Title: New York, New York
Author: BehrBeMine
Feedback: Is immeasureable. Let me know if this is worth continuing.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Don't sue, I'll cry. ;p
Summary: AU -- I have turned the world upside down. What if it wasn't Ephram's family that suffered the loss of a beloved someone? What if therefore they never moved to Everwood? Amy leaves the safety net of her hometown to get away from the tragedy that haunts her.
Rating: PG-13
Distribution: Just please let me know and we'll be good.
Classification: Ephram and Amy
Spoilers: Up through January of 2006.
Note: A shorter chapter. I decided to leave it as is. Let me know how it goes!
Another Note: This chapter for Jess, one of my reviewers. Thanks for the idea. Enjoy.
Chapter Three: Your Dance
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Tracy liked to keep the dorm window shades closed, sealing their small room in darkness, blocking out the light. This did not sit well with Amy. She needed the sunshine, the light, to make her feel free and ready to flit around on a stage. Risking her roommate's wrath, she dared to throw the shades wide open, and open the window itself as well, breathing in the fresh autumn air. There was no better way to start a morning than to inhale the purest air of all, and be bathed in the all-healing sun.
"No," mumbled Tracy, hiding her freckles with her gigantic comforter, pulling it over her head to shut out the light. "Too much light. Make it go away." She sighed in an exasperated way and sat up on her bed. "Who the hell gets up this time in the morning, anyway?"
"Those of us who actually go to class?" Amy suggested.
"School was made for ditching," argued Tracy. Her wild red hair was even more disheveled than usual, after a night of partying and doing God knows what else.
"Fresh air feeds your skin. We're like plants. We need the sun to grow."
"All I need is a damn cigarette right about now. You want to light up?"
"I don't smoke," Amy confessed, while shaking her head. She bit her opinions on the subject down, deciding getting into a fight over what a disgusting and useless habit smoking a cigarette was would only lead to more arguments. She didn't get along well with her roommate, who stayed out late at night, snuck boys in for barely disguised sex in a bed right next to Amy's, in the very same room.
It drove Amy crazy. The moans, the gasps, the sound of long fingernails trailing down a male's smooth back. The bed squeals, the banging of the headboard. All of it nearly drove her crazy, and almost made her regret having come to such a college in the first place. Why had she been expecting perfection? Well, maybe she hadn't been expecting so much as needing perfection. After everything that had happened in her short life, the girl deserved a break. She was so hoping that college would provide that much-needed, much-deserved normal atmosphere that she had felt so removed for for so long.
Tracy moaned in a woe-be-me way, elongating the sound until it was like nails on a chalkboard. "Close those drapes, girl, or I'm going to kick your a -- "
Amy rolled her eyes. "Go ahead and try. I have better things to do today."
Amy took one last long sniff from the opened window, glorifying in the sunny outside weather, grabbed her purse, and headed out for campus. "About time you got your ass out of here," was the last she heard from Tracy as she closed the dorm room door behind her. Sighing, thinking so very many things to herself, none of them good, Amy headed off for her first class of the day. And the one after that, and the one after that. Schoolwork. It was like a rollercoaster without any bumps in the road, any thrill. Just endless racing down a track that is already predestined for you. Finish your chem lab homework and maybe you can continue to scrape by. Ignore your English homework, and be thrown off the tracks. It was a dangerous thing, college academics. If you didn't put yourself out there as being unbelievably intelligent, people wondered what you were doing there. The pressure of being in an Ivy League school was not lost on Amy. She felt it with every lecture, every class, every discussion she was forced into having with others. She wanted so badly to succeed, for once in a long time.
Of course, regular academics are a far-fetched second from the arts, which is the real draw of the school. Music, dancing, notes and bodies in motion. That was what a Julliard college experience was going to be about, in the beginning, through to the end. Sometimes Amy showed up to dance class so tired, so run down from B graded papers and lack of sleep at night. Tossing and turning is something she's been doing for years, ever since she lost her first love. Nothing has felt as if it fit into place since then. And then with her second loss... She wondered if anything would ever fit again.
But we all have to do something with our time. One could only sit and stare at four walls of a room for so long before boredom or insanity kicked in, forcing you to steal out into the world and make a name for yourself, whatever kind of name that might be. It had been an easy decision for Amy, once she decided to shape up and get over her losses, and look for some wins. She was ready to become a prima ballerina. Grace personified. Or a jazz dancer, full of the highs and lows of positions and swaying to a beat with an edge. It didn't matter what kind of dancing she pursued; she loved it all. She could fully become any kind of dancer she happened to be worthy of performing.
Madame Holoff was certainly getting on in her years, and with the loss of her youth seemed to come the loss of her compassion. She was here to mold, as if from clay, this choreography and the positions that would stem from it. For the first few weeks, everyone did the same dance at the same time, with Madame at the front of the class, demonstrating with flexibility and grace all of the moves that would wow audiences, and earned herself her own applause, back in her day. She was no cuddle-hugging mother. She was a shape-shifter, shifting the shapes of her dancers' bodies until they remained stagnant in one perfect position. She would position Amy on one leg, lifting her back leg up to curl right near the back of her neck, spreading out her fingers in an elaborate and eloquent way. Madame would then step back to take a look at her experiment, and declare it a masterpiece. Amy would hold the position, steadying her balance, until Madame allowed her to relax.
Some of Madame's experiences didn't turn out as well as others. She'd try to pin Julian down in a particular pose, and when his strong, supple legs couldn't handle all the weight being thrust onto them by her radically chosen position, she'd drop him to the floor, swear a word or few, and demand that he get right back up and attempt that skill again. She was not at all selective with her dancers. All of them could be perfect at times; all of them could fail. You never got a smile from Madame, just a nod or a grunt to signify that she was pleased with what she was seeing.
Amy strived to please Madame every time she set a toe to the dance floor, every time she picked out a leotard that seemed to fit the mood or the weather or the song they were to dance to. Sometimes Madame grunted in appreciation; other times she scarcely noticed.
But Madame was not the most important factor in Amy's dancing. Her biggest factor was her heart, and the dreams she had that she intended to fill to the top, and then some. She would dance in musicals someday; she would play lead rolls in ballet productions one day. She would graduate Julliard as the most talented dancer ever to grace their lovely stage. She would receive armfuls of roses that she would send back home to be placed on the graves of those she has loved and has lost.
During a particularly grueling session with the long barre set up next to the wall of mirrors, plies down to the ground, eyes up at the stars, class was interrupted by Madame's urgent clearing of her throat.
"I have something for you all. Whether it's a present or an annoyance is up to you. It's time to begin dancing to live music, not just old records that have grown tired, whiney with dust. It is time to beat your feet to the rhythm that another human being is creating beside you, as you spill your heart for all, including this musician, to see. Perhaps you and the musician's hearts will spill together."
Amy, holding lightly to the barre and continuing her positions, was paying attention, but not entirely. Her eyes didn't rest upon Madame, though she heard the words coming from her mouth. Every sentence from Madame's mouth was either trash or poetry. She either hated her words or lovingly cupped them with her voice. It betrayed her mood, her energy level, her faith in her dancers that particular day. This day, her faith seemed strong. That, or she had taken one too many pain medication pills that morning.
"Amy Abbott, Julian Marquet!" Madame snapped impatiently. "Pay attention!"
Swinging his legs in an exaggerated way behind Amy, Julian continued his movements until his foot squarely connected with the strong, supple buttocks that stood before him. Amy's. She let out a yelp, and then counterattacked, sending a piercing kick to Julian's knee. He puffed air out of his chest, bent down and recovered quickly, to flash her a cocky smile.
"Now, we have decided," continued Madame, rolling her eyes at the antics of such children, "that the top students practicing piano at this school will begin practicing as you practice, together. They will play, and you will dance, and we will find the musical and dance pairings that fit. You are all to do your best, and only your best, nothing less. I expect hard work, dedication, and sacrifice. I expect sweat, tears, and jubilation. I expect artistry.
"And now, here comes our first piano player..."
A boy, slight in form, stepped out of the shadows as if onto a stage, completely unprepared. Hands in his jean pockets, hair longer than many men chose to keep it, he stood awkwardly, until Madame signaled that he should take his seat at the piano bench. The piano had been reeled in to the dance studio just that morning, after Madame collaborated with one of the top piano instructors of the school.
Amy stopped swinging her legs. She let go of the barre. That boy at the piano... there was something familiar about him... The way he hunched, the way he took his hands out of his pockets and then didn't seem to know what to do with them. He was quite far away.
As if sensing what was in Amy's heart, the need she had to get closer, Madame chose her as the first to dance to this boy's hands' rhythm. There was to be no sheet music allowed. He would simply follow her moves and choreograph the notes for himself as she created a dance to bind to his music. All this was then explained by Madame.
Amy stepped forward and got into a starting position, her arms over her head, hands gracefully inching towards one another, then dropped to be at her sides. She looked down to the floor by her left arm, kept her shoulders square with the floor, and stuck a toe out to finish the pose. She was ready.
The first note of the song sounded, and Amy's head rose, her eyes falling on the handsome stranger. Or was he such a stranger? Something about him...
Rising up on toe, Amy began small, delicate steps, creating a string of pearls with her feet. The boy's music followed her body, which hummed in the exhilaration of creating something all on its own. There was nothing in Amy's mind but the dance, and this wonder of why this boy seemed so familiar. He wouldn't look up, but oh, she knew him.
Wanting to switch gears and yet remain the picture of simplicity and grace, Amy lowered from her toes and swiftly moved into a grapevine, crossing one leg in front of the other, another leg in back of the previous, and continuing on. She shuffled gracefully to the mirrored wall where Julian stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her intently. He licked his lips as she flashed him nothing close to a smile, and dashed away, leaping into the air on her way back to the piano. She had to get closer to this stranger who worked such magic with his hands. She had to see...
The music picked up its pace as she neared the musician, as if he could sense the way her blood was suddenly boiling in her veins, her arteries in a frenzy. The music was calling her nearer, as she was calling out to him to look up, to see her, to see...
Amy broke into a shimmy to accompany the music, her narrow shoulders clicking back and forth effortlessly, flirtatiously. From his place at the opposite wall, Julian shifted his weight to his right foot, clenching his fists at his side. He could see a fire blazing, and it didn't suit him one bit.
Twirling so that the silly skirt around her waist frilled out, fanning itself in all its blue glory, Amy brought her hands to the side of her face, drawing them down so slowly without ever quite touching the cheeks her fingers nearly grazed. The boy's hands continued to work their magic, even though he looked down any time she cast a wondering glance his way. After working herself up into a continuing frenzy, leaping and swaying and pausing and twirling, Amy came to a resting stop, as her accompanying music fizzled out and died.
Breathing hard, her shoulders sagging down, and then rising back up to level numerous times, Amy brought a hand to her chest, trying to calm her body and gain some deep breaths. After a respectful pause, her fellow dancers broke out into applause. Looking up, Amy smiled, she grinned, really, radiant and beautiful. A dancer. She took an exaggerated bow, and giggled, drunk on the clapping of hands that all happened because of her. She and her musician...
As he looked up, she realized, there he was. It was the boy from the airport. He looked into her eyes, recognized her as well, and smiled. Softly she whispered, "Ephram..."
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to be continued...