Flirty Dancing Read online

  ‘I need some fresh air,’ says Ollie, dropping my hand. ‘Coming?’

  We sit on a wall outside the hall, getting our breath back, and watch as people leave, hair slipping out of ponytails, shirts coming untucked. The night air is icy and crisp on my hot skin and, between buildings, I can see a low moon reflecting on the black sea.

  ‘That was the best night,’ I say, not caring how tragic I sound. I glance at Ollie. He’s got out his phone.

  ‘Just checking the time,’ he says, and then there is an awkward silence.

  Why is he here, with me, on a Saturday night?

  ‘Do you really want to do this?’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, enter the dance competition with me? Did Lulu make you do it?’

  ‘Do you think I’d try to get on national TV to help out my sister?’ he says. ‘Plus, she’s not even my real sister. She’s only a half-sister.’

  ‘So you want to do this? You’re not embarrassed or anything?’

  ‘Embarrassed by what?’ He puts away his phone.

  ‘Jiving in front of everyone from school?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dancing in front of all your friends, the rugby team, all of Year Ten?’

  ‘Have you ever seen me being embarrassed by anything? Do you remember when I was a white blood cell for the science fair –’

  ‘In the transparent bin bag?’

  ‘ . . . and the Speedos, that’s the one. Then there was the time I did that Rod Stewart impression in the autumn concert.’

  ‘And you did that thrusty thing into Mrs P’s face.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Ollie laughs at the memory.

  ‘And now there’s going to be the time you jived with me, Bea Hogg. I don’t think it’s as funny as those other things you did.’ Then, a terrible thought strikes me. Could he be doing this to be funny? To make his friends laugh at his latest crazy stunt? My cheeks begin to burn. Ollie looks over.

  ‘I’m doing it because I want to. I don’t think it’s a “sad” dance and I don’t care if anyone else does.’ He sighs and takes a deep breath. ‘I’ll let you into a secret. I want to be an actor and singer, starring in musicals in the West End . . . I’m a bit embarrassed about that,’ he adds with a laugh.

  ‘Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, Ollie Matthews will be staring as . . . Lumière!’ I say in a booming showbiz voice.

  ‘Who’s Lumière?’

  ‘The singing candlestick in Beauty and the Beast.’

  ‘Yes! That’s what I want to do . . . be Lumière, or any singing object, as long as I get on the stage. I’m going to audition for the National Youth Theatre and study at a drama school. Doing this will help me . . . especially if we win.’

  ‘Do you really think we can?’

  ‘Well, I doubt anyone else will be jiving. Winning Starwars could make all the difference to my chances.’

  ‘So you really want to do this?

  ‘Yes. I really want to do this.’

  ‘Even with me?’

  ‘Yes! Even with you,’ he says. ‘You’re funny, Bea. Come on, we’ve got a hundred candles to blow out.’

  I let myself into my house and everyone is asleep. Mum knew I was going to be late. I can’t go to bed because my ears are still ringing from the music and my mind is buzzing. I make some hot chocolate, open a pack of Hobnobs and then sit on the sofa, smiling to myself, and munching my way through half the pack.

  I run through the whole night from start to finish. Then it hits me. I have spent the evening with a member of the opposite sex, talking to him, touching him, making him laugh . . . everything.

  I am normal.

  I am normal!

  Then, because I have to hug someone to celebrate having a life and not having to remain a member of the Silver Stitchers forever, I creep into Emma’s room and give her a cuddle. Her eyes flutter open for a second and she says, ‘Monkey’s got the sprinkles.’

  She must be having a good dream, so I leave her to it.

  I slip into my room and climb on to the airbed. It squeaks and Nan rolls over. I curl up and smile to myself. I am not going to think about Starwars, or the fact that dancing with Ollie could end on Thursday. Tonight, I’m floating on air . . . on an airbed . . . with blisters all over my feet.

  6

  On Monday, I get a nasty surprise on the bus.

  Opening a text from an unknown number, I read, u r a dog :-D My heart sinks. Pearl is creeping into every corner of my life. Who gave her my number? Would Kat do that?

  ‘That’s cyber bullying,’ says a little voice, and I look down to see Bus Kelly staring at me with big eyes. I usually sit next to her these days. ‘Do you know what you should do?’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Send a message back that says, “I’m gonna mess your face up!”’

  I’m fairly certain this isn’t official advice so I just go with ignoring it. Messages creep in throughout the day: yo u ugly fat minger : ), u loser :) and I hate u rat :D – you’ve got to love the smilies – and finally, as I’m walking to my rehearsal, I get, die u plank ;-) What? Die you plank? Hang on . . . I’ve got it. She means, ‘skank’.

  I feel a small sense of satisfaction as I walk up to The Memphis Belle Jive Studio. The one thing Pearl wants me to do is stop dancing with Ollie, but, whoops, look where I am now! I push open the door to find Ollie and Lulu practising a move. Watching them wipes my mind clear of Pearl’s texts.

  ‘Get over here, Bea,’ says Lulu, the moment they finish. ‘I’ve got just three rehearsals to teach you the routine I’ve choreographed. It’s simple, but that means you can learn it fast.’

  I sit down next to Ollie and watch Lulu and Ray step through the dance. ‘It builds up to an aerial called the knickerbocker,’ Lulu calls over her shoulder. ‘Here it comes!’ She leans back into Ray’s open arms and then he flips her over in a somersault. She lands with a light bounce, making it look so easy. ‘Right, we’ll talk you through it. It’s simple.’

  It isn’t. Each time we try, I crash back the way I’ve come and it just gets worse and worse. I start to think I’m too big to fly over like Lulu, and, as soon as this idea enters my head, it becomes even harder. ‘Sorry,’ I say each time. Ollie just shrugs.

  ‘We’ll forget it for now,’ says Lulu, after I’ve tumbled to the ground for the seventh time. ‘I was probably being over-ambitious. If you get through on Thursday, we can add it to the routine.’

  As I leave the hall, my body aching, my phone beeps. Message from unknown number: u r fat :-D Now all of me aches. I glance around me. The road is empty, except for a few parked cars and a van. A Coke can rolls down the gutter, clattering against the kerb.

  ‘Hey!’

  I jump and turn round. Lulu’s followed me out of the hall. ‘You OK?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, just –’ I glance down at my phone that I’ve got clutched tight in my hand – ‘checking my messages.’

  ‘I’m glad I caught you. I forgot to ask, what are you going to wear on Thursday?’

  I laugh. I’ve thought about this loads, but beyond my lovely red shoes everything I own is totally Shy Bea and the exact opposite of dazzling-teen-dancing-queen. ‘Jeans and a vest?’ I suggest.

  She’s not impressed. ‘You need a look that matches the dance. Nothing overdone, something cool, something a bit vintage. Ollie’s sorted with a Fifties shirt.’ She looks at me, her eyes narrowed. ‘Hey, I know, I’ve got a gorgeous top you can have!’

  ‘What about my hair?’ I tug at the end of my cloud that is being blown about in the wind. After rehearsal my hair goes extra wild, so right now it’s pretty out of control.

  ‘D’you know what you need, Bea?’ says Lulu. ‘A makeover!’ She claps her hands and jumps up and down. ‘I’ll come round to your place on Thursday and help you get ready. If you like, I can drop you in Brighton too.’

  As I walk home, the word ‘audition’ echoes round my mind. It is actually going to happen. Anxiety washes over me and my stomach executes several perfect knickerbockers.
>
  Beep, beep, goes my phone.

  ‘Oh, shut up, Mr Poo Head,’ I say, stuffing it to the bottom of my bag.

  On Thursday, The Pink Ladies are so busy rehearsing and perfecting their look that Pearl gives me the day off – I don’t even get any texts. School seems to last forever, but as soon as I’m let out of maths I go home and jump in the shower.

  I’m towelling my hair when Emma drags Lulu into my room. I’m pleased to see that Emma’s wearing her favourite outfit of nothing at all. Oh, except for one sock and a crown. She likes to accessorise her nudity.

  Lulu starts work immediately. She gets Nan to paint my nails (bright red) while she applies a toned-down version of her own make-up to my face: lots of black mascara, a wisp of black eyeliner painted on with a tiny brush and matt-red lips.

  Finished, she holds me at arm’s length, but frowns at the overall effect. This does not fill me with confidence.

  ‘Something’s not right, Bea,’ she says, before rolling up my jeans so they become pedal pushers and getting me to put on her top.

  It’s a skin-tight white cardigan with small pearl buttons and a round neck. She won’t let me wear anything underneath it, well, except my bra, natch. Jiving bra-less would be very distracting for all concerned. She unbuttons a couple more buttons on the cardi. I have big bazookas. Fact. Usually I do all I can to hide them from the world, but they’re pretty assertive. I look down. All I can see is flesh. My flesh.

  ‘Leave it,’ says Lulu firmly, as my hand hovers by the buttons. I’m all ready . . . except for my candyfloss hair. ‘Bea, how much do you trust me?’

  ‘Well, lots I suppose . . . why?’

  ‘I want to cut your hair.’ We leave in less than half an hour and, as far as I know, Lulu isn’t a hairdresser. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve cut my friends’ hair lots of times . . . well, a few times. I don’t want to do anything complicated, just take off a couple of inches.’

  ‘A couple?’

  ‘Well, about eight.’

  I think for a second or two. My hair falls well below my shoulders. Not that I ever wear it down. Or, at least, not since Lauren complained that she couldn’t see the whiteboard in geography and Miss McCredie moved me to the back.

  I’m about to say that cutting my hair is just one scary thing too many to happen today, but then I think, Why not? I’m planning on dancing in public, with Ollie Matthews, with my boobs and tummy showing . . . will eight inches of hair make much difference? ‘OK. You can do it!’ Lulu grins and whips out a pair of scissors. ‘You had this planned all along, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been dying to cut your hair since the day I met you,’ she says. ‘Do you know how many women would kill to have hair like yours?’ And with that she grabs my hair into a loose ponytail and goes snip, snip, snip, snip, cutting the whole lot off.

  Nan, who’s been sitting on my bed, groans and leaves the room. ‘I’m sorry, Lulu,’ she says. ‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but I can’t watch.’

  This leaves me with Lulu, the self-taught hairdresser, and Emma, who’s crouched on the floor burying her face in my freshly cut hair and saying, ‘Look! Emma a mole!’

  ‘Just got to even it out a bit,’ says Lulu, frowning.

  I shut my eyes, ‘Don’t let her eat it, Lulu.’

  ‘Found a worm!’ Emma cries.

  Too late.

  7

  Back in Brighton, we cruise along the seafront. The pier still sparkles with flashing lights, like a mini Vegas, but this evening grey clouds are partially covering a blue sky.

  I see the queue before I see the Brighton Centre, stretching down the road and round a corner. Hundreds of dancers crowd the pavement. There are dads glancing at watches, mums touching up make-up, and a few coaches in dance-studio sweatshirts.

  ‘Lulu . . . I feel sick.’

  ‘I know.’ She pats my arm. ‘Just remember to relax your shoulders . . . oh, and when Ollie spins you behind his back make sure you pause for a beat.’ She slows the car down as we drive past the queue. Groups of girls are practising their routines below posters that advertise mysterious events like Space Invader, Junk Disco and Tiger Tiger, and all along the line phones are out and texts and photos are flying around.

  Then I spot the cameras.

  I didn’t realise they would be filming the auditions, but there are three camera crews, wandering up and down the street, making girls scream and strike poses. Suddenly, I see The Panty Liners. ‘Here’s fine, Lulu.’ Ollie will just have to find me.

  ‘Good luck!’ she calls as I jump out of the car. Immediately, two cameras swing in our direction then follow the Chevrolet’s progress down the prom. Lulu’s slim white arm reaches out of the driver’s window and waves as she does a dramatic U-turn and swings out of sight.

  But Betty and the girls aren’t watching Lulu. They’re watching me. I remember my hair. I put my hand up to touch it and it’s still as short as it was when we left my house forty minutes ago.

  ‘Bea?’ says Betty. ‘You look totally different.’

  Lulu can’t have got too far yet. I want to race down the road, jump in her car and yell, ‘Take me home!’ Soon, I could be curled up on the sofa with my sister and Nan, watching The Simpsons.

  ‘Different?’ I say. ‘Different terrible or different good?’

  ‘Good!’ she says. ‘I’d forgotten that you’ve got curly hair . . . and where’ve you been keeping them hidden?’ She points at my unbuttoned cardi. ‘Hi, Bea’s boobs. I’m Betty. Pleased to meet you at last!’

  To cover my embarrassment I talk like a maniac, barely pausing for breath, telling them all about Lulu’s makeover and how I had to pull a hairball out of Emma’s mouth. What’s left of my hair falls in curls around my neck. As I’m talking, Charlie pulls a face and whispers, ‘Watch out.’

  Coming towards us are Pearl, Kat, Holly and Lauren. They’re all wearing bum-hugging denim cut-offs, tights and a skimpy vest with The Pink Ladies stencilled across it. Their hair is BIG and their makeup is HEAVY. Think bright pink lips and false eyelashes that defy gravity. Suddenly, I’m relieved I was the wrong shape for The Pink Ladies.

  They stop in front of us and I wait for the inevitable comment about how I look. But no one says anything. In fact, they aren’t even looking at me, but are staring – perfect pink mouths hanging open with disgust – at Betty, Charlie and Amber.

  I’ve been so wrapped up in myself I haven’t really looked at them. Like The Pink Ladies, they’re wearing vests, but theirs have ‘The Panty Liners’ printed across in swirling gothic script. Also, they’re in Seventies-style polyester running shorts, but they aren’t showing perfect tummies. Instead, they’re revealing enormous hip-hugger granny knickers that they’ve pulled up and tucked into their tops.

  The girls stare at each other.

  ‘What do you look like?’ asks Pearl.

  ‘You,’ replies Betty, laughing. Well, Pearl fed her that line. And it really is funny. The Panty Liners look like a warped mirror image of The Pink Ladies. I suppose it’s the worst thing in the world to do, but I can’t help myself. I laugh, loudly. Quickly, I clap my hand over my mouth.

  Pearl twists round and does a double take, her fake lashes batting wildly. ‘It’s you!’ she says. There is silence. Pearl, for once in her life, is lost for words. Then she gets a grip, sucks in a sharp breath like a snake preparing to strike, and opens her mouth. I tense, but her furious face melts into a huge smile.

  ‘Hi, Ollie,’ she says, standing a little taller. He has appeared by my side. ‘We were all admiring her new look.’ She nods in my direction. Ollie looks at me, and I mean properly looks at me, from my toes to my hair, and he smiles, but he doesn’t say anything. I feel myself blushing and fight the temptation to shrink back behind Betty.

  ‘My sister did it,’ he says. Now Pearl can’t say a thing.

  ‘Let’s go, girls,’ she finally manages. ‘We’re actually further up the queue, Ollie. Come and find us.’ As they leave, she gives him her sweetest
smile.

  The queue starts to shuffle forward and eventually Ollie and I are handed a number and sent into a large room with black walls. The Panty Liners disappear through another door. In the gloom, I immediately notice The Pink Ladies. Sitting on the floor along with the other dancers, they seem less intimidating, smaller even.

  When Pearl isn’t looking, Kat manages to smile at me and mouth ‘Love it!’, tugging quickly at her hair. I smile back. Then, out of nowhere she shoots her ‘Sniffin’ Jake’ face at me and we grin. Right now, I really miss her.

  ‘Listen up!’ A young man, dressed in a slim-fitting black shirt and dark jeans, is standing in the stage area, a large space marked out with white tape. ‘I’m Nathan, a producer on Starwars, and I’ll be one of your judges tonight, along with Tania over there.’ He gestures to an older woman with dark, swinging hair who is standing in the shadows. ‘You’ve all got a number and will be called up in order. You get five minutes, maybe less – it depends if we like you. Don’t worry, we can tell who’s got potential in that time, so no hysterics if we stop your music and ask you to leave.’ He pauses to allow his words to sink in. ‘Good luck, everyone. Group one . . . Rhapsody? You’re up first.’

  We are group seventeen.

  A group of girls stumble to their feet, hand over their music, then get into position. They dance for less than two minutes before Nathan shouts out, ‘Thank you! Exit to the left, please. Group two, up you come.’ It’s so quick. I can’t believe all our hard work could be over in a matter of minutes.

  Group two is actually a boy dancing alone to Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’. He’s good and funny, and he dances with such confidence. When he finishes – he’s allowed to do his whole dance – we get to clap. Nathan and Tania confer for a moment.

  ‘Thank you!’ calls out Nathan. ‘Take a seat.’

  So that’s how it works. If you’re through, you sit down, but if they don’t want you, you leave immediately.

  They fly through the dances and it isn’t long before The Pink Ladies, group fourteen, are up. I actually feel nervous for them. As Betty predicted, they’re using an R&B track, but their dance isn’t just bump and grind. They begin by barely moving, just shrugging their shoulders, then they introduce a new move every few seconds. It is tight, well rehearsed and subtle. In some ways, it reminds me of a show dance, like Chicago, but much faster.