The Extraordinaries

Chapter Five: Keaton

Seven Years Earlier

My heart won't stop beating. It flutters up against my chest, beating its wings like a butterfly, sends shots of dizziness through me. I can feel each one, like a wave going up through my torso.

The other girls are all onstage already, spinning in little circles, so it's just Desmond and Kier and Byrne at my side as we peer through the curtain. The girls are doing well, getting every move right, but there's something about their performance that makes me feel empty inside. Looking at them doesn't bring any feeling to me, nothing at all. They're just going through the motions they've been taught. What's the point of that? To show that they're capable?

I don't usually think like this. I'm an accomplished dancer, but I'm no better than any of these girls. There's no reason they should be making me feel this way, but something about it does. It all feels fake: the black leotards with the fancy flared skirts attached, the gold acrylic stage, the strobe lights that make this feel more like a rock concert that a dance recital.

"You okay, Keaton?" I turn; it's Desmond, his bug eyes looking even bigger as he stares at me, nervous. His fingers are shaking, the jitters he knows he has to have before he goes onstage. He's not nervous, though; I know it. Desmond's confident, and we all know he's one of the most talented dancers at the Company. He'll probably manage a career out of this once the rest of us are all off at university, studying things that don't matter to us. He's lucky, Desmond.

"Of course," I say, a little too quickly. His brow wrinkles. "I'm fine," I say. "Why?"

Byrne steps forward. "You had this look about you," he says. His fingers are shaking too, and I know that he would much prefer if he could go on with the girls to do the spinning dance rather than having the spotlight fall on him and Kier and Desmond alone. "This real crazy look." He reaches up and brushes a finger through his hair. It's long, almost to his shoulders, and crazy with dark curls. Byrne's one of the scholarship kids, the ones who have to file paperwork and advertise shows to get a place in the company. It feels like he's always conscious of that fact, always adjusting himself in an attempt to look like us.

I giggle nervously. "A look, Byrne?" I roll my eyes, playing that I don't know what he means.

"Yeah," Byrne says. "Like, a scary look. You good, Keaton?"

I snort. Desmond and Byrne are both staring at me now, like children peering up at adults. "Of course I'm good," I say. "I'm just a little nervous."

They both nod hurriedly, desperate to understand. They don't, though. They know what it means to be a little nervous, but they don't understand the depths of darkness I feel looking out at this stage, this stage that means absolutely nothing.

I glance over at Kier. His mouth is twisted, eyes cast to the ground where his foot shuffles slowly from side to side in a zigzag pattern: heel, toe, heel, toe. I don't know if it's nerves, or if he's just bored.

The music stops outside, and I hear the roar of applause that cascades across the audience, a wave of excitement. Possibly relief. Some of them, many, in fact, are just the younger siblings of us performers, dragged, along and forced to sit still and watch. Thank God, they're thinking. One act done with, and soon they can go home and watch television and play with their dog. Maybe they're thinking that watching these people move means nothing, that it's just something they've learned. I feel like something's squeezing me from the inside, and a single tear pops from my eyes.

I touch it, diffusing it to nothing but a spot of wetness at the tip of my cheek. The boys don't notice; they're too busy lining up, whispering calm words to themselves as they prepare to go onstage. I watch as the other girls bow and then disappear backstage on the other side. The boys tap their feet in anticipation as the lights change and the symphony starts up again, playing the next song. Then, they filter out, wide smiles exaggerated across their faces.