Free Attitude by Robin Stevenson Page B

she posted the comment. She doesn’t answer, but she can’t meet my eyes. “Just tell me the truth,” I say. “It’s not like anyone’s going to believe me anyway. Besides, I already know you did it. You’re the only one who could have got into my account.”
    â€œWhy ask, then?” she says.
    â€œI want to hear you admit it,” I say.
    Her cheeks are red and her eyes are too bright. “So what if I did?” she says. Her voice is high and shaky, like she’s on the edge of tears.
    â€œWhat are you going to do about it?”
    â€œI’m just going to dance,” I say.
    * * *
    On Monday morning, Diana pulls me aside. “We’re going to let you go ahead with the audition for The Nutcracker ,” she says. “But I should warn you, Cassandra. Any more incidents like the one last week, and the consequences will be severe.”
    My heart leaps and flutters like a dancer doing entrechats inside my rib cage. “Thank you,” I whisper.
    She nods, hesitates as if she is going to say something and then shakes her head. “I’ll see you in class.”
    I watch her go. I want her to believe me. I hate that people are thinking badly of me.
    Getting the part of Clara might be a good way to get even with Melissa and Edie, but it won’t erase the dark mark against me. It won’t clear my name.
    And I’m starting to realize that might be more important to me than revenge.

Fourteen
    Mackenzie is jumpy all week, figuring that she’ll be the next girl voted off, but nothing else happens. We’re all worked half to death in every class, so maybe Melissa and the other girls just haven’t had the energy for their usual games.
    And finally, Thursday—audition day—arrives.
    The auditions are being held at a dance studio downtown. It’s a bit of a zoo when we first arrive, because the youngest kids are just leaving. There are dozens of them, cute little munchkins, maybe six or seven years old, all chattering nonstop as their parents herd them up and usher them out the door. I watch their excited faces and wonder which ones will end up onstage—they’ll be the mice, I guess, and they’ll never forget it.
    We gather in a wide hallway, and someone hands out our numbers. I get number thirteen—which is fine, as I’ve never been superstitious. I pin it to my leotard and look around to see who got number one. Not Melissa, anyway—she’s got seventeen pinned to her chest.
    â€œThey’re just auditioning the party girls now,” Diana says. “It’ll be half an hour or so before they start calling you in, so try to relax. Do some stretching, get ready, don’t stress. And keep the volume down, please!”
    The floor is littered with shoes, water bottles, bits of lamb’s wool, and I can hear faint piano music drifting from the closed studio door. I find a spot to sit and stretch. Cam sinks down into the splits beside me. “Nervous?”
    â€œYeah.” I’m looking around, checking out the competition. Clusters of girls—all slim, longlimbed, smooth-haired—stand around talking, stretching, fixing their hair, adjusting their numbers. They all seem disturbingly confident, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. A handful of adults is bustling about, making sure each girl is numbered and counted and where she should be. “There sure are a lot of people trying out, aren’t there?” I say quietly.
    â€œNo kidding.” Cam leans forward, chin almost to the floor. “I’d sort of forgotten that there are so many other ballet schools here.”
    â€œOdds are, Clara won’t even be someone from our school,” I say.
    Cam sits up. “Not all the schools are as good as the academy.”
    â€œI’m going to try not to think about it,” I say. “It makes me nervous. I’m just going to dance, and what happens,