Fatal Attraction

OK people, my new story...maybe...comment and take my poll, please. And I mean pretty please. Major pretty please. Comment. Please.
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"I can’t believe you. You’re positively pathetic. Like totally pathetic. Could you just move?" Linda Haughton demanded, moving me out of her way with a perfectly manicured hand. Then she wiped her hand on her pink pleated skirt like I had cooties and smirked. "This is my hallway. Or more, this is the A-List hallway. So, like, don’t step here again with your rubber shoes, OK?" she said, twisting her combination into the lock and smiling as it sprang open. Then she whirled to me, her straight blonde hair flying out around her, landing perfectly in place. "Skedaddle, charity case. I don’t want to see you here. I said that. So go." She laughed as her two cronies gathered behind like plastic troops.

"I don’t think so. What I do think is that you should just step off." I replied, annoyed. I usually don’t bother with her snide comments. Opening up my own locker and throwing my bag inside, I noted that unlike hers, it was still that plain silver-grey, albeit for the few pictures I had pinned up of my parents. Good. Hers was lined with cut outs of male models, random little pink teddies and such. It smelt heavily of Lilies of the valley. What my mum used to wear…I shook my head and glanced at Linda, who was staring at me through narrowed eyes.

"What makes you think you can talk back?" she asked evilly. I almost ignored her, but then changed my mind and shrugged.

"The same things that make you think you can talk in the first place, I guess." I shot back casually, pulling my hoodie on and turning away from them. I heard her little squeak of outrage, but she wouldn’t come after me. If there was one thing I know about the A-list crowd around here, it’s that they’re all talk and no action. Well, the female side anyway. I pulled the hood of my all black jumper up and plugged my earphones in. Some soft, soulful R&B filled my ear, and I smiled a little within the shadows of the hood. I liked it like this.

Just getting lost in the music…it was such a relief to the harsh reality of life. I tucked my thumbs into the back pockets of my combats and ignored the stares I was getting from the student body of Marlin High. They were used to tight tops, designer jeans, low slung, low cut, anything that left little to the imagination on girls. So my style was different. I was suddenly broken out of my thoughts by my arrival at the theatre.

Pushing the door open, I stepped inside and hitched my duffel bag up my shoulder from where it was slipping. The doors I had just come out of lead you to the top of the hundreds of rows of seats. The Andy Flower Theatre is one of the biggest in all of America’s high school performance educational facilities. The audience seats were a deep ruby red – almost maroon, and the rest of it was a dark mahogany color. It was all made out of velvet and pine, except for the stage, where many a show has been held. That’s lain with some other wood, easy for sliding on. This is pretty useful, considering that’s what it’s mostly used for. Dance.

I skipped down the hundreds of steps and pushed open a less grand, simple, smaller door that led to the changing rooms. Stepping inside, I threw my bag down and stripped off of my clothes till I was in just my underwear. Then I rooted around in my bag till I found my street clothes. Salsa would come later. I pulled a tight off-the-shoulder green top on and swapped my grey combats for some baggy, three quarter black ones. They tightened just below my knee, and were adorned with a lot of silver because of all the zips and buttons on the many pockets. Reaching up, I pulled my hair back into a messy ponytail and checked my appearance in the mirror.

Straight, long hair with a layered fringe. Big, light green eyes with a ring or forest green around them, and then another ring of gold, which symbolized my family status. A small pixie nose that always got dusted with freckles in the summer if I forgot my sun cream that I got from my dad. Naturally big, pink pouting lips I got from my mother. High cheekbones I got from lord knows who. My eyes are framed with layers of thick mascara and subtle black eyeliner, my cheeks brushed lightly with blusher. I’m quarter black, so my skin’s this honey color which I love. My grandma on my dad’s side was black. I loved her to bits. She named me. Her favorite name at the time was Ebony, so that’s what I got stuck with. I kind of like it, though. Ebony. It has a mysterious ring to it.

I pulled away from the mirror and slipped my skate shoes on. They’re black and green and blue, all my favorite colors in one, displayed in graffiti that says, appropriately, dancer down the side. I tucked the green and blue laces into the side without tying them; I couldn’t really be bothered with knots that would probably undo in the muddle of a dance anyway. I snapped a big, stretchy green cloth headband on and was ready. Time to dance.

Walking to the middle of the stage, I bent and began to do calf stretches. I jogged on the spot to get my heart rate up before finishing my arm, thigh and stomach limbering. Then I slid easily into the splits. I hadn’t danced in a long time, so I was a little stiff, but, as always, got down to the floor without a problem. After all this, I walked to the stereo at the left hand wing; it was kept as an alternative to all the big, fancy high tech equipment they preferred now. I slid my hip hop beats CD in and switched it on. Almost immediately, the latest tracks flooded into the cast room. I smiled. Today was a day of choreography.

Usher’s Love in this Club was the first one. The song, although one of my favorites, was too slow. I randomly stepped to the beats and practiced my moves till it played through to the next one. Ne-yo’s Miss Independent. Quite a good beat, but not what I wanted. Then the perfect song came on. Flo Rider’s Low. It had been used loads of times, but the beat was strong and it was easy to dance to. Today’s song was this one.

I replayed it and ran to the center of the stage. The beat started out. I stayed still, facing the back of the stage, tapping my foot. Then the lyrics kicked in.

"Shawty had those apple bottom jeans…" I whirled around and began to dance. I can’t describe the way I feel when I dance. It’s even better than when I’m cosy in my hoodie, listening to music. When I dance, I’m free. I can do whatever I want and never get confronted for it, because it flows beautifully. I can let myself go, get lost in the beat, and tap my own rhythm with my feet. Street dancing and salsa are the best. With street, I can do stunts; turn on my head, flip, somersault, whatever I want. With salsa, I enjoy the lifts with your partner, the soaring in the air. And the closeness of two people, both lost in their movements. By the time the chorus came around for a third time, I was so engrossed; I didn’t hear the door open. I didn’t see the shadowy figure descend the stairs and slide into one of the seats in the middle of the rows.