The lesson should have started three minutes ago, so I hit play on ‘Big Energy’ by Latto, position myself in front of the mirror, and get started with some shoulder isolations.
Once we’re through the warm-up, I weave my way through the students, leading them in a hip-pump to the left, then a slow circle before—ow! A size-fourteen sports shoe crunches down on my dance sneaker.
‘Shit, sorry, boss,’ blurts George, the student I secretly nickname ‘Avalanche’. His poor sense of direction makes him a moving threat on the dance floor, although the platinum-blond hair that wisps over his shoulders may have also inspired the pet name.
‘It’s all good, hun,’ I croak out. ‘You’re doingamazing. I really love your style and your energy!’
From the corner of my eye, I catch Kye frowning at my encouragement as Avalanche counts himself back into the beat, which he can’t quite locate. Making an escape, I groove past the touchy-feely Sarah (I affectionally callher ‘Snuggles’), who gives my arm a passing squeeze, and then curl around the woman rocking a tie-dye tracksuit whom I nickname ‘Bliss’ (her real name is Cait, and she floats around in a dreamlike state of happiness—I adore her). ‘Mayday’ (real name: Liam) waves an arm for help again, but he’ll have to wait.
‘Do we keep going, Evie?’
My gaze snaps over to eighteen-year-old Aneesh, known to me as ‘Usher’ because he’s my most skilled dancer by far.
‘No, you can stop now. Awesome work, you guys! That was fire.’
I move back to the mirror and lead the class through the first steps of tonight’s routine, my eyes repeatedly drifting to Groucho, who’s found a spot at the back of the room.
No matter how many dance lessons someone takes, some people just ‘have it’ and some don’t. I’d never say this to any of my students; it would only hurt their feelings. But the truth is that Usher has it and Avalanche doesn’t. Bliss has it; Snuggles and Mayday don’t.
Kyehas it.He moves like a natural—a professional, even—and when I reach the part of the routine where the choreography becomes more fast-paced, he picks it up and performs it like he’s the world’s leading authority on hip-hop.
Half an hour ago, I figured it would be best to try to steer clear of this sourpuss who can’t seem to manage a simple greeting. But now that I’ve seen him dance again,my body keeps pushing me towards him, as if it’s a little magnetised by his talent. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on him.
‘Okay, it’s time to hit some freestyle moves with the person beside you!’ I direct the class as the opening bars of ‘Better Now’ by Post Malone kick in.
I glide right up to Kye with a few arm-pops, expecting my cautious smile to be returned, but all he throws back at me is his smouldering stare. The lovely, soapy scent that I caught a whiff of the first time we danced sifts into the space between us.
‘It was funny seeing you in the casting studio last week,’ I say as I circle around him, which earns me one of those ‘hmpf’ grunts. ‘Do you work with Austin?’
He pushes up the sleeve of his long-sleeve tee, and I glimpse the dark tip of a tattoo etched on the inside of his forearm. ‘I’m Austin’s manager,’ he reveals, complementing my moves with his own.
Excellent—three words. We’re moving on up. Also, Austin’smanager? I’m impressed.
Together, we do some criss-cross steps, leaning a little further out with each one, and it’s impossible not to grin. I steal glances at Kye’s face, which is angled away, watching for his pouty lips to twitch even a little bit.Come on, Groucho. My kingdom for a smile. You know we’re good at this.
‘Congratulations on getting the movie,’ he suddenly mumbles.
‘Thank you.’
He says nothing else, but an urge to keep the conversation going overcomes me. ‘If I’m honest, I was shocked to get the part,’ I say. ‘Especially with no callback. I thought I was terrible in the audition.’
‘You were.’
My lips pop open. ‘Tell me what you really think,’ I mutter with an embarrassed laugh.
I appear to have unlocked a blockage in Kye’s vocal cords because he keeps going. ‘You got the part because of how you look,’ he says matter-of-factly, his eyes flickering over my bare midriff. ‘Buzz, the producers, Austin—they all wanted the most beautiful dancer they could find. That was their only criterion.’ He shrugs and leaves it there.
‘Um, I don’t think so,’ I say defensively. ‘My agent sent in a video of me dancing before I went to the casting. I’m pretty sure that’s what got me the job.’
Kye lets out a dry chuckle, as if I’m the most clueless person on Earth. ‘Good dancers aren’t unicorns. That’s not why you got hired.’
Okay, I’m speechless. Could he be any more blunt and rude? But I can’t deny it: there’s something kind of refreshing to have someone in show business—who isn’t my mother—speak the raw truth to me. In an industry in which flattering people is the fastest way to climb the ladder, it’s sometimes hard to know what people’s honest opinions are.
Knowing that Austin Reynolds thinks I’m ‘beautiful’ also makes me feel as if I’ve stumbled into myteenage dream. Yet, what Kye said about my looks has left a slight burning sensation behind my ribcage. My gaze floats over to the mirror, and I examine my face, which I scrubbed free of makeup before I left the house. I see Gabriel Dean’s features staring back at me, and the burning intensifies.
I’m more than a face.
And I’m definitely more than my father’s face.
