet there's that little niggling thought playing in my head that this is just a front, that I am not being transparent, that despite all our friendly comfort, I still wish for more.
That when we read side by side, I do look up and stare at her for as long as I dare.
That when we watch movies I hope for that time when she might grab my hand because she is scared, or sad, or she finds something too beautiful and she just has to share her emotion. She's not even aware she is doing, such is her total involvement with the story.
And then I hope for those times when she drifts towards me in tiredness and might end up with her head over my shoulder.
I live for these times, I crave them.
When they don't happen, it's no easy task to hide my disappointment.
Like my Njroki role, I'm being two faced.
It's not who I want to be but what else could I do?
It's not as if she has made any of these actions carry more weight than ''look, we are friends, it's so good to be so at ease with each other. Aren't we lucky?'' She doesn't say this in so many words, but her smile, that gentle twinkling in her eyes, they say it all.
Resigned, I settle myself across from her and get my book out.
'How is the blog going then?'
'Fantastic. I have another bunch of followers since last week and two people sponsored me even if I didn't give them specific advice. And I have another party to plan for next month. It's all a bit scary, to be honest.'
'But really exciting,' I say, taking in the proud smile creeping on her lips.
'Yes,' she nearly squeals. But then the ring ring of weblink grabs her attention.
She wriggles on her seat, tuck a non-existent unruly strand of hair behind her ear and rattles her throat before hitting 'accept'.
Her eyes open wide in shock and suddenly I am filled with stranger danger warnings and what a crazy perv might be doing right now. I wheel around the table to stand beside her, ready to take her out of freeze by slamming the screen down, but what I see is innocent enough. There appears a young woman, maybe only just older than Tara, with her hair looking decidedly greasy, scrunched up in a loose ponytail, no make-up, huge dark lines under her eyes and not just a few piercings dotted about her face.
'Hi Tara, my goodness you look so professional.'
'Oh, erm, yes, I guess so.'
Tara's hand reaches out to her hair, but I still it. She glances at me in total confusion. But then, she returns her eyes to the screen.
Angela, if that is her real name, has started chatting in a happy banter, asking about her blog and how it is going, commenting on how great her last article was.
Tara unfreezes. She is still wearing the same silly disguise, but now she is behaving like herself, the curve of her smile natural and easy, her voice returns to its natural lilts and rounded cadences. Tara is finally being who she truly is.
Relieved I leave them to it and go to lounge on the sofa to read.
They carry on chatting for over an hour, and I have read next to no pages. Half of the time I spent looking at her, the excitement playing on her face, the scrunch of her eyebrows when she processed new information, the pride when she retold one of her successes. It's like a little show just for me to see.
'Okay, I'd better go,' I hear from the computer.
'Sure. Oh, can I asked you one more question?'
'Go ahead.'
'You look very different on the photo in your professional profile.'
'Oh yeah, that was taken a little while ago, and I had removed all my jewellery, had tonnes of make-up on. One of those crazy make-over thing. Looks good though, no? very ''professional''?'
'Yes,' Tara says a bit unclearly, as if the words got stuck with an uncomfortable swallow.
'You haven't got a photo on yours, have you?'
'No.'
'Take a screen shot now, you look great.'
'Thanks. Can-' Tara gulped, visibly so. 'Can I ask why you took your piercings off, I mean, if you do meet client, then they get to see you ''you'', right?'
Angela laughed. 'Ah no, they don't. If it's a punk themed party, I would go as a punk. If it's classy, all the metal gets taken out, the pastel colours come in. You've got to go with what the client wants, like this they trust you to know what you are on about.'
'I see, makes sense, thanks.'
'No problems, it's cool to share ideas, I mean, it's not as if we are competing, there's plenty enough to do in Melbourne without feeling a need to branch out intercity! Just so long as you don't try to take over my turf.'
'Of course not!'
'I'm joking. God, look at your face! Okay, It's been good to chat, let's catch up again soon then.'
'Yes, let's.'
One single ping and Tara finally lifts her gaze up from the screen, and all the joyous feel of the last hour drains out of her.
'I am such an idiot.'
I am up and by her side in seconds. 'No, you're not.'
'Oh really,' she snaps at me. 'So I haven't just done all this,' she points at her outfit, 'for nothing?'
'Why did you in the first place?'
Tara huffs, her fingers running across her keyboard at a speed that I'm sure she was unable to reach before the accident. Writing a blog seems to be a good way to increase your touch-type abilities.
'Look,' she says turning the screen towards me. 'Look at her, that's what she is supposed to look like!'
On a sleek looking professional network site Tara's found a large portrait of the same girl, but looking about ten years older, all smooth and acceptable by any standards.
'Oh, I see.'
'And here I am, wanting to match that when in real life she's a mess.'
I tut. 'Training bra, she's not a mess, she seems pretty grounded to me. And being pierced doesn't mean she's a mess.'
'It's not the piercing, it's the whole pretending to be what the client wants. That's creepy.'
I close my mouth to stop words from tumbling out. I wait.
And wait.
But Tara says nothing more. She just stares in the distance.
Of course I want to point out there are others who have tried very hard to adapt to please, or to fit. Or I could joke about people dying their hair to look like their idols, or going all punk rock as a vengeance plan, or sporting the hoody as if that would automatically give her 'street cred', all of which she had done copiously in her first two years at the Academy. But that would be rude, and not just a little sanctimonious. She knows all this and me reminding her, well, how on earth could that be helpful?
I try to recall what Tara says when she is listening to me and manages not to make me feel judged.
'It's upsetting you,' I try.
'Yes. I mean, I feel cheated.'
'Cheated,' I repeat. It's a weird thing to do, and still so obviously unnatural to me that I'm sure I'm gonna be found out as a fraud straight away but she is nodding emphatically.
'Yes, cheated.' Tara points back at the screen. 'She promotes herself as something she's not.'
'A grunge girl pretending to be sleek.'
'And everything else in the middle if that's what suits.'
I wait a little bit. 'She seems to have trusted you with the truth.'
Tara raises her eyebrow at me, as if conceding that I'm making a good point. Which I am, I guess. This whole listening business is making me feel pretty wise. Maybe that's why things are so much better between us since our last fall out. I listen when she speaks, she listens when I do.
'And there I am, all prepped. She must think I'm so stuck up.'
'Tara, your clothes are only one side of the story. When you talked to her, you were you. And there is no way you're stuck up.'
Tara glances at me, then lets her head collapse within the folds of her arms on the table. 'That's you not counting my posh attempt at saying 'hi.'
I smile. 'That didn't last long.'
Tara peeks at me from the corner of her elbow, but her eye is crinkled at the corner. She is smiling.
After a huge sigh, Tara releases her hair from its many pins, letting her hair cascade over her back and shoulders. 'No more pretending. And when I meet a client, well if I ever do, I will be myself. I can plan a punk party looking like me. If they don't trust me to do that, then they shouldn't be hiring me in the first place.'
I grab a seat and pull it to sit beside her. 'So this is serious. Party planning is what you want to do? Really?'
Tara smile that crooked smile with tilted head that she has when she thinks I'm saying something silly. 'You know how much I LOVE parties.'
I nod slowly despite the fact that my chest is constricting on itself at what I am about to say. 'Yes, and I know how much you love ballet.'
Tara gives me a wistful look. After three years of her trying to get me to be more committed to my dancing, after the whole affair of her being so upset that I gave it up, there I am, getting pissed off at the thought that she might be giving up on the dream. It doesn't take me long to realise how selfish I am being, that I want her to stick to her plans because if she doesn't, she might move on, and where would that leave me?
Her mind seems to have been as busy as mine when she finally answers: 'Yes, how much I loved it.'
I gulp.
'How much I love it still.'
Tara reaches out to hide her face in the hollow of my shoulder. I circle her with my arms, her mouth so close to my neck I feel the speed of her halting breathing.
'But I need to be ready. Ballet might not ever be an option for me anymore.' She pushes herself away from me again, her eyes sad but resolute.
'I know it was never promised to me,' she continues. 'I knew that all along, and yet, despite the mathematical improbability, I still believed I would make it.' She closes her eyes and keeps them shut, as if the avowal is too shameful to look at in full daylight. 'I still want it.'
Then she stares at me, straight in the eyes. 'I want it as bad as I wanted it then, so bad it hurts, but I can't pretend that it just has to happen, because it might very well not. And I want to be ready for that eventuality.'
I witness the determination in her eyes and how it guts my inside. I should have an escape route too. I want her and that might not ever happen again, but I want her so bad that I can't even think of any other alternatives. I can't afford to give myself options. I want it so bad all I can do is keep my eyes on that slim possibility till I make it real.
It took for Tara to fall to get some perspective in life. It has taken for me to lose Tara to find my quest.
Author's note: Do feel free to leave a comment in the review box, that really helps writers learn and get motivated to keep going ;-)
