Michael's feet hurt. He looked dolefully at them, took off his ballet shoes and looked at them again. He wiggled his toes. Then he stretched his feet, arching his insteps. He had the kind of feet that looked good on stage, Miss Fitzgerald always said.

Barefoot he stood up. Placing his left foot carefully, the toe turned outwards, he pointed his right toe in a tendu, feeling the semi-pain, semi-pleasure of the stretch through his leg. He lifted his arms, watching himself in the mirror, which covered half of one of his bedroom walls. Then he lowered his arms again.

It was Thursday. Thursday night was training at the falcons' ground. But Thursday had turned out to be the only evening that Miss Perry, Sydney Bristow's teacher, did a full class with the Big Girls.

He felt bad. Erick on one side, Sydney on the other. Sitting on the bed, he slung his ballet shoes into his bag and tried to think. Erick was a long-standing friend, so ought to command some loyalty. But Sydney was a dancer, a serious one, and he had dreamed about meeting a serious dancer for as many years as he had known Erick.

There was no avoiding it. If tonight's class went OK, and Miss Perry agreed to coach him for the ballet audition, he would have to leave the falcons to there fate.

"Michael!"

Mum's voice came up the stairs. It was a clear voice, as distinctive as her sandy blond hair, freckle-free golden skin and – this surprised every one – the darkest lashes around the bluest eyes. Michael was proud of his mothers beautiful French looks and the fact that she had been a professional dancer.

"Are you going to this class, or not? I thought it started at seven."

He was going. He'd decided to do it, and he would, though he felt recklessly unsure what might happen. Tying his laces with fumbling fingers, he collected his bag and went downstairs.

"It's alright, I'll jog," Michael told his mother, who was jiggling her car keys. "I'm so unfit after Greece, it'll be good for me. And I'll walk back, too."

"Whatever." She fingered his dry hair. "This is match too long, and the roots are awful. Mr. Caterpillar's going to put you in detention if you don't get it tied up."
Michael was weary of this ancient joke. "Mum, his name is Mr. Cadwallader."

"Personally, I think it looks good." Her hand traveled from his hair to his chin.

"You're a very nice-looking boy, you know."

"Please..."

"Oh, all right. Just go and have a good class. I hope this miss Percy person appreciates what a talent she's got on her hands."

"You never give up, do you? Her name's miss Perry."

He disentangled himself before she could kiss him, and jogged around the sweep of the drive. He looked at his watch, that told him he was going to be late, and jogged faster. When he got in site of the small community center where miss Perry taught, he slowed to a walk. If he was sweating and panting at the beginning of a ballet class, just how un-cool would that look?

They'd already started. Michael stood in the disinfectant-smelling corridor, listening to the tinny echo of the piano, trying to control his nerves. When he was at miss Fitzgerald's it had never mattered that he was the only boy in the class, because he had grown up with those girls and none of them were at all attractive, serious or talented anyway. But now, it did matter. The room he was about to enter contained a girl who was certainly the first two and might well be the third.

He pushed the swinging door. Thankful that it led to the back of the room, Michael took three self-conscious steps into the corner, where he furtively took off his trainers and jogging pants and slipped on his ballet shoes.

Then, equally furtively, he inspected his appearance in the mirror which ran the length of the room. He had tied his hair back into a ponytail as he always did for football or ballet class, which exposed the long shape of his face and his narrow forehead. His practice kit was ragged and minimal, just tights and socks and leather shoes, and a graying t-shirt with "Norma Fitzgerald School of Classical Ballet" printed on the front. Earring-free already, he took off his wristwatch and put it in his left trainer, according to his routine. He looked OK, he thought. But only OK.

The music stopped. All the girls turned around. Even the accompanist, an eager middle-aged woman, lifted her trousered bottom off the stool to scrutinize him over the top of the piano. His mouth felt dry. Sweat was gathering in his armpits.

Miss Perry herself was quite young. She had curly auburn hair and the sort of skin which often goes with it – pale, veined, bluish about the eyes. She was wearing a swishy black skirt and flesh-coloured T-strapped shoes. Her bare legs with their chiseled muscles reminded Michael of mum's.

"You're late," she said

"Sorry."

"I said seven o'clock quite clearly on the phone."

Miss Perry's voice was sweet, and her smile wide. Her hand rested gracefully on the table beside her. Michael could tell by the flicker of her eyelids that she was appraising his appearance.

"Start warming up, would you?" she instructed him. Then, more briskly, she addressed the class. "Girls this is Michael Vaughn. He's going to be taking class with us in the future. Change into your point shoes, please."

Michael saw Sydney Bristow sit down on a bench at the end of the room. He watched her stretch each foot in turn and grimace as she eased them into block shoes. Then she tried her weight on the block and grimaced again.

He went to the barre near the back of the room. There was an undignified scramble for the places near the front, as each girl tried not to be the one whose bottom he would have to look at.

"Oh Sydney, poppet," said miss Perry. "You already know Michael, don't you? Would you like to fill that lovely space between him and Lisa?"

Sydney clomped across the room and took her place in front of Michael. He smiled but she ignored him.

"Prepare..."

With one hand on an invisible barre and the other elegantly outstretched, miss Perry turned her feet out to the correct position, drew herself up, flattened her stomach, stretched he knees, straightened her shoulders and slightly tilted her head.

Sydney prepared.

Michael prepared, though he wasn't doing the same exercise.

The girl in front Sydney prepared.

The girl in front of her didn't.

"Carrie Bowman!" declared miss Perry, with clear and crisp consonants. "Look at me!"

A tall, blushing girl with dark plaits looked and copied.

"AND!" said miss Perry loudly, with a nod to her accompanist.

The girls began to lift and lower their heels, to suitable music. But Michael had to do slower warming-up exercises. Doing something while the music was going something else was hard, but he was aware that his concentration was under examination here as much as his technique. After a few demi-plies, he began to perform grand plies, lowering his straight-backed body as slowly, and as deeply, as he could.

A mischievous thought came into his mind. He stood up, placed his feet differently and began to do grand battements. It was a secret message to Sydney. He was sure she would understand.

"Michael, sweetie..." miss Perry came over, and he stopped. "It's all right, dear," she said to him tenderly. "You don't have to earn your place in this class. Doing grand battements without warming up properly can injure you, you know. We like to work hard here, but we'll forget the showing off, shall we?"

Michael felt the blood rise in his cheeks. But experience had taught him that ballet class was like a battlefield – falter and die. After a moment he began again on his plies, aware that everyone was concentrating too much on there own work to notice his embarrassment. Sydney hadn't even looked at him.

Barre exercises were always done facing one way first, then the other, so that each side of the body could be worked equally. When miss Perry asked the girls to turn, Michael and Sydney were face to face. Michael tried to be a disciplined dancer and gaze past her head into space, but he felt compelled to look at her.

She looked much better in her pink leotard and pinky white tights than any of the other girls. She had slender ankles and well-molded calf muscles, and the bones in her knees and shoulders didn't look too knobbly.

Without changing his expression, he turned smoothly on the ball of his foot and began to do the exercise facing the back wall. Her knew this meant Sydney had no choice but to look at his bottom, but he didn't care. Just standing next to someone who looked so nice when she did her exercises was a new and spectacularly interesting experience. He attacked his footwork, beginning to enjoy himself, and twenty minuets passed.

"Center work!"

Ballet classes were all the same. Barre exercises, the same exercises in the center of the room, them jumps. Then the class would do enchainements, which involved putting exercises together into a sequence of steps. Michael always liked enchainements best, especially when they did the allegro, or quick, steps. It was the only part of the lesson where he felt free to express something in his dancing. Today happiness. Other days, not necessarily so. But today, not long after they started enchainements, he started to get the feeling.

He'd always called it the feeling, ever since he'd first experienced it when he was about 10 years old. It was almost an adrenalin-rush, only it wasn't a rush. It was a smooth, enveloping sensation. He knew that it was only when he had that feeling that he really danced well, but it didn't always come. When it hadn't, miss Fitzgerald used to dispatch him at the end of class with an encouraging pat on the shoulder. She'd always known it would return.

At the end of class the girls took there positions for reverence, a curtsy traditionally given to thank the teacher and the accompanist. Michael did what he'd always done at miss Fitzgerald's. He stepped forward with one arm held out as if presenting an invisible ballerina, and made a little bow.

"Very nice class," said miss Perry with satisfaction. Michael glowed at the thought that she could no longer address them as 'girls' any more, "Michael, would you stay for a moment?" she turned to the piano, "you can go Mrs. Dearlove."

Excitement gathered in Michael's chest as the class dispersed. He had danced well, he knew. Miss Perry couldn't have failed to notice.

"About this audition," she said.

He struggled in to his sweatshirt. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sydney changing her shoes and pulling on a black top. "Yes?"

"Well that's what I was about to say. Yes, I think you should do it. The ABA's a tough school to get into, but they encourage everyone to try."

Michael began to speak, but she interrupted.

"And yes, I'll take you for what ever extra lessons you need. Would you like me to speak to your parents?"

"Err... about money?"

Miss Perry nodded, her curls shaking.

"The money's not a problem," he assured her. Dad might be the problem, he thought.

"Good." She held out her hand and he shook it. "Saturday afternoon then. Three o'clock, at my house. Sydney will give you the address, wont you poppet?"

Sydney pushed an escaping piece of hair behind her ear. She gave miss Perry no response that Michael detect. Miss Perry turned to go, then turned back to Michael. "Is Norma Fitzgerald still in hospital?"

"'Fraid so."

"Poor old dear. Which hospital is it?"

"The Angel Of Mercy." Michael knew this because he and his mother had spent yesterday evening at her bedside. Miss Fitzgerald had been mums teacher too.
"I'll take in some flowers," said miss Perry. She smiled encouragingly and pushed the door. "See you Saturday, then. Don't be late!"