By ten o'clock the disco was loud, hot and crowded. Condensation was puddling along the bottom of the windows. Cigarette smoke swirled in the beams of light from the low ceiling. Near the bar, were it was almost impossible to move, the smell of beer, perfume and perspiration combined to produce the familiar atmosphere of a public party.

Everyone who wasn't dancing was shouting. Michael leaned on the bar and shouted too.

"Coach!" Erick's step dad was connecting a beer barrel and didn't hear him. "Coach! Can I have a beer?"

A shiny face appeared above the counter. "You know you cant, Vaughn, so don't waste my time." He began to clear glasses off the bar, looking cross. "Where's Jake? Joke more like. Lazy so-and-so. His shift starts at ten."

Michael looked around, but he couldn't see Jake Thorogood anywhere. He was glad he was too young to help behind the bar. In just over two years, though, he'd be expected to do it with enthusiasm. If he was still here, of course.

"Sorry, haven't seen him."

"Well do me a favor, will you? Go find him, and tell him no work no pay."

Michael obeyed Mr. Bristow from long habit. He struggled along the edge of the dance floor and scanned the dancers. He saw Erick swaying in the corner with a girl in a green shiny dress who was throwing her head back and laughing at something he was saying. Jake Thorogood wasn't there.

He wasn't in the hall at all. And he wasn't in the entrance lobby, or the kitchen. Michael reasoned that he couldn't be in the equipment store, which was locked, or in the woman's bathroom. He looked in the men's bathroom, then almost decided to give up. He was probably in the car park, steeling cans of beer out the back of Mr. Bristow's car, to sell to under age boys that Mr. Bristow refused to serve. Jake wasn't very moral and Michael was sure he knew how to pick locks.

Suddenly, he remembered one place he hadn't looked. He opened the door of a narrow, bare-bricked room, too small to have any purpose beyond storing chairs. The hall had been cleared for the disco, so the stack of chairs was high. Beyond it Michael could just see that the fire door which led to the car park was open, which it shouldn't be. Perhaps jakes latest scam was letting people in that hadn't paid for tickets and charging them half price himself.

Michael went to close the door, but paused when he felt the coolness of the air. He stepped into the calm September night. There were a few people on the far side of the car park, leaning on a car, drinking alcohol and cooling down. Michael watched them for a moment.

Then, quite near him, half in the shadow cast by the building, he saw Jake and a girl. Her shoulders were pressed against the outside wall. Her fists were clenched. Jakes lanky limbs were all over her, as uncontrollable as they were on the field. Michael saw her fists come up and push against Jakes shoulders.

He assumed they were play fighting, snogging a bit, having a fondle, having a laugh. Teenagers did that at discos. Everyone knew that. Half embarrassed, half jealous, Michael turned to go back inside.

But Jakes voice floated towards him through the darkness. "Wassa madder? Don' yer fazzy me?"

They weren't snogging. Jake was drunk. His hand gripped the girls jaw, and one of his knees pushed its way between her legs. Michael could her muffled protests as she struggled, trying to push Jake away.

For a moment Michael couldn't decide what to do. Then he went over and touched Jake's shoulder. Jake wiped around, almost losing his balance. The girl's hair was all over her face. She pulled her shirt over her midriff, which Jake's fumbling fingers had exposed. She didn't look at Michael.

Jake was breathing very fast. "Eff off," he said to Michael.

"Cant you see that she is not interested?" said Michael, wondering why he started this, and where it would end, "or are you to pissed too see anything?"

Jake looked lopsidedly. His eyes looked glassy. Without warning, one of Jake's long arms reeled out and struck Michael on the side of his head. But alcohol had disturbed his judgment. The blow landed uselessly, with no momentum, just below Michael's left ear. Jake jerked his head in the direction of the girl.

"Sho you think you're well in there, do you, Vaughn?"

Michael didn't say anything. The girl still hadn't looked at him.

"Erick Weiss's sister!" Jake blurted out. "Line up the team! Here she is, boys!" he broke into laughter.

The girls had pushed back he hair, and Michael saw that she was, indeed, Erick's stepsister, Sydney. It occurred to him that most girls would be crying in this situation, but he didn't think she was.

Jake stopped laughing and belched,

"Couch wants you behind the bar," Michael told him. "He says no work, no pay."

"Coach can go to hell." The same pointless aggression, which had got Jake sent off that afternoon, rose to the surface again and Michael found himself being pushed backwards. His shoulders hit the wall with a thud. His heart began the pump.

Then a voice came into his brain. A familiar voice with half a century of cigarettes burned in it, instructing him with words he'd heard hundreds of times. Use the back of the leg. That's were all the big muscles are. Up comes the foot. Feel that muscle working? That's it, Michael.

Before he could stop it, Michael's right foot came up. Jake collapsed and rolled sideways, his face distorted, his hands clutching the front of his shorts.

Sydney's brown eyes, the same brown as Erick's took all of this in. but she didn't say anything. Michael resolved that one day he would tell her that jakes blow hadn't really heart him, and that he himself had an unfair advantage in kicking. Not tonight, though.

Jake sat up and grunted, still clutching his crotch. "my good, you've crippled me, you effing creep."

"You're all right," said Michael scornfully, hoping he was. It had been a strong kick, practiced for years, though normally only aimed at the air. "Get up and get lost."

Jake staggered to his feet. Michael braced himself for another attack, but Jake didn't lunge at him again. He stuck his hands in his pockets and instead referred to verbal abuse. "I'll sort you out you, effing poofter, stupid, effing, stupid..." he twisted around, almost fell over again, and made his was to the open fire door. "Effing loser," he muttered. He stopped, tottering. "You wait till nex' sasserday, Vaughn, you jus' wait..."

He disappeared into the darkness of the storeroom. The people leaning on the car hadn't even looked across. Like Michael when he first came out, they assumed that his encounter with Jake and the girl had just been a little bit of intoxicated fun.

He looked at her.

She didn't look at him, but she spoke. "This is were I say thank you and you say that's all right."

Now Jake had gone, Michael realized that his insides felt twisted and his head ached. For the second time that day, he'd been attacked by a member of his own team. "Did he hurt you?" he asked Sydney.

She swallowed, blinking. "No. I was scared, though. I mean, he's really strong. And I don't know what him grab me like that –" she glanced at Michael, checking he understood.

"Honestly, I don't know why he should think – you know, what he said about the football team."

Michael was embarrassed. He had never heard any boy make a crude comment about her. In fact he had never heard anyone say anything about her. She was just Erick Weiss's step sister, who lived in Erick's house and went to the same school as some of the girls he had done ballet with at miss Fitzgerald's. He had known her all this time without actually knowing her at all.

"Don't worry, everybody knows what a trouble maker Jake Thorogood is," he assured her. "We've only got him on the team because he is bigger than everyone else." This didn't seem to bring her much comfort so he straggled on.

"The rules say he has to leave soon, though, because the falcons are an under – eighteen team."

Her eyelids disappeared under her brow bone in surprise. "He's eighteen?"

"Yep. Doesn't act it though. As you've seen."

She looked flushed and bright eyed. Understandably she was upset. What was he supposed to say to a girl in this situation? In movies, when a hero had rescued the girl it was always the end, so de didn't have to think of what to do next. This wasn't a movie though. This was the car park of the Holme Green Football and Athletics club, two hours into a Saturday night disco with two hours to go. "Look," he said trying to sound sensible, "don't you want to go back inside?"

"No." she put her hand over her mouth. "I feel a bit funny."

"Are you going to be sick?"

"No, I don't think so." She took her hand away and her lip quivered. Michael supposed the tears were coming at last. "I think I would like to sit down."

They walked across the car park to the patch of grass next to the road. Sydney sat on the wall, and Michael not knowing what else to do, sat down next to her.

She'd managed to control the tears, but she pulled a small tissue from the pocket of her jeans and wiped her nose.

"Why do you think Jake thinks that?" she asked. "About the team?"

Michael didn't.

"Its because people make up things about me. Horrible things."

Michael couldn't think of anything reassuring to say. He wasn't sure who "people" were for a start. Girls? Boys?

"I'm just a freak," she said.

He looked at her. She didn't look like a freak. Something about her – the shape of her eyebrows, the miniscule droop of her outer eyelids, her bare arms, not very brown for the end of summer, were nicely shaped. Her neck sat gracefully on her shoulders. In the small amount of light he saw a neatly made ear with a gold stud in it. He didn't know much about girls – hardly anything compared to Marshal and Eddie, if anecdotal evidence could be believed – but the prettiness of this small ear struck him as an essential ingredient of femininity.

He watched her slide off the wall and sit on the cool grass. "Maybe I should just go away," she said.

"Pardon?" he regretted the word the minuet it was out. "I mean what did you say?"

"Oh, you know, take off somewhere, so that no one would know were I'd gone."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Maybe that's what they want. Or if it isn't it would show them how stupid they'd been." She brought her knees up and put her chin on them, her hands clasped around her legs. "Do you ever imagine what it would be like if you ran away?"

"Er..."

"Pictures of you in the newspaper. You know, with your school uniform on, and 'hunt for missing teenager' in huge letters."

Michael could imagine it.

"And what about all of those scary appeals on TV?" she still wasn't looking at him, but seemed egger to keep on talking. "I can just see Jean, with her hair all done up, and her face all made up, holding Tilly on her lap, looking tragic."

Jean was Erick's mom and Sydney's step mom. Michael didn't see her much, because he didn't go to the Bristow's house very much, but he knew she was young, only just 37, and she and Sydney's dad had 2 little children. Whenever Michael had met her, Jean had tossed her hair around a lot and produced a chirpy laugh at everything he said. "She's cool, but kind of not cool... if you know what I mean," Erick had once told him enigmatically.

"I don't think running away would do any good," said Michael "I mean, when you came back everything would be just the same, except you would just feel stupid."

He debated whether or not to say the next thing he thought of. Then, since he didn't have anything to lose, he said it. "And there are other ways of getting away, you know." Her hair had fallen over her ear and he could no longer see the side of her face clearly. Now he started, though, he had to finish. "I mean I might try for full tine dance training this year, before it's to late. That would mean going to New York next year, and never coming back."

She didn't move, but a change came over her. A tiny electric current, a readiness for what was coming next, spread though her body. She looked at him with intense interest. "Dance training?"

Michael began to feel self-conscious. He reminded himself that girls were usually sensible – even encouraging – about his particular pastime. And this girl must know about it already, as she was Erick's sister.

"Well, yes. I know Erick thinks I'm bonkers, but, I mean, he's always saying he's going to go to university on a football scholarship, which is just as bonkers isn't it?" he said. Then, in a panic that he'd betrayed a secret, he added, "he's mentioned that to you, hasn't he?"

For the first time, she smiled. "Don't worry, he has. About twice a day for the last five years!" she put her hair behind her ear. He noticed again the gold stud earring and a gold bangle on her wrist. "But he's never mentioned to me that you're interested in dance."

Her smile became more confident. Oh, no, thought Michael. She's not going to be sensible at all. She's going to laugh at me. She's going to go back to the disco and announce it to all her friends. What a huge joke. Michael Vaughn – you know, my brothers friend with the funny name and the funny hair – wants to be a dancer! Can you believe it? He must be gay or crazy or both!

"Hasn't he? Er ... well, I am" it was too late now to pretend otherwise.
She was no longer hugging her knees and turning away. She was sitting cross-legged on the grass, looking up at him with the chained attention of a child listening to a story. She seemed to have forgotten all about running away form people who said nasty things about her. "What kind of dance?" she asked him

"Ballet?"

"Yes, ballet."

"Oh! Who's your teacher?"

"Um... I go to miss Fitzgerald's. Well I used to. She's retired. I mean she's in hospital, and she's pretty old, so–"

"Is that Norma Fitzgerald, in Caledonian Road?"

"Ye-es," said Michael, amazed that she knew this.

"I've heard she's good."

Michaels surprise increased. "Well, I like her. But how do you know her?"

Her next words were destined to stay in Michael's memory for a long time. When she said them, he felt a small shock, like when someone burst a balloon.

"I'm a ballet dancer too," she announced.

Michael's heart settled after the balloon-burst shock. He leaned weakly against the wall, feeling numb.

All these years of being Erick's friend, and Erick – some friend! – had never mentioned his sister's passion for ballet, even though he knew all about Michael's. Why? Did he think that perhaps he'd be the one Marshal would tease? Or was he just too possessive to share Michael with his sister?

"I've been doing it since I was 5," she continued. "I totally love it. It's the best thing in the world." She looked at him her eyes very bright. "Are you really going to audition for ballet school?"

"I don't know. I might if..." an idea come into his head, and he sat up straight again. "Who's your teacher?"

"Olivia Perry, at the community center in Lowry Road."

"Dose she teach boys? Would she teach me?"

Sydney looked amused. "My class is known as the Big Girls. Wouldn't you mind being the only Big Boy?"

He gave an exaggerated shrug, to show her just how little he wouldn't mind. "If I cared about things like that I'd have given up years ago. Here" he fished in his pocket and came up with a pen and an old bus ticket. "Will you write Miss Perry's phone number on there for me?"

She took the pen and ticket. As she wrote the phone number neatly in the very small space, euphoria trickled over Michael.

It was hard to tell for certain because she was sitting down, and she had hair all over her face again but she looked much more like a proper dancer than any of the girls he had done class with at miss Fitzgerald's senior class. She spine was very straight as she sat there cross-legged. The fingers that held the pen looked slim, and her head dipped in an un-posed, natural way.

"I'm sure she'll have heard all about you already," she said giving him back the pen and bus ticket. "Ballet teaches all know each other, and a boy pupil is so unusual, you're probably famous."

He put the pen and the ticket back in his pocket. "I intend to be, some day."
She stood up. He stood up too. The disco music boomed from the clubhouse. "How serious are you about ballet?" he asked her.

She looked down at her feet, which she had automatically placed neatly, the toes pointing outwards, even in trainers. He realized she was looking at his feet too, similarly placed. She looked up again. "I'm serious, definitely."

"That's why people call you a freak, isn't it?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I'm a freak too, then."

She nodded again, and smiled. "Being a freak has its uses, though, doesn't it?"
Michael smiled too, not sure what she was getting at.

"I mean," she went on, "if I could have freed my leg, I'd have given Jake a grand battement kick myself."

Michael was supremely pleased to hear her say this. It was the first time, outside a ballet class, he'd ever heard those words. "Come on," he said happily. "Lets go back in."

He set off towards the clubhouse, his steps springy, assuming she would follow. But when he turned around, the patch of grass where they'd stood was empty.