Chapter 3

It became apparent at the next Business Management coursework lesson that our group were leagues ahead of all the other groups already. The coursework was due at half term, six weeks away, still, just before Halloween. Other groups were still brainstorming business ideas. I noted how they were all making the same mistake Charlie and I had made at first, by trying to come up with a business idea and then trying to find a company that it would fit. My girls and I sat smugly in the corner and tried to hide our already-mostly-finished proposal. I wondered if Ms Duncan was going to help the other groups like she’d helped us? I suspected Ms Duncan had a soft spot for Tiff, although the revelations about the Girl Guide cookies may have cast her in a different light. I asked if it was true, and Charlie promised me it wasn’t entirely untrue; Tiff clammed up.

The girls were very possessive of our business idea, and weren’t admitting much to anyone who asked, so we mostly sat there in silence. I took the opportunity to assess my new friends’ beauty again. Charlie was, obviously, gorgeous. Her blouses were somehow fitted to be tight around her skinny waist and tight around her large breasts and tight everywhere else, too. Her cardigan hugged her and her pleated skirt was borderline illegal. Everything about her was perfect. But Tiff, I noticed, was just as pretty in her own way. When she wasn’t hiding behind her hair and glasses, she was actually very pretty.

“You know, girls always know,” Charlie whispered, her hand patting my arm. I snapped out of it; I’d been miles away, studying the edge of Tiff’s jaw.

Tiff looked up too, confused. “What do girls always know?”

“You know, what he was doing,” Charlie sounded exasperated, “When boys check girls out.”

“Oh? Do we?”

“Whose side are you on, Tiff? Of course we do!” Charlie rolled her eyes. Then she pinched my arm where she’d been patting it; not a friendly pinch, but a mean, painful one. I flinched and swallowed a yell. “Be careful, Sam, be very careful. You’ve been so good up to now. Don’t fuck it up.”

I recoiled. Busted. Warned off. Dreams dashed. Fuck. It was like a kick in the teeth. Deflation.

“Wasn’t she sweet?”

Mum gushed and squeezed my arm excitedly. We sat, half way back in the audience in the middle, watching my mum’s friend Sarah’s little girl, Flo, perform ballet. A whole class of little girls were doing ballet and the synchronization was awful. I had waved and nodded at Sarah, sitting down in the front row, as we’d taken our seats. The audience was mostly mums, plenty of siblings, a handful of henpecked dads, and no other boys my age.

I shrugged. No amount of fondness for my mum or for Sarah or even little Flo was going to make me think Flo was good at ballet. None of the little girls were. I didn’t understand why they’d want anyone to see them try and do it. More wounded duck than Swan Lake.

“Yeah, sweet,” I admitted diplomatically. “So, can we go now?”

Mum squeezed my arm even tighter. “You haven’t got to the good bit, yet”

“Oh, there’s more?”

“I might be here to support Flo, but you’re here for a completely different purpose entirely,” mum whispered and grinned, the satisfaction of a cunning plan showing in the glint of her eye. My confusion must have showed. “The older girls, they’re really quite good. And they’d be about your age,” mum finished smugly.

Oh my god! Mum was bringing me to see pretty teenage girls dance. Was she teasing me, or testing me, or encouraging me? Life was so much easier before mum had taken an interest, and a role, in my love life. I sank as low in my chair as possible, completely embarrassed. I dared not glance behind me. I hope nobody had overheard us.

And you know what? The older girls were really quite excellent. The show progressed, class by class, getting fewer and fewer girls as the girls got older.

It was hard to judge the age range of the girls. Girls definitely develop at different rates. Some in each class look really young and some look really old, with boobs and everything. Generally, the girls with the bigger assets were kind of hampered by them. It was spellbinding to watch those with breasts dance as the breasts seemed to move in counter-rythm to the rest of the bodies, always left behind by the throes of gravity and centrifugal force, like waves sloshing on the sea shore. The girls all had on tight leotards and very firm sports bras but one poor girl still seemed to almost hit herself in the face as her body arced down and her glands continued upwards each time she jumped.

Okay, now this last girl definitely had my attention. Now, it was just the one girl, exposed, alone, perfection. Her face powered white with vivid red lipstick and her blondish hair pulled tightly back in a bun. Although short and incredibly small, she oozed maturity. Her tight white leotard clung to her tiny muscled torso showing the bumps of her six pack, the tiny flat mounds of her breasts and her nipples poking out, defiantly, defeating her bra. The v-neck showed no cleavage, but a deep, sweaty, glistening groove from her throat down her middle. I drank in the sight, mesmerized, as she pirouetted and paused, kicked and danced and leapt and leapt again.

Mum squeezed my bicep again. “Stop rocking. She is something, though”

Suddenly the music changed completely. From ballet, the girl transformed effortlessly into some kind of modern jazz street dance-ballet fusion, becoming all elbows and knees and abrupt, perfectly timed chops and gyrations. She was just so brilliant! Just so talented. Just so sexual. I forgot about mum. I forgot about the audience. I forgot about Charlie. I forgot about everything. It was just me and this girl in the whole world. I stood and clapped and whistled with the crowd as the music finished and she curtsied. The teacher marched onto the stage with a bunch of roses for her and held her hand high like a boxing champion.

The show was over. It took a moment for my heart to stop racing. People shuffled down the rows and aisles and made their way onto the stage area to cluster around their kids. Mum and I jostled along and headed over to a beaming, proud Sarah and meek, little Flo.

“Good of you to come and support Flo, Sam. I didn’t know you liked ballet,” Sarah teased.

“Oh, I made him come, I thought he should see some of the older girls,” mum giggled and nudged Sarah conspiratorially. Sarah’s eyes lit up. Oh no. Mum alone was bad enough. Mum and any of her friends would be awful.

“Oh Sam! Why yes, I really must introduce you to the star of the show!” Sarah gushed as she snagged the crook of my arm and swung me around as she stood on tiptoe and scanned the busy stage. Then I was being dragged, stumbling, through the crowd by a small, determined woman who until just seconds ago I thought of as a friend.

And there she was, in front of me, as the crowd parted, emerging from a heavy black curtained-off area behind the stage. The solo girl who had done that last dance. Almost alone, no big cluster of well wishers and admirers and family. Just talking to the one other girl, a girl from the audience, a cute girl. A very cute girl. A tight pair of jeans and tight waist and crop top, her back to me, but the hint of very full breasts.

The ballet dancer locked eyes with me, startled, frozen. Then the girl she was talking to paused, and then slowly turned around to see what the dancer was staring at.

Oh my god! It was Charlie. Charlie had been in the audience, too. Charlie knew the hottest dancer. They were friends. They’d been talking. The dancer was staring, transfixed, at me.

“Sam,” the dancer croaked hoarsely.

Those cheekbones. Those gold-rimmed round little spectacles she now wore. Oh my god! It was Tiff. Tiff was the super sexy ballet dancer!

Time stood still. I stood, frozen, staring at the two girls. They stood, frozen, staring back at me. Behind us, the hum of the crowd went fuzzy and distant. We tried to take it in.

“So, you two know each other?” Sarah seemed puzzled.

“You must be Charlie,” mum squeezed through and past me, holding out her hand to shake. “Sam has told me all about you.” There was a pause before Charlie noticed mum. “And accurately,” mum giggled, her head nodding as she scanned Charlie up and down.

“I loved your show. We loved your show.” mum now turned to the dancer. “I’m Sam’s mum. I didn’t know Sam knew any ballet dancers.”

There was a pregnant pause as Tiff stood still, still staring at me. “Tiff,” Charlie whispered. Mum recoiled slightly.

“Tiff?” mum recovered. “Oh, Sam has told me all about you, too. But he never told me you could dance!”

Tiff snapped her head to look at mum and then snapped her laser focus back to me, clasped her bunch of roses to cover her bosom and turned and flew off the side of the stage, disappearing instantly behind a black curtain.

“Tiff’s very shy,” Charlie explained awkwardly, covering for her friend. “So, Sam has a mum? He never said,” Charlie grinned.

“Oh how hurtful, I thought I was the most important lady in his life,” mum playfully batted back as she eased in beside Charlie and they turned their heads together and started talking, making friends.

Sarah stood beside me, looking at me appraisingly. “So, are you going to tell me what the ... is going on?” she cocked an eyebrow at me enquiringly.

“Mum, can we go home now?” a meek little Flo had squeezed her way past everyone to tug on Sarah’s sleeve.

“Don’t forget, two pm rehearsal!”

I stared at mum, confused. How did she know?

“Charlie and I are now friends on WhatsItApp,” mum clarified to answer the question I hadn’t articulated.

“Oh, and Sam,” mum said more softly, her voice suddenly full of concern, “Tread really carefully. There’s more between Charlie and Tiff than you think. I’m not sure you’ll get anywhere, just try and be their friend, okay?” She paused, trying to read my mind.

“Didn’t you notice? The other day at the dance? Charlie’s mouth was absolutely plastered with bright red lipstick smears. Just be their friend.”