Across the Floor Read online

  ACROSS THE

  FLOOR

  Natasha Deen

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2016 Natasha Deen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Deen, Natasha, author

  Across the floor / Natasha Deen.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0920-8 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0921-5 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0922-2 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8607.E444A77 2016 jC813'.6 C2016-900450-3

  C2016-900451-1

  First published in the United States, 2016

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016931894

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for teen readers, football player Luc is forced to take a dance class, where he discovers an unexpected new passion.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover photography by iStock.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1

  For Marla Albiston

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Acknowledgments

  One

  This can’t be happening to me. For real, this can’t be happening to me. I do a quick check of my surroundings. Coach’s office. Smell of sweat and mold. Coach, doing that quiet voice he does when he means business.

  Yep.

  This is really happening. Oh man.

  “—cost us.” Coach shakes his head. “We were so close to the win.”

  I wince. Bad enough that I haven’t forgotten my spectacular failure that cost us the football championship. Even worse that today, on the last day of school, it’s clear that Coach hasn’t forgotten either. “It’s not like I meant to have my knee snap,” I say.

  That moment still gives me nightmares. The final sixty seconds in the game, the end zone in my sight. I could almost feel the cold metal of the trophy in my hands…

  And that was my fatal mistake. My attention had shifted. It was enough for the other team’s defensive lineman to grab me around the waist and haul me down.

  There went my knee, the game, the trophy and the feel of victory.

  Coach sighs. “No one ever means to get an injury, Luc.”

  The first rule in any game—especially when you’re a smaller player like me—is never let your opponent see you nervous. I lean back in the metal chair. “So, I don’t get on the team next year because I got hurt.” I want to say more, to fight and point out that I’m one of his best players. But I keep my mouth shut. My mom’s a detective in Vice. She says that silence is often the best way to break a suspect. I press my lips together, even though the words threaten to burst free.

  “You were great this year. No one can argue that.” His gaze flicks to the papers on his desk.

  I brace myself against the disappointment and heartbreak bubbling in me. This is surreal. In my worst nightmares it never occurred to me that Coach would kick me off the team.

  I love football.

  I live football.

  Geez, I’d sleep in the end zone if I could.

  “You’re a shoo-in at tryouts and on the team… on one condition.”

  I raise an eyebrow and tie an anchor to the hope that’s rising like a helium balloon.

  “Dance.”

  “Gesundheit.”

  “I didn’t sneeze.”

  “Then that’s one weird cough.”

  Coach rolls his eyes. “I mean what I say. It’ll be a great supplemental sport for you.”

  For me, if it doesn’t involve sneakers, a uniform, mouthguard, shin pads or a helmet, it’s not really a sport.

  “Dance is an excellent strengthening activity,” Coach says. “Steve McLendon does ballet. If it’s good enough for an NFL player, then it should be good enough for E.J. Marshall’s defensive lineman.”

  Gimme me a break. Steve McLendon’s 320 pounds. I’m positive his parents don’t question anything he does. My parents, on the other hand, will be questioning why I have to join dance when I’m already in a bunch of other sports during the school year.

  “Dance will help with your flexibility and strength. Luc, you’re one of the best players I’ve got. I can’t risk losing you to an injury. I don’t want to lose a championship because you hurt yourself. Dance will give you that extra conditioning you need.”

  I can’t argue with his reasoning. I’m not averse to doing what’s necessary to stay on the team. When Coach said he didn’t think I had good lung strength, I joined track and field to build endurance. Then I joined swim for stamina, and soccer for footwork. But dance?

  “Can’t I do something else? What about extra swimming classes?” I’m leaning forward in the chair. Bad move. It transmits emotions I want to keep private. I lean back and wait for his answer.

  Coach ponders. The chair rattles as he straightens. “No, dance is best.” He takes a breath. “Unless you think you can’t do it?”

  “That’s not the point. Point is, I don’t think you can force me to do this.”

  “You’re right. It’s your choice. Just like it’s my choice who I allow on the team next year.” He gives me a stare. “What’s it going to be?”

  * * *

  That night Dad and I sit down at the computer and go through the summer dance classes. The spicy scent of bobotie, a curried shepherd’s pie from Mom’s home country, South Africa, lingers in the air.

  “I can’t believe Coach is making you do this.” Dad scowls as he scrolls through the online list. The glow of the computer screen lights his face and reveals his irritation. His face is almost as red as his hair.

  “Me neither.”

  “He told you to join track and field to build endurance, and you did. Then it was soccer. Then swimming.” He turns his scowl my way. “How many more sports are you supposed to take part in before this guy is happy?”

  “Coach says it’ll make me a better player.”

  “Coach always says that.” Dad sighs. “And look at this.” He waves his hand at the computer screen. “Look at the cost and the time. How are you supposed to help me this summer?”

  Oh man. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Well, think about it. ’Cause it’s your sport and your social life on the line.”

  The deal in the family is that my parents pay for school supplies—books, pens, computers and stuff like that—as well as most of my sports fees, housing and food. Everything else—clothes, 10 percent of the fees for sports teams, money to hang out with friends—comes out of my pocket. Plus, 10 percent of my wages has to go to my savings account. And all of that means working with Dad’s landscaping company in the summer.

  “We’ve got a ton of new clients. Plus the longtime clients too. What about Mrs. O’Connor?” Dad takes his hands from the keyboard and turns to me. “Are you going to give her up
?”

  No way. I really like Mrs. O’Connor and her family. She’s got triplets—boys—who’re a total riot, and her husband is in the military. Helping them is my way of saying thanks for his service and their sacrifice. “I’ll still mow Mrs. O’Connor’s lawn. It’ll be fine.”

  “That’s what you think, huh?” Dad gives me a pitying look and turns back to the computer. “All these studios are running day-long classes. And those classes run three weeks. You do the math on how much money both you and I are about to lose while you learn how to pirouette.”

  I read over his shoulder. “I can’t take any of those classes anyway. Coach says I only have to do contemporary dance. These classes are a full day, with a bunch of different styles.” I give his shoulder a gentle shove.

  He takes the hint and gets up.

  Sitting down, I grab the mouse and keyboard and start a new search.

  “I’m not hiring a new guy.” He’s on repeat mode of his rant. “You know the clients, know what they like. Dance or no dance, I expect you to work.”

  “Yes, sir!” I salute him.

  His lips quirk. “Don’t be a smart aleck. Football costs money. A lot of money. So do all the other sports you’re doing. You have to do your part. And that means mowing lawns.”

  “Look, Coach said to take contemporary dance. It’s not like it’s going to take all summer. I promise, it’ll be fine.”

  “What’s going on?” Mom comes into the room. She has a plate of fruit in her hand and offers me a slice of pineapple.

  “Dad’s reading me the riot act about taking dance this summer.” I take a bite of the pineapple.

  “I hope you’re listening. If we have to hire someone to take your place—” Her voice is calm, and if she’s irritated, her dark skin hides the evidence.

  “Geez.”

  “Don’t ‘geez’ me, young man. You have responsibilities—”

  “I’ve heard this already. Don’t worry, okay? It’ll be fine. But for your lack of maternal support”—I grab the plate from Mom—“you’ll lose your fruit.”

  “Hey!”

  I bite into an apple. “Anyway, it won’t be that bad.”

  “Really?” Mom hikes an eyebrow and takes back her plate. “You don’t think it’ll interfere with your work for your dad? And how do you plan on getting to those classes?”

  “The truck—” Oops.

  “My truck?”

  If her eyebrow goes any higher, it’s going to need its own zip code. “Uh…”

  She sighs. “I suppose I can catch a ride with your dad sometimes…but Thursdays I have to have the car. Got it?”

  I nod and go back to working the computer screen. I’m trying to sign up before my parents change their minds, but most of these classes run all day and have a variety of dance styles. Isn’t there anything—“Here we go. Madison Studio. They have a bunch of classes focused on one style. Contemporary is Tuesday and Thursday from ten to one.”

  “That’s three hours you’re missing of work. Twice a week. Six hours total.”

  Trust Dad to point out the obvious. “Yeah, but I’ll make it up. Instead of working till four, I’ll work until seven.”

  “You sure you want to do this?” asks Mom.

  “Coach said it’s this or not be on the team.”

  “But you’re a great player.” She keeps pushing. “We can get you in another league. Or worse comes to worst, put you in another school.”

  No. No way. Football rises and falls on the strength of the team, and the strength of the team depends on how well the members connect. My team’s amazing. We have each other’s backs, on the field and off. Plus, Coach is the best in the city. No way am I letting down my friends, my coach or myself. “I promise, it’ll be fine. Let me sign up, okay?”

  My parents exchange a long look, and then Dad nods.

  Mom drops a kiss on the top of my forehead and stands behind me as we sign me up for class.

  Dad presses Enter, and it’s done.

  I’m about to become a dancer.

  Two

  I open my eyes and blink. Something’s off. It tickles the back of my brain. Frowning, I sit up and try to figure out what’s wrong. Dance class today, but that’s annoying, not weird. The house is quiet. Mom and Dad are at work. I glance at my phone, and it takes me a second to register the time. Nine o’clock. I should’ve been up by seven thirty.

  Geez, I’ve totally slept in! I scramble to get out of bed, get caught in the sheets, fall and land awkwardly and painfully on the floor. By the time I’m dressed and out the door, I’ve made up some of the lost time, but I’m still ten minutes behind schedule. Mom and Dad will kill me if I get a speeding ticket, but I figure doing five over the limit isn’t so bad.

  * * *

  I manage to get to the studio on schedule. My heart is pounding by the time I pull into the parking lot. Not a good pounding, like when I step on the field. The bad kind of pounding, like when I have to get up and do a presentation in front of class. I’m trying to think of being here as a challenge. I remind myself that this is what’s keeping me on the team and getting me that football scholarship. That’ll get me an education, and that will get me a future. But all I can think about is the work I’m missing and how long my days are going to be since I’ll have to make up those hours. I feel uncomfortable and out of place. Dance isn’t remotely like anything I’ve ever done before.

  No field.

  No padding.

  No mouthguards.

  There’s nothing in the uniform I’m wearing—stretchy black pants, sleeveless shirt—that makes me feel like I’m stepping into a familiar arena. I kill the engine and get out of the trunk. The morning sun is already noonday hot. I’m totally sweating. I’ll be drenched before I hit the entrance. I take a shallow breath and head to the glass doors. A couple of girls push past me and toss a smile my way. I’m too ticked at Coach, too hot, too anxious and too annoyed at this total waste of time, to smile back.

  They glance at each other, shrug and go inside.

  I try to follow. Only, I can’t make my feet move. I want to make them move, but they won’t do anything.

  Unlike my armpits. Those suckers are in overdrive. I’m sweating through my antiperspirant. I tighten my grip on my bag with one hand. Before my brain can have any second, third or fourth thoughts, I open the door and step inside. There’s a second of relief as the air-conditioning hits. Then I take in the room. Mirrors on the wall, polished hardwood floors, lots of sun from the window. And kids. There’s about fifteen of them, including me.

  Thirteen of them are girls.

  If my buddy Tim was here, he’d go bananas at the ratio. Tim’s all about the girls. I drop my bag by the other bags. Most of the kids are warming up. They look like they’re doing impressions of pretzels. A couple of them are doing knee bends by a stretch bar. Some are on the floor doing the splits, and a couple are balancing on one leg and doing some kind of standing split.

  In the back of my brain, an alarm starts to sound. I’d figured the class would all be rookies like me, learning steps and easy dance routines. But the way these kids are stretching says they have a background in dance or gymnastics.

  In football, I’ve lost whatever flexibility I ever had. I can do short, sharp moves, but I don’t think the dance instructor will have us doing any routines where I get to tackle someone. And now I’m surrounded by kids who have no problems touching their toes. How am I going to keep up once class starts?

  Oh man, am I in trouble.

  What has Coach gotten me into?

  Check that question.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  * * *

  The kids are in the center of the dance floor, hanging out and chatting. I stand at the edge of the group and look at the one other guy in the class. We’re wearing the same outfit. The only difference? He looks comfortable, and I feel completely exposed. I glance at my watch. It’s a couple minutes after ten. Where’s the instructor? Man, I lost five pounds in s
weat trying to get here on time, and the instructor’s taking his sweet time. If class runs late, then the lawn mowing will run late. I swallow the groan rising in my throat, but my irritation kicks up another notch.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I say back to the girl approaching me. Tim would go nuts for her. She’s Asian and tiny, with strong shoulders and amazing biceps.

  “I’m Brittney,” she says. “Two t’s, one n, one e.”

  Wow. Okay. “Uh, I’m Luc. One l, one u, one c.”

  Her eyebrows go up. “Is that short for Lukas, Lucius or something really exotic, like Lucentio?”

  I take another glance at the clock on the wall. Where’s the instructor?

  “Don’t tell,” says the guy as he approaches us.

  He’s tall and thin, with coloring a little darker than mine. Years of playing football make me gauge him from the perspective of either an opponent or member of my team. I could tackle him in a scrimmage, but his long legs say I’d be running for days trying to catch him.

  “Negotiate,” he continues. “Tell her you’ll give her your middle name in return for her Chinese name.”

  This makes Brittney roll her eyes. “Ignore him,” she says. “Jesse has been after me since kindergarten to give it up.” She pokes him in the chest. “Not happening, buddy.”

  “C’mon,” Jesse says. “I’ll tell you my full name.”

  That gets another eye roll. Brittney takes my hand and pulls me away. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

  I don’t want to be dragged anywhere, but she’s stronger than she looks, and I follow.

  Brittney must be a museum tour guide in training, because she gives me entire histories on everyone. She’s about three kids in before she stops to take a breath, and I jump in. “Where’s the instructor?”

  “Peter?” Her nose crinkles. “Maybe he’s caught in traffic.”

  I take a step back, but Brittney says, “Where are you going? Don’t you want to meet everyone?”

  “I have friends, thanks.” It comes out ruder than I mean, but I’m in no mood to say sorry. I want the class to start so it can end.