Excerpt from "Not Your Hero"

Hello bloggers!
This is an excerpt from the novel I'm working on entitled "Not Your Hero." This was my NaNoWriMo story from last year and I'm finally getting around to editing it - and it's getting a lot of editing. Feel free to comment with your thoughts.

Chapter 2

                  After class I yanked at my hairsprayed bun until the floor was littered with more bobby pins than I knew I owned. I bent over and raked my hands through my knotted hair repeatedly, not caring if half of it ended up on the floor with the pins. I exhaled noisily and untied my purple satin dance skirt. Kara and her hands could follow me wherever I went, but that didn’t mean I had to pay a scrap of attention to her.

                  My wide-eyed roommate Sarah Eleanor perched on the carpeted bench beside me and unlaced her pointe shoes. Or as she called them, her wings. Because when she put them on: “I can fly!” I’d told Nora that to my credit, Sarah Eleanor seemed more normal when I was searching through her Facebook after getting assigned to room with her. Nah, I’m just kidding: she’s not too bad. Just needs to be taken with a grain of salt.

                  She shook her head at my tiny tornado of bobby pins on the floor, looked up at my mane of tangled brown waves, and shot me a glare that made me want to shrivel up. “You should treat your hair better,” she sighed.

                  I shrugged. I had already squeezed my butt into my denim shorts while the rest of the class took the time to peel off their leotards and skirts and tights. “No big deal,” I said.

                  Sarah Eleanor’s blonde eyebrows shot up so high I mistook her for my mother for a second. “No big deal? Alessandra, you could risk being rejected into major performances with bad hair!” I’d reminded her several times that I prefer Alex, but she insisted on Alessandra. She thought it was most beautiful.

                  “Are you saying my hair’s already bad?” I laughed. “Besides, the bun disguises split ends.”

                  “No, no, your hair’s lovely. I’m just saying…” Sarah Eleanor trailed off, picking up her mesh lavender dance bag and looping it daintily around two fingers. Sarah Eleanor was obsessed with the well being of my hair because her hair was extremely poofy. She’d tried every taming solution known to balletkind, but her hair was always unmanageable. My makeover magic amounted to nothing with Sarah Eleanor. And by makeover magic, I mean using my purple Conair brush as a weed-whacker.

                  My stomach growled. “You wanna go get sandwiches?”

                  She closed her eyes, a smile of longing creeping over her thin lips. “You don’t have to ask.”

                  As Sarah Eleanor drove to the restaurant, my stomach growled, waiting impatiently for a Primanti’s burger. They’re a Pittsburgh delicacy: a handful of cole slaw, two thin slices of tomato, and greasy French fries piled on top an even greasier burger, all wrapped up and kept in place by thick, loving slices of Italian bread. And damn it, even food couldn’t keep my mind off of how annoying Kara was.

                  Kara and I met on the first day of ballet class when I was five. She was six, and constantly pointing out that fact. I was warming up at the barre twenty minutes before my first class, as instructed by Dad, when I heard a pair of canvas ballet shoes slapping off the studio floor behind me. I turned around while I was bent over my leg. The room spun. My spine twisted and I careened backward off the bar.

                  “Oh!” Kara squealed, rushing over to help me up. “Are you okay?”

                  I sat crumpled on the cold floor for a while, bent over my knees in self-induced agony. I was mostly disgruntled because someone witnessed my near death experience on the first day of class. I wanted Kara to take her spotless ballet shoes – ones that probably weren’t off EBay, march them right out, and pretend she never saw me almost die.

                  “You didn’t almost die,” Kara said matter-of-factly, reaching out and prodding my anklebone. Wait, had I said that out loud? “But maybe it’s broken.”

                  I pouted and blinked rapidly, reeling in hot tears. “Maybe.”

                  Kara’s dark eyes watched me for a few seconds more, and then she drew me up and roughly led me, limping beside her, to the nurse’s office. We were even friends for a couple days: we’d smile at each other and I’d wave frantically. It was like my brain was trained to spot her tightly coiled bun from miles away.

                  “How are you?” Kara asked the day after I toppled backward off the barre.

                  “Better,” I replied, pink patches lighting up my chubby cheeks.

                  “Awesome. After class my mommy’s taking me to McDonald’s. Wanna come?”

                  I bobbed my head in an eager nod. That was before I realized she’d also invited Michelle Walburg. I had no opinion of the brunette Michelle who danced behind Kara at the barre before she shared Kara’s Happy Meal that day and I felt a white burning sensation in my belly.

                  “So how old are you girls? Do you like ballet so far?” Kara’s mom, Mrs. Donaldson, asked us through a huge smile. We were crowded around a McDonald’s booth, wrappings and drinks and fries strewn everywhere. I’d petitioned for a window seat, but they chose a “better” booth near the middle of the restaurant.

                  “I’m five,” Michelle began through a mouthful of salty fries. “And I love ballet. My parents say I’m meant for it. I’m gonna grow up and be the best ballerina ever. Kara’s like my best friend in the class, right?” She leaned over and shoved Kara’s shoulder. Kara shoved back. I scowled.

                  Mrs. Donaldson nodded. “That’s great.”

                  “I –” I began, but Michelle stole the floor again.

                  “I can’t wait to see the reactions when I have the solo this year. I’m practicing now. I’m gonna get it.” Michelle tried to snap her fingers and failed miserably, salt clinging to her greasy little fingers.

                  “Maybe you and Kara could do a solo,” Mrs. Donaldson smiled eagerly and leaned forward.

                  I gripped the condensation on my paper cup as I gazed out the far window at the cars coming through the drive thru. From then on, it was Kara and Michelle together forever. I was the only one who seemed to think they were putting on a front so they could look good next to each other and disguise their constant competition for solo acts. I was shunned to a studio corner with the weird girls: two sisters who never spoke but to whisper to each other frantically. I stared at the back of Kara’s blonde bun, hoping she’d slip on her own hamburger grease.

                  After downing enough Primanti’s fries to last a lifetime, Sarah Eleanor drove us back to the Theatre. When we got to our little two-person suite, she turned on Bonnie Raitt and I laid on my bed. The starry ceiling gazed down at me. I was mildly obsessed with those tacky plastic stars that let you pretend you’re an outdoorsy person. My phone buzzed to life. Dad was calling from his office at the Ballet Theater. Sarah Eleanor heaved a huge sigh: she’d been in the middle of wailing along to a 90s hit.

                  I cleared my throat. “Yeah, Dad?”

                  “Honey, I’m about to meet with the head choreographer of this year’s Dracula. I’m gonna recommend the crap out of you, so be on your best behavior when he calls you for an interview.” Dad sounded rushed. As always. His days were filled with interviews and meetings with heads of something or other. I couldn’t see what he liked about being hassled left and right.

                  “You there, Alex?”

                  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, okay.”

                  “Just okay? Don’t you care that you’re going to be in Dracula?”

                  I smiled and shot a nervous glance at Sarah Eleanor. Dracula was her favorite ballet: she owned multiple Dracula DVDs and posters and even VHS tapes. She had a shrine type box under her bed – only because we hadn’t finished unpacking yet – filled with tickets from all the dozen or so times she’d seen Dracula the ballet.

                  “Yeah, it’s cool, Dad. I’d love that.”

                  He sighed. “You don’t sound too cheerful. What’s wrong?”

                  “Nothing,” I said, confused that he had time to ask. “Should I be nervous?”

                  “No, of course not. You’re the best dancer there is. Is Sarah Eleanor there?” Of course that was next. He’d taken a liking to Sarah Eleanor almost as much as he’d loved pushing Kara Donaldson’s friendship on me.

                  “Yep, right here.”

                  “I’m sure she’d be willing to help you through stuff, right? She’ll be excited about your new role.”

                  “Yeah, she will. Thanks, Dad.” I hung up before he could.

                  Yeah, she’d be so excited for me. Maybe 20% excitement, 80% jealousy. But I was probably being too generous with that estimate: Sarah Eleanor would bleed jealousy. She thought loving Dracula made her edgy, but her fixation on making sure everyone knew it was her favorite rubbed a lot of first years at Orientation Week the wrong way.

                  A creak came from the kitchen as a Bonnie Raitt ballad faded back in.

                  “Who was that?” Sarah Eleanor asked in her lilting voice.

                  “My dad.”

                  Sarah Eleanor propped her head on her hand, leaning on the kitchen counter. “How’s he doing?”

                  I cleared my throat, standing up with a sudden burning desire to rearrange the snacks on my bedside table. “He’s good. Yeah, real good. Meeting with some choreographer about… how terrible they are.”

                  “Oh, like her teaching’s bad? Who is it?” Sarah Eleanor’s dark eyes grew as round as softballs.

                  That sparked a flame in my chest. Why did it have to be a her? I shook my head. “I dunno, some jazz teacher or something…”

                  Sarah Eleanor raised an eyebrow and walked out.

Chapter 3

                  Dad called me to his office the next day. He’d been too busy after his meeting with the head choreographer of Dracula to get in touch with me the rest of the day. But at least I was going to meet him in person and not have to release any potential sulking at him on the phone in front of Sarah Eleanor.

                  Walking down the sidewalk toward Dad’s office, I noticed a guy coming my direction. I usually swept my eyes over and noticed individual people walking my direction even on crowded streets, but this guy was familiar. His long locks streamed behind him in the August city air. His sandals flip flopped in that unmistakably clunky way.

                  It was Paulo, a good looking guy I hadn’t seen since I’d beaten him out of finals at a Pittsburgh schools dance competition when we were in our junior year of high school. He was just cut out of the group of the top six dancers. I never understood how he didn’t beat me out of the finals, considering his quadruple pirouette and all. We went to eat at King’s afterward with some dancers and they were super surprised to learn he wasn’t gay. Apparently having nice eyebrows makes a guy gay – who knew?

                  “Alessandra?” He gave a white-toothed smile, big enough to draw in a million girls off the surrounding streets.

                  I pulled him in for a hug. “Paulo, what’re you up to?” I broke the silence to get him to stop rubbing my back.

                  “Oh, nothin’. I got into the Ballet Theatre,” he said, his dark eyes twinkling in the sun. I guess I could kind of see why so many girls at our competition fell for him.

                  I pushed my hands into the pockets of my cut off shorts. “No way, me too! What kind of classes are you taking?”   

                  “Oh, ballet, modern… But listen, I got an inside tip on the spring production.”

                  I forced out a laugh. “Really? What – no, don’t tell me,” I said. “I want it to be a surprise.”

                  He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t be silly. You’ll want to hear this.” He leaned in close, one of his locks whipping around my back. “Dracula.”

                  “Wow,” I said, nodding. “How’d you find out?”

                  “Secret,” he said, and flounced away after putting a hand on my shoulder. “Catch you later!” I frowned and walked away, my most beautiful damaged hair not having quite the same flowing effect as his.

                  When I got to Dad’s office, he was on the phone. Typical. He nonchalantly flapped his arm at the chair across from him. I think that was supposed to mean “sit down” in monkey language. In a span of several months Dad went from “Hey pumpkin, how are you?” to the dad who flaps his arms at me while he’s discussing more important things.

                  I sat down, full-scale angsty teenager sigh and all. I was 18 and felt even older, but I wasn’t letting go of my pouting abilities. If it took the exasperated sigh to let Dad know how I felt, then so be it.

                  He glared at me.

                  “No, I’m talking about Saturday night. For God’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you, Cheryl?” Dad rolled his eyes. Cheryl was so loud I could hear her backtalk squawking through the phone several feet away.

                  “Okay, but you can’t just –” Dad ran his hand through his hair. I tried to summon even the most vague feeling of empathy. It didn’t come. Horrible person, I thought, scrutinizing my lengthy fingernails.

                  “Right.” Dad sighed. “I’ll talk to you later.”

                  I looked up from my fingernails at the fateful words. Dad hung up the phone with surprising grace. It was my turn. Maybe last year that would’ve excited me, but now I just wanted to get in and out, quick.

                  “So… how are you?” I began. He was still wrapped up in his conversation with Cheryl, scribbling notes in his legal pad faster than I could think. The clock ticked. “Dad?”

                  He didn’t look up. “Yeah, hold on.” The office phone started ringing shrilly. “Cheryl.”

                  “Doesn’t she live two floors up?” I asked, my brow furrowed. I was getting worse at hiding my emotions from my face these days. I used to be pro at it: I won my junior high school’s yearbook superlative for Most Able to Lie About Murder And Get Away With It. I’m not sure what that really says about me, though.

                  Dad gripped the phone closer to his ear. “Did you get the name?” I watched his foot ferociously tap off the cool tile floor. “Okay, great.” He hung up.

                  I crossed my arms. “Finally.”

                  “I had to take care of some business, Alessandra. I know you understand.” He said it in a pleading voice.

                  “Right.” I nodded. If he wasn’t going to give me emotion, I wasn’t going to show any. Hopefully.

                  His eyes lingered on me. “I fought and fought with Cheryl, but you need to go through a series of tests before they let you into Dracula. Apparently being the president’s daughter and a prima ballerina isn’t enough.” He wrung his hands for a second and then cleared his throat.

                  “Dad, I’m not a prima ballerina,” I said through a sigh.

                  He raised his eyebrows. “Alessandra, you’ve been dancing since you were five.”

                  “I know,” I interjected.

                  “You shouldn’t have to fight to be in Dracula!”

                  “So someone who’s only been dancing since they were six should have to?” I leaned forward in the big wooden chair. I wasn’t about to have him pull out any principal lingo on me. He might not have been a director or an artistic director, but he was gaining on that pompous upper tier mentality.

                  He let out an exasperated sigh – that sounded a lot like mine – and slammed his hand on the table. Then he pulled his hand back up and gently placed it on top the other hand.

                  “You shouldn’t have to audition for something you were born for,” he said, and rubbed his hand over his eyes.

                  I shook my head and leaned my head on my hand, elbow propped up on the arm of the chair. “I’m not born to be in Dracula; I was born to dance. If I can’t be in Dracula, I can still dance. Dad, it’s not the end of the world.”

                  “Yeah, but this is your first year. You could make such a good impression, and –” He shrugged dramatically and leaned back in his chair, looking about fifteen years older than he was.

                  I looked up at him over my ring finger that was curled over the bridge of my nose. “Look, I’m just gonna cut to the chase: You don’t think I’ve done enough with my life, and now it’s time to step it up so I can have a big dance career.”

                   “Well… No!” His voice rose. “But… isn’t that what you want?”

                  I raised a brow. “I want to audition like everyone else. I love being on stage, but I’m okay with sharing the spotlight and being a backup sometimes. I know, it sounds crazy.”

                  “You’re better than you think,” Dad said, shaking his head furiously. “You are not a backup, honey.”

                  I stood up, placed my hands on his desk, and leaned in to him.

                  “Well, I’m not Daddy’s Little Girl either. I can audition for a role; it won’t kill me.”

                  I left him in the office, gaping after me.

                  That night Sarah Eleanor and I cooked spaghetti in the tiny kitchen attached to our tiny suite. I scarfed down a plate and a half and she picked at a cup’s worth of noodles. I didn’t understand her – well, okay, I was pretty sure I did. I didn’t want her to be another ballerina on the edge of an eating disorder. After all the talk my dad gave me about dance and eating disorders and Grandma Anna growing up, I knew the signs. At least I thought so.

                  Sarah Eleanor was immersed in the television that sat on her dresser. She was glued to Dancing with the Stars. I climbed up and sat cross-legged on the sole kitchen counter so I could see the TV. Every time she knew I was watching, she loudly cleared her throat and flipped to the food channel.

                  “Whatcha watchin’?” I attempted my best casual voice.

                  She gave an “Oh!” and whipped her head around to look at me. I walked from the one kitchen counter to our bedroom where she sat obviously immersed in exactly how much Paula Deen loved her orange-apricot turkey.

                  “Oh, come on. You don’t actually care about that crap.” I yanked the remote from her and switched it back to Dancing with the Stars.

                  Sarah Eleanor put on her best offended face. “Hey, I was watching that!”

                  “Oh sure,” I said. “And I’m not a dancer.”

                  I could tell by her flat glare that she wanted to hit me, but she was too politely Christian to ever do such a thing.

                  I sighed. “Have you eaten all day?” Her eyes narrowed. “You pick at your food like a bird.”

                  Sarah Eleanor stared listlessly ahead.

                  “Well, it’s true,” I said. I flopped down on my bed and leaned to face her. “At Primanti’s, you ate like, half your salad and then let it go. And don’t tell me that salad was filling after pointe.”

                  Sarah Eleanor let out a huge sigh. After several minutes she said, “I just didn’t feel good.”

                  I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, okay. Well you didn’t mention that.”

                  She got up and marched over to the front door.

                  “It doesn’t concern you,” she said, and stalked down the hall after leaving the door wide open.

                  I stared at the Brandi Carlile poster next to the doorway, thinking about how Sarah Eleanor still didn’t know I was gay. All of our walls were up whether we wanted them to be or not. Isn’t it kind of odd how we can share such close spaces with people who don’t really have any idea who we are?