Face to Face (On Pointe Book 3) Read online

  She was one of Cole’s groupies. My mom wasn’t even mad about the Kool-Aid that splashed on the wall as ten-year-old me “tripped” with the cup in my hand. Especially when I told her I’d found the groupie poking through Cole’s room. It was the only rule my parents had—no members of the opposite sex in bedrooms. The rest of the house was fair game at all hours of the day or night.

  Trudging up the stairs, I pull my phone out to see if I missed any texts from Lisa or Hannah. How pathetic am I? They’ve been gone for less than a day and I’m bored out of my mind. I mean, I always knew that Hannah would leave one day. You can’t know her for more than a week and not see she’s destined for greatness. Maybe that’s why Lisa and I have always been a bit closer, not to mention that Olivia and Hannah were inseparable until recently. But that didn’t make me miss her any less. And I was already missing Lisa.

  Hannah: Cows. So. Many. Cows.

  Lisa: Did you guys stop at Pea Soup Anderson’s for lunch? Oh my god, so gross. Who eats pea soup? Ray. Ray eats pea soup. And then pretends to sneeze green goop onto the table. Twice.

  Hannah and Lisa are driving up to Seattle for their summer intensive, each stuck in their respective cars. At least they only have two days of driving to suffer through. I have three weeks of road trip time to look forward to. Yay me. Note the heavy sarcasm.

  Me: Don’t get car sick. I escaped from the twin terrors after being forced to referee their little competition. They had a whole obstacle course set up. I think they’re losing their minds.

  Me: Why are you dating my brother again? I mean, I like that it means you’re here more, but he’s such a dork!!!!!

  “Kaaaaty!” one of my brother’s calls from downstairs. “We’re going out for boba are you coming?”

  “Coming!” I shout back.

  Hunter drives us to his and Lisa’s favorite spot, telling us about all the things that Lisa likes best about it. It’s adorable and disgusting all at once. I mean, she’s my best friend, of course I think she’s amazing, but like, I don’t need my brother waxing poetic about how beautiful she is. It’s a little weird.

  “Okay, we need a game plan for the summer,” Jack says as we leave the store, ice cold cups in hand. “We’ve all been abandoned for the next few weeks so it’s back to the old days, the three of us against the world.” He grins. God, my brother is such a doofus. Sweet, but clueless.

  Since I’m only fifteen months younger than Jack and Hunter, most of our lives we’ve been treated as closer to triplets than anything else. But I’ve always been the baby, always trying to keep up with them and their antics. Maybe that’s why I have such a competitive streak. Being told you’re too small, too slow, or too young to join in the fun is a sure-fire way to make a girl bust her ass to prove everyone wrong.

  “What are you suggesting?” Hunter asks, slowly.

  “Well, for starters, no sitting around mopey and depressed.” Jack punches Hunter in the stomach to emphasize his point. He attempts to put me in a headlock, but I see it coming and duck out of his reach before he can get a grip.

  “Seriously? Why? Always with the headlock.” I huff, annoyed.

  “You know you love it.” Jack grins, like an ass.

  “I really don’t.” I grump, putting Hunter between us for insurance. “So, what’s this brilliant plan?”

  “A terrain race.” Chest puffed out, one fist on his hip, Jack stands there like a rejected superhero—I’ll call him Boba Man—waiting for us to fall at his feet and worship his brilliance.

  “A what?” I ask, being sure to sound extra confused. I know what it is, but I want to know what the hell he’s thinking. There is no way I am running one of those muddy, messy, ridiculous obstacle course races. For starters, I don’t run.

  “Don’t play dumb, Bug. I know you know what it is.” He reaches past Hunter to poke me, but I sidestep out of his reach. “There’s one at the end of August, JJ told me about it.”

  “JJ, huh?” Hunter teases, giving Jack a look.

  “Nope, no way, I don’t run,” I add, deciding immediate refusal is smarter than playing dumb.

  “Aw, come on Katy, it’ll be fun. Besides, it’s not like we can join a dodgeball team or something since we’ll be gone for three weeks.”

  “What gave you the impression I would ever want to sign up for a dodgeball team?” This is ridiculous. “No. No way. Talk sense into him please,” I beg Hunter.

  “I don’t know, Bug. It sounds kind of fun.” Traitor. “Besides, it’s something we could keep training for even on our road trip. All we need to pack are running shoes.” My hope that Hunter will step in as the brains of this operation fade as a hopeful expression grows in his eyes. Hopeful eyes that he turns on me a second later, blasting my last line of defense against Jack’s hare-brained idea. “Come on, Bug. It’ll be fun. Sibling bonding and all.”

  I rub my face in an exaggerated manner, deepening my voice as much as I can. “I’m surrounded by idiots,” I deadpan in as close an impression of Scar as I can.

  The grins on Jack and Hunter’s faces only make them resemble a pair of cartoon hyenas even more than usual. “I’ll text JJ. She said she could help us come up with a training plan.” Jack wanders off, phone in hand.

  By dinner, I’m seriously regretting agreeing to do this stupid race. Surrounded by my family at the dinner table, Jack will not stop talking about it. He wants to get t-shirts made so, of course, he and my dad spend the whole meal tossing stupid team names back and forth.

  “A la mud?”

  “Like the ice cream? No.”

  “Mud Bugs? I kind of like that one for you Katy Bug.”

  I shake my head. “No, we do not need a team name of my childhood nickname, thanks.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  I stick my tongue out at him.

  “Band of Brudders? No, wait! Mudder Brudders!” Hunter and Jack both high five my dad for that one but I sit back in my chair, arms crossed over my chest.

  “I refuse to be on a team that has brothers on the name. Last time I checked I was your sister.”

  “Aw, come on Bug, you’re being a total party pooper.” Jack folds his arms over his chest, faking a pout.

  I shrug. Why should I make this easy on them?

  My dad pipes up from the end of the table, his mustache twitching with glee. “What about…Twisted Blisters!”

  When we all stare at each other, not getting it, he huffs a sigh and explains. “Like Twisted Sister? The band? But with blisters. Cause you know…Katy gets blisters from ballet and you guys are gonna get blisters from the wet socks?”

  “Sorry Dad, I think that reference is a little before their time,” Cole finally speaks up. He’s been quiet and grumpy ever since the semester ended, but none of us know why. “What about Scrambled Legs?”

  “Hmm, that’s not terrible,” I concede, turning the name over in my mind. “I could maybe be okay with that one.”

  “Wait.” Jack throws his hands out, almost whacking me in the nose. “I’ve got it. It’s the perfect name. Katy, it’s perfect, you’re not allowed to say no to this one. Promise me?”

  “I’m not promising until I know what it is.”

  “Just trust me, please? It’s amazing.” I glance around the table, everyone’s eyes on me. Even my mom’s.

  “Be a good sport, mija,” she says, smiling at me. Ugh. That’s not fair, they know I can’t say no to my mom.

  “Ugh, fine.” I wave my hand, indicating Jack should share with the class. Always the drama queen, he pauses, looking around the table, making eye contact with each of us. My mom, then Cole, Hunter, my dad, and finally me. With a smirk, he inhales, only to choke on a cough as Cole whacks him in the stomach.

  “Spit it out already!” Laughter breaks out around the table, a sound I remember well from all those nights as a kid, sitting around the table and eating dinner.
I miss it when I’m busy with dance.

  “Okay, okay.” Jack holds up his hands. “Our team name needs to encompass pain, suffering, and our lovely sister, right?”

  Shaking my head, I glance at my mom. She’s smiling, enjoying the fact that all four of us are here for dinner, not something that happens often these days.

  “I present to you…Agony of De Feet!”

  Chapter Three

  Hannah

  I thought all the hiking and swimming we did on our week off would have kept me in better shape. It’s the first class of the entire intensive and I wanted to make a good impression, but that wasn’t even close to my best. I wobbled on balances that should have been easy, my turns were all over the place, and I barely had the stamina to keep going to the end. I don’t know if it’s because I’m nervous, or if I’m that out of shape, but that class was a struggle from start to finish.

  Fortunately, my ankle is behaving today. I’m hyper aware of it, waiting for a twinge as I’m dancing, but other than being a little weaker than my left ankle, it doesn’t hurt. Fingers crossed, whatever I did during the recital is healed. I stay on my feet through sheer force of will as we curtsey to the pianist and the teacher.

  My legs quiver as I gather up my shoes and clothes to clear the room. “It’s Lisa and Hannah, right?” someone says from near my shoulder. I look up to see a willowy brunette tossing shoes and clothes in a bag near us. Her pale skin glistens with sweat, like ours and everyone else in the warm room. I remember her from the class—she was struggling too, maybe even more than me.

  “Yeah, it’s nice to meet you,” Lisa pipes up from my other side. “What was your name again?” They have us all wearing name tags, but I can’t see hers from this angle.

  “I’m Becky,” she says, twisting to show us her name tag. “Rebecca Carlson” stands out in matching print to ours. “Oh my god, that class was so hard!”

  “I know, I thought I was in better shape than that,” I say. “Are you coming to lunch now?”

  “Yeah. Could I eat lunch with you, so I don’t have to sit by myself? Somehow I ended up without a roommate, so I don’t know anyone yet.” Becky smiles, standing up with her dance bag slung across her chest.

  Becky and I follow Lisa out the door of the studio, almost crashing into Marco Bethelo walking in. “Oh! I’m so sorry!” I back up to let him through. The last time I saw him was onstage at the YIGP competition in February where he awarded me my scholarship to be here. He is still as handsome now as he was then, silver streaks at his temples highlighting his dark hair and chiseled jawline.

  “Hannah! How lovely to see you,” Marco says, smiling at us. Becky freezes next to me. “How was the placement class? I’m sorry I wasn’t able to watch yours, but I was leading the men’s class.” Marco Bethelo is chatting to us, as casual as can be. This is surreal. “Are you settled in the dorms okay?”

  “Oh, um. Yeah.” I stumble over my words. “The class was great. Hard, but great. We should…um. We were going to lunch.” Do I keep talking? I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t know what to say. Flustered, I just smile, even though I’m sure I look stupid.

  “Of course, of course. Please send my love to Leslie next time you speak to her,” he adds with a smile, before turning to walk into the studio.

  Becky is practically vibrating by the time we get into the hallway. “How do you know Marco Bethelo? Who is Leslie? And how are you both so calm right now?”

  My cheeks burning, my feet stop moving while my mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to find the words to answer Becky’s questions. Lisa takes pity on me, steering Becky by the elbow towards the dining hall so we can eat lunch. “Hannah won the Grand Prix at our regional YIGP. Marco Bethelo was one of the judges that weekend and was handing out acceptances and stuff on stage. I didn’t think he’d remember her, but I guess she made an impression.”

  My face burns even hotter, but I don’t say anything. What else can I add that isn’t going to make me sound like a pretentious brat? Lisa doesn’t mention the scholarships we were both awarded, her a half and me a full, at this year’s regional YIGP competition. We talked about it before we came and decided not to mention it. If news got around, it would put a target on our backs from the more competitive dancers.

  “But who’s Leslie? Is that one of your moms or something?” Becky asks.

  “Leslie is our teacher back home, they used to dance together at CBC,” Lisa adds, turning the conversation away from me.

  “Your teacher danced at CBC?” Becky asks. “Who is she?”

  I take the lead to the dining hall, Lisa and Becky following close behind as we navigate the crowded sidewalk. The intensive is being held on the University of Washington campus, and it’s a short walk from the studios to the dorm building housing all the dancers. Conveniently, there’s a dining hall on the ground floor of the dorms, I guess they don’t want us wandering off into the city. I glance around the dining hall for the crowd of other dancers to reassure myself we’re in the right building. Staying on a campus this big has me anxious I’ll get lost, go to the wrong building, or something equally stupid. I spot a line of girls with their hair in buns and head that way, Hannah and Becky trailing behind me.

  “Leslie Parker,” I say, as casually as I can, while we pull plastic trays from the pile and get in line. It’s always a little weird to us when people freak out over who our teacher is, but it’s a safer topic of conversation than delving into how Marco had a personal chat with me on our first day.

  “No way!” Becky screeches. The girls in front of us turn at Becky’s outburst, eyeing us. “Are you serious?”

  “Uh, yeah?” I say, putting a sandwich and a salad on my tray, hoping to get away from the attention. “She’s amazing, but we kind of forget who she is most of the time. She’s just Ms. Parker to us.”

  “Yeah, but obviously Marco Bethelo knows her and knows who you are,” Becky says, trailing behind. “Oh my God, I wonder if they were ever an item. You’re not really having a sandwich, are you? I could never eat all those carbs.”

  “She’s never said anything to us.” I eye the sandwich I’d grabbed while Lisa answers Becky’s question. Carbs? Aren’t those good things when you’re dancing? Shrugging, I keep it. I’m hungry. “Besides, she’s married now. She did say he was the best partner she’d ever danced with,” Lisa says. “But, I’m sure they’re just friends.”

  “Yeah, but wouldn’t it be so romantic?” Becky passes over the other food offerings, reaching for a salad. She doesn’t take any dressing, gross. “What if after all these years he still loves her?”

  I wait for Lisa and Becky to finish picking out their food. “Nah, Ms. Parker’s husband is awesome. He was her physical therapist when she first came back to Camarillo after her accident. I think their story is the most romantic thing ever. He helped her recover from the accident and they fell in love.”

  “Yeah, they’ve been married for ten years now,” Lisa adds. “He helps at all the shows and anytime one of us gets injured, he always makes time for us.”

  Lisa’s words are like a lightbulb flicking on in my brain. Why didn’t I think of talking to Mr. Mike when I was home? That was dumb, Hannah. If my ankle starts to hurt again, maybe I’ll call his clinic and talk to him.

  Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I can’t help adding a fun tidbit to Ms. Parker’s story. “Me and my friend Olivia got to go to their wedding. We were only seven, so I don’t remember a lot, but it was so romantic, all soft and white and floaty. She walked down the aisle to the White Swan pas de deux music.” It’s one of my favorite memories.

  I lead the way once we all have food and water on our trays. Most of the smaller tables are full, but I spot a long table that has some empty places at one end. The dancers are easy to pick out of the crowd in the dining hall. The girls all have their hair pulled up somehow, high buns, low buns, Fr
ench twists, and even a few braided crowns. Pink tights and leotards underneath a pair of shorts or leggings with a jacket or shirt on top is the standard uniform for the girls. Most of the guys are wearing white t-shirts, in varying degrees of cleanliness, with track pants. Typical ballet hobo-chic.

  “Can we sit here?” I ask the group sitting at the other end of the table. They weren’t in our placement class, but two of them were in the YIGP finals last month. I have no idea if they recognize me or not, but a familiar face is a familiar face.

  “Go ahead,” one of the guys says, waving a hand at the empty spots. He looks about eighteen, his shoulders already broad and muscled. His dark brown eyes are friendly. “I’m Uri.”

  He’s one of the two I recognize from YIGP, him and the girl sitting on his lap. He was the third-place winner at the finals. Gloria, the girl on his lap, won first place. I made it to the final round, but I didn’t place so I have no idea if they’ll recognize me. Because his teacher is Ms. Parker’s good friend, I ended up hanging out with Martin Needham, who won the Grand Prix, the highest award of the competition, most of the week. Gloria and Uri spent most of the competition wrapped up in each other, not talking to anyone else.

  “Hi. Um, I’m Hannah,” I set my tray down on the table. “That’s my friend Lisa and, uh, that’s Becky.”

  Lisa slides into the chair next to me leaving the seat opposite us to Becky. “Hi,” she says. She’s fiddling with the food on her tray nervously, which is unusual for Lisa. Katy and Olivia are the outgoing ones of our friend group, but Lisa is more quiet than shy. I’m the shy and anxious one. I guess knowing that I’ve met these two before helps.