Read Online Bottom Feeder by Maria G. Cope - Free Book Online Page A

into
Savannah is a one-Dixon show ranting about how awful Laney acts,
and how he resents me for having to spend so much time with
her.
    “ I’ll see you after
rehearsal!” I shout, slamming his door.
    “ Don’t slam my
door!”
    Slamming his door is only the
beginning of my revenge for the glob of butter in my dance shoes
this morning.
     
    My job at Just Dance began a couple of
years ago when Ms. Peavy, the owner, asked me to work as an
assistant. I was her student but hated performing. Now I work with
her seven to twelve year olds who want to hone their skills. I also
give private ballroom and hip-hop lessons in my free time for extra
money.
    Today’s session, one of my last, is
bittersweet. The more I think about how much I do not want to go to
New York makes it more bitter than sweet.
    I change into my uniform of black
capri leggings, black tank top with Just Dance written in silver
block letters on the front, and lightweight sneakers designed
especially for dancers.
    I call the class to order by turning
on a hip-hop mix. The rhythmic beats get the group excited to
begin. The kids could perform the routines in their sleep, so this
practice is strictly for polishing. After three hours and countless
bathroom and water breaks, I switch the music to Chopin’s Nocturnes
to bring the class to an end.
    I gather cleaning supplies after
everyone has left and clean my way through the studio. Some might
say I have obsessive-compulsive disorder because of my fanatical
cleaning binges. Cleaning helps me relieve stress. I tend to grasp
on to any activity that is all about controlling an outcome. If it
calms me to have my clothes folded to look like a display table at
Gap or if the floors are vacuumed daily because the sound of the
vacuum clears my thoughts doesn’t mean I have a disorder. It means
I need some semblance of control.
    When the studio is spotless I turn up
the music, turn off the lights, open the blinds and kick off my
shoes.
    I hate performing, but I
love to dance. Nothing can replace the freedom of dancing. Ballet,
jazz, tap, hip-hop, salsa, krumping and break dancing are my
escape. Especially krumping and breaking, where no structure or reason to any of
the moves exists. I move where the beat leads me to move. The
feeling is unlike anything else.
    My audition for the performing arts
school was a mixed piece called Metaphor that combined breaking
with belly dancing with ballet with pop-locking, and a little bit
of krumping. If Daddy knew the entire audition was freestyle, he
would have been furious.
    “ Never go into anything
unprepared, Maddy. Never. You will fail in the long
run.”
    Not to sound conceited,
but I really can dance well. Whether or not I am good enough to be accepted
into the school on my own, I’ll never know. Daddy’s money goes a
long way . . . from Georgia to New York City,
apparently.
    Someone begins applauding behind me. I
turn to face my spectator, fearing the worst.
    “ Wow! You are amazing,”
Jackson says. I exhale with relief as he steps further into the
studio. “You should teach me sometime.”
    “ Thanks.” I back away
casually as he steps closer. “I’d be glad to teach you. Can you
dance?”
    He shakes his head. “Not a
bit.”
    I try ignoring the frantic pounding of
my heart. I chalk the reaction up to the surprise of someone
sneaking up on me, not the nearness of Jackson Monroe. I’m not that
pathetic. Right? “What can I do for you?”
    Jackson shuffles his feet. “You
mentioned working here. Since my house is close by, I thought I’d
stop in.”
    “ Oh,” is all the
intelligence my mouth can handle. Genius.
    My cell phone rings. “Excuse me for a
second.”
    “ Hey, Daddy.” I walk back
to the main floor and mouth just a
minute to Jackson.
    I sit with my legs stretched in front
of me. Jackson mimics my position. He studies my face. I bend to
touch my head to my knees and stretch out the kinks from hours of
dancing. Not because his shameless staring is making