Chapter One

Welcome to Broughton Academy

My first day at my new school should have been a warning.

Mom asked me to go to school with Dad so we could start out together. Just what I wanted. To have to start and end my day with the one person I wanted to be farthest away from. We arrived at school, and I found a nice tree to hide under and sketch while I tried to look like I’d hadn't been at school since dawn. It was nearly time for the first bell before I made my grand entrance.

The front of the school was impressive. I remembered thinking how distinguished and old the door looked when I came for my enrollment interview . Today, I hoped the stone facade would drop on my head and rescue me form this nightmare.

Walking into the main hall reminded me even more why I didn't want to be here. Students were gathered in clumps, making the hallway nearly impassable. At the bottom of the stairs that led to my first period class, a group of girls chatted excitedly about all the performances they were in over the summer. They all wore matching T-shirts that read “Broughton Academy Drama Queens”. It was almost a comfort to know that the school’s cliques announced themselves. I slipped past them and landed in my seat just as the bell rang.

“Good morning, class, and welcome to Social Studies.” I really have no idea what he said after that. I opened my notebook and started doodling. Stick people chased each other down the side of the page. I was starting in on a stick figure battle, when, “Melinda? Are you here?”

Oh...that’s my name. “It’s ‘Lindy’, sir.” My social studies teacher wasn’t amused by my nickname, I guess, because he snorted and turned back to his attendance roster. I shrugged and went back to my stick figures.

If I had my way, I’d be enrolling in the nearby public high school by the end of the week. I never should have let my parents talk me into enrolling at Broughton anyway!

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The last sticky days of summer were the worst of my life.

My father moved us to this tiny New England town so he could start his new job- teaching violin at Broughton. The schools here started school at the end of August, and my parents were concerned that I wouldn’t be able to catch up this late into the school year. Like three weeks is really that late! The only school that hadn’t started yet was Broughton Academy, so my parents and the headmaster decided that the school would grant me a scholarship tied to my father’s position, and I would join the student body at Broughton.

I could never forget that interview. It was like being caught in a horror movie, or maybe just one of those bad teenager movies where the lead gets stuck in a bad situation, but comes out on top at the end. I hated those movies.

Dr. Birchard (PhD in Music Theory and Composition) was overly friendly, like he thought that maybe I was my father. While my parents discussed my future at Broughton, Dr. Birchard gave me a brochure to look over. It listed the tracks Broughton offered, reminding me of why I already didn’t belong at Broughton. For those unfamiliar with the school, Broughton Academy is a private performing arts school. Most of its graduates go on to pursue incredible careers in the performing arts. My father, world-famous violinst Matthew Stanton, was invited to leave his career touring with his chamber group to teach violin to the teenage elite.

As I scanned the brochure, I noticed Dr. Birchard had circled the violin track right as I heard my father say, “Yes, I’m really looking forward to the opportunity to spend some real time with Lindy.” I couldn’t stop my eyes from rolling as I pretended I didn’t hear him at all.

Reading over the brochure again, I became angry. Broughton was not a normal school. There were no sports teams, so I couldn’t even hope for a little happiness in my lifetime passion of soccer. Everything was driven by the performing arts.

“Well, Melinda, do any of the tracks look interesting to you?” Dr. Birchard was trying to look friendly and hopeful again.

I sneered, not caring that I was being a bit rude. “It’s ‘Lindy’.”

His smile broadened, “Lindy, it is, then. We offer a wide variety of programs. Perhaps you might like to study violin? Play like your father?”

My sneer softened to a half-heartedly gracious smile, “Dr. Birchard, no one can play like my father.” That much was true. My father earned his right to be world-renowned. When I was little, I used to love listening to him play. He could bring his violin to life. Then I started making friends, and he insisted on trying to be the dad. I think that’s when I mostly stopped listening to him play his violin outside of the performances my mother dragged me to.

Dr. Birchard nodded at what he perceived was a daughter’s pride.

An idea suddenly hit me. “Can I see the school?”

My parents thought that was a splendid idea, and soon Dr. Birchard was leading us through the hallways, showing us the rehearsal rooms for the musicians and singers, the three theaters the Academy housed, and the dance studios. The dance studios were very interesting to me. They were in the wing farthest from the music wing where my father would be teaching. When we returned to Dr. Birchard’s office, I declared myself a dance major.

“You’ll really like it, Lindy,” Dr. Birchard assured me. “Our program is top-notch, and you’ll have no trouble making yourself at home there.” My uncertainty must have been showing, because he looked over my file, still open on his desk, quickly, “You play soccer, right?”

“Yeah...” My mother shot me a dirty look. My lack of manners were starting to land me on her bad side, so I straightened up in my chair, “Yes, sir.”

“Well, then the dance program should suit you well. Think of it as playing soccer to music.”

I thought of making some witty retort, but my mother caught me and the comment died in my head.

I was headed for the dance program, for better or worse.

I was certain it would be for the worse.

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“Melinda? Melinda?” the teacher’s voice pulled me out of my daydream.

“Here?” I knew there was no way to hide that I hadn’t been paying attention. Around me, the class erupted into laughter.

“Yes, Melinda, we established that earlier. Now, can you tell me one amendment listed in the Bill of Rights?”

Oh, no! A hard-hitting question my first day of class! What kind of teacher would be that cruel? “Um...”

Before I got any farther, he moved on to another student who promptly responded with something about bear arms. I slept through most of American History last year, but I was pretty sure I didn’t remember anything about bears in the Bill of Rights.

It occured to me that I could actually flunk out of Broughton without much effort. The school had this crazy four-course day. Two hours of the day were spent on academics, a pair of odd classes where I have to learn math and English through social studies and science. It was nothing like my middle school! According to what Dr. Birchard told my parents, this is an innovative program that allows the students to study in intense bursts while leaving them plenty of time to work on their “craft”.

A craft? Whoever heard of a performing art being a craft?

My first opportunity to practice my newly acquired “craft” came during second period. Freshmen in the dance program take class together, so I followed the others into the largest dance studio. The teacher showed us all the locker room, assigned us lockers, and left us to other girls all started changing into what looked like heavy-duty pink panty hose and black swimsuits. I felt a bit stupid standing there, the only one not changing. Some of the girls noticed me standing there, still wearing my blue jeans and Broughton Academy sweatshirt, and started whispering and snickering. Annoyed, I walked out to the studio.

A rather stern-looking woman was standing by the stereo, shuffling through some CDs. My tennis shoes squeaked on the polished hardwood floor, and she turned, scowling at me, “No street shoes in the studio!”

“Street shoes?” I looked down at my sneakers.

The woman sighed heavily as she slammed the CDs onto a shelf below the stereo. “Remove your shoes. We only wear dance shoes in this studio.”

Oh, I thought as I kicked off the shoes and placed near the wall.

“Your shoes, and your street clothes go in your locker. Why aren’t you changing with the others?”

I had a bad feeling that this new life was going to really raise my verbal score on the SAT. First, there were street shoes; now there were street clothes. Frustrated, I explained, “I didn’t know we were supposed to bring other clothes.”

The teacher walked up to me and circled me like a hawk. “Are you in the wrong class, perhaps?” The hopeful tone of her voice made me want to scream, but I really didn’t need it getting back to my father that I was already causing trouble.

“I’m here for Freshman Dance.” Maybe if I answered in short sentences, I’d manage not to tell this woman how I felt.

“Hmmm...” She walked back over to the stereo, “Well, you obviously haven’t studied dance before.”

“I didn’t know it required studying, ma’am.” I didn’t realize how much sarcasm leaked into my voice until she turned around, anger apparent on her taut face.

“Well, we simply don’t have time to bring you up to the level of the other girls.”

“But we’ll do everything we can to help you get there.” I turned at the new voice, a warm lilting tone. The woman quickly made her way across the studio and extended her hand, “Are you Melinda?”

“Lindy,” I corrected.

The newcomer nodded. “I’m Ms. Lemert. Dr. Birchard said we would have a new dancer. Did your parents not get my email?”

“You sent my parents an email?” I remembered teacher emails from last year. Most of them came from my math teacher, telling my parents I was failing. I couldn’t imagine why this woman was already emailing my parents when class hadn’t started and my father was right across campus.

“Oh, dear. I was afraid it hadn’t gone through. I sent them an email with a list of things you would want for class. I’ll see if I can find it and print it out for you.”

Someone had tried to make sure I wouldn’t be standing here embarrassed? Someone who didn’t even know me? Somehow, Broughton brightened just a little bit.

Ms. Lemert vanished to through a door next to the stereo and returned with a box. “Dig through here and see if any of those fit you. You can borrow them until you get your own. And I’m afraid you’ll have to dance in what you’re wearing for the day.”

The box was full of what looked like pink leather slippers, although they were more tapered than any slippers I’d ever owned. “Um, excuse me, “both teachers turned from their conversation, “how do I know which ones are right shoes and which are left shoes?”

“It doesn’t matter, Lindy. Just find two that fit.” It was a strange bit of advice, but soon I had a pair of odd pink leather slippers on my feet. I liked the way they molded to my feet. They felt weird and cool all at the same time. I ran across the studio in them, receving more glares from my still-unnamed teacher. I spun around. I tried playing imaginary soccer in them. These were quite possibly more fun than my soccer cleats.

From what the first teacher had said, I suspected I was the only person in the room who had never studied any type of dance. As the other girls walked in and lined themselves up at the wooden bars that hung at just below shoulder level around the room, I joined them. Some of the girls warmed up, so I followed them. I was used to warming up before soccer, but couldn’t figure out why I had to stretch and limber up before dancing.

Once everyone was in class, Ms. Lemert called us into the center of the room. Nearly every single one of my classmates sat down gracefully; I just plopped. That was when I noticed the mirrors lining the wall behind Ms. Lemert. Sitting there sprawled out in my “street clothes”, I really looked like I didn’t belong in this room full of princesses. I eyed the door briefly, but Ms. Lemert started talking.

“Good morning, ladies.” We all acknowledged her in some way, many of the girls respoding in unison. Ms. Lemert smiled and welcomed us to Broughton, before explaining how the freshman dance class works. Over the course of the school year, we would be studying ballet, tap, jazz, and modern dance, and at the end of the year we would pick one to specialize in. I didn’t even realize there were different types of dance. How was I ever going to specialize in one? She then announced that we would all be taking part in an audition for the Broughton Bells, Broughton’s prestigious dance troupe.

Some of my classmates, obviously aware of this elite group, started whispering excitedly among themselves. I just sat there wondering where they got such a lame name.

We were all then asked to move to one of the walls next to the mirrored walls, and I got my first taste of the real dance program at Broughton.

For the next half hour, we watched as the veteran dancers performed for us. There was a soft, graceful ballet. There was a piece that looked more like the dancers were flailing helplessly about, occasionally flailing in a pattern. There was an energetic tap dance number that I really liked! Finally, the dancers finished, and we applauded.

Ms. Lemert then asked the veterans to move to different spots in the room, and we freshman were divided up among them. I ended up with a serious dark blonde ballerina and a smiling dark-haired tap dancer. Once we were all sorted into groups with the veterans, Ms. Lemert announced that these were our “audition pods”, the groups we would be learning and practicing the audition pieces in.

Looking at my group, I felt very sorry for them. They would all be like the veterans, elegant and knowing what to do. I would be the one in the back hoping I didn’t hit somebody with one of those kicks or jumps.

Ms. Lemert dismissed us for the day, handing me a piece of paper as I grabbed my tennis shoes. “I’ve included the name and address of a shop that knows what we prefer here, and they’ll be happy to help you find everything you need.” I thanked her and retrieved my backpack from my locker. The paper was shoved in and forgotten.

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By the time I got to the cafeteria, more like a theater with small round tables in place of the audience, I was ready to walk out of Broughton.

I grabbed my lunch, something that looked like the school nutritionist had too much time on their hands, and looked for some place to sit. Had I been at the local public high school, I could have easily just plopped down at any table with kindred souls and waited for some sort of response. This wasn’t public school, though.

I looked around the room. Nearly every table was filled. Many of them were occupied by chatting teens. I imagined they were catching up on summer happenings or trying to figure out whose parents were out of town for the weekend, but I was pretty sure they were discussing something artistic. A few tables had students sitting around them who had either scripts or sheet music in front of them. Not a word was spoken as they took the occasional bite of food in between looking over their material. It was creepy.

Every time I tried approaching tables where some of my classmates were sitting, the empty seat was filled by another classmate. I looked to the empty tables, but they rapidly filled with more scary performers.

Fed up, I headed out to the lawn just beyond the cafeteria’s doors. I set my tray down with such force that my healthy salad nearly tossed itself, and pulled my hacky sack out of my I bounced and kicked the striped ball around, I realized that life as I knew it was over. There would be no more lunches spent playing hacky sack with my friends, the same friends who practiced soccer drills with me after school. I wasn’t even sure I’d have a friend agian. Everyone here seemed to be so focused on their “craft” that a no-talent nobody like me just didn’t stand a chance. The hacky sack flew in front of me, occasionally vanishing behind me for a minute as I kicked it back over my shoulder.

“You can’t do that.” I caught the hacky sack and turned around.

A teacher held open the door to the cafeteria. “Students aren’t allowed to eat their lunch outside.”

I thought about arguing. The crisp autumn air begged to be frolicked in, not that I honestly thought any of these divas had frolicked a day in their life. Blowing air between my teeth, I grabbed my tray and headed back into the cafeteria.

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After lunch, I made my way to the center of campus, the home of the Academy’s main theater. All Broughton students have to major in one track and minor in another. I selected Technical Theatre as my minor track. If I’d realized what it was sooner, I would have picked it for my major. I loved the idea of being able to study some performing thing that doesn’t actually require me to perform! It was perfect!

I should have known it wasn’t that simple, though. The lead teacher droned on in the most uninteresting lecture I could have ever imagined on the history of theatre. Even my stick figure serial story couldn’t keep me from daydreaming.

Fortunately, I had Kaycee next to me. Somehow, she got bored more quickly than I did, except instead of quietly doodle, she talked. At rapid speeds. When she finally took a breath, I stopped her.

She took a deep breath, “Sorry. I’m just really excited to be here.”

I idly nodded and drew a stick figure hanging itself. She looked over my shoulder, but I shifted my notebook away from her. Then she stared at me intently, the same way those students in the cafeteria stared at their scripts and sheet music. “Oh, I know you! You’re the girl who was playing hacky sack!” I looked up from my doodles. “My brother and his friends play hacky sack, but they never let me play because they say I’m bad at it.” Recognition seemed to have a painful price as Kaycee rambled on fast forward about hacky sack, her brother and his friends, and something that sounded vaguely like she might have been a music student of some sort.

The teacher finally came to a stopping point in his lecture and started discussing expectations for the semester. I never heard any of them. Kaycee elbowed me again and squealed, “Oh my god, that’s Michael Brown!”

“Huh?” I tried to follow her waving finger, but it was harder to follow than her one-sided attempts at fast forward tape seemed to run even faster. The most I caught was that Michael Brown was apparently a good thing, although I had no clue why. Kaycee rambled on for several minutes before I had to remind her to breathe. I’d never seen someone literally turn blue before.

Fortunately, I was rescued a few minutes later as the teacher started dividing us into our teams for the Fall Festival. I had no idea what this Fall Festival was, but I wasn’t thrilled at being placed in yet another group. My middle school wasn’t big on teamwork becasue the teachers were afraid we would cheat off each other, and I couldn’t figure out why Broughton seemed to push it on us.

It didn’t matter, though. I had my audition group for freshman dance, and my team for Fall Festival. Somehow, I knew it was just a matter of time before I was assigned to a group in both science and social studies.

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Science was a blur. I stopped listening after the teacher said something about dissecting pigs.

The bell chimed some classical meoldy, and I headed across campus to my father’s office. As I walked in, a familiar face brushed past me. It was the brunette from dance class. She smiled at me and called back to my father, “See you tomorrow, Mr. Stanton.”

“All right, Angela. Work on your audition piece.” The girl vanished down the hallway, and I walked into the office and sank into the nearest chair.

My father finished loosening his bow and stowed it in his case. “How was your first day, Lindy?”

“I’ve had better.”

The view out of the office window was very pretty. An old oak tree was starting to change color right outside the window.

My father studied me for a few moments. “Yes, I guess it could be difficult. This isn’t anything like the schools you’ve gone to before.”

“Not really.” Remembering the morning, I fished a crumpled piece of paper out of my backpack. “I have to get some stuff for class tomorrow.”

“We’ll take care of this on the way home.”

Somehow, all hopes for getting out of Broughton quickly flitted out the window.