Human - phan

One

Prologue

Close your eyes. Clear your heart.

Cut the cord.

My legs move without signal from my brain the moment the music starts. My eyes are wide, moving through the studio one step ahead of the rest of me. It's a kind of breathless excitement. There's a surge of energy, a pulse running through me. It's hard to explain.

But every dancer feels it. It's what we live for.

My name's Dan. I'm 16, and my greatest passion is my greatest secret.

*

"Step ball change step ball change accent, accent! Wait four, five, and HIT IT! Contract - I want to see you all hit this jeté with your heads and — HEADS! - watch that foot!"

My heart is pounding; I can barely hear Miss Jodie and the other dancers are invisible. It's just me and the music now. Every position I hit, every jump and every turn, I feel a surge of endorphins. It's the feeling of getting it right, of knowing exactly where you're going; stretching, pointing, twisting... it's a feeling of strength and power. Just my body and the music. And sometimes, I feel like I can almost fly.

I leave the class in a daze, my eyes adjusting to the dimly lit corridor after the bright lights and mirrors of the studio. My pulse is still racing and I have that grin on my face. I feel invincible, if only for a few minutes, three days a week.

On the notice board outside the studio people have pinned scraps of paper under the heading 'What does it feel like to dance?' It's probably Miss Katie's idea, but I think it's kind of cool. And it hits home.

"Dance is what keeps me going: it's the sanity; it's my escape from everything else and my chance to focus on me and what I can do. It's about improving myself, for myself, and not worrying about anyone else. Dancing is freedom."

I slip into the changing rooms, barely noticed by the other dancers stretching gratuitously and glaring through narrowed eyes at anyone with the audacity to be more flexible than them. I change quickly and wander out into the night. It's these walks home that seal it all in place. It's my thinking time, in the cool night air, where I choreograph my own sequences — barely able to keep my feet on the ground. Sometimes I'll get too into it and do some sort of convoluted jerk as I walk, knocking the headphones out of my ears and turning bright red as I check to make sure no one noticed.

"It makes me feel like I am the only one in the world. I am so involved that I don't notice the time or anything, only my song and the steps. It's like I am on my own little planet. If the music is especially good, like my song this year, I can feel it down to my soul. It is so good it almost makes me cry! I feel it from the top of my head to the tips of my toes."

I cool off. I'm 'pumped', however much I hate the word, and so awake. I notice things most people don't: the delicious shade of green of the trees that frame the street and the birds that sing in this dappled twilight. Everything is moving. Everything is dancing, in its own way, to the rhythm of the earth.

Of course, I would never say this out loud. I only ever think it in these moments anyway. Mostly, I'm a sarcastic asshole who hisses at sunlight and hates clichés and anyone who takes themselves too seriously - etc. But that's why I love dance so much. I can relax from the persona and indulge, if only for a while, in my guilty pleasure.

I slip in unnoticed through the front door and up to my bedroom where I resume the gaming position I left two hours ago. Soon, I slip into sleep.

 "I have never been more beautiful than when I am dancing. And I don't mean aesthetically, I mean powerful, I guess. It awakens your body and you become the dance. You pour everything you have and everything you are into every spin."

They're all true, if horrifically clichéd, but it really is hard to put in words. You're panting and you're working your body but it doesn't feel like exercise. To quote Billy Eliot: it's electricity. It makes you feel alive in a way very little else does. And that's why I dance. It makes life worth living.

Chapter One

It was a Wednesday, which meant Physical Education. I'd always found that name funny. It sounded as if they were going to slip into the 'sex talk' at any minute, or start explaining the wonders of your changing body with a tortured expression and clenched fists. What it really meant though was running in circles for fifty minutes and then a freezing cold and self-conscious shower in the vicious arena of the boys' changing rooms.

As soon as the word 'football' left the PE teacher's lips, I was searching for escape. While physically in better shape than most of my classmates, contact sports were not my forte. I guess it was something about the idea of running directly at someone with the intent of crashing into them and getting your shins kicked that put me off.

As we filed out into the muddy field with a clatter of studs on tarmac, I caught Mr McEwan's eye, surreptitiously trying to pull him aside.

"I, er, can't do PE today Sir. Er, personal problem."

I'd seen this trick work hundreds of times with girls, but I just got a bark of stale laughter in my face.

"Oh really? Care to elaborate, Howell?" Mr McEwan sniggered.

Too surprised that he knew the meaning of the word 'elaborate' to take much offence at his mocking tone, I searched desperately for an answer.

"I, um, can't really say sir, it's uh... personal."

I tried not to catch his eye, adopting my best 'frail and invalided' stance. I could feel his incredulity beating down on my bent neck.

"Daniel. I don't know what you're trying to infer, and if it's really that personal I'm not sure I want to. I'd like to know as little about what goes on under those shorts as possible." He laughed loudly at his own joke, and I could feel my cheeks burning.

"Maybe I should make you go to the nurse and prove it..." he considered, letting me squirm for a moment before sighing. "But I can't be arsed with the paperwork. You'll just have to sit it out with Lester, provided you'll have made a full recovery by next week."

"Yes, of course sir. Thanks." I tried to smother my grin as I skipped over to the shade of a large oak tree where a tall boy with coal black hair lay sprawled barefoot on the grass with his face to the sky.

As I approached, he raised a hand to shield his eyes, squinting into the sunlight.

"You don't look very ill." He said.

His voice was soft. It had a light, lilting quality that sounded permanently amused at something.

"Neither do you." I smirked.

He surveyed me for a moment as I sat down beside him, before raising his eyebrows with a knowing smile and lying back with his eyes closed.

"What?" I asked, but he just shook his head and continued smiling serenely at the clouded sky.

I sat, somewhat self-consciously, staring at him for a moment before giving into to gravity and stretching out on the wet grass.

We lay in silent company for a half an hour. I was lost in a complex fantasy and I guess he was in his own, strange world when suddenly he spoke, his singsong voice melting into the shouts from the field.

"Do you hear them?" He asked.

"Hear what?"

"The trees," he rolled over to face me, grin hidden in the long grass. "They're singing."

I rolled my eyes. "You're so weird."

He laughed, turning to the sky again. "It's good to be strange. Normalness leads to sadness."

The glint in his eye caught the sun and I scowled at his shoulder. Was he making fun of me? Maybe he was being serious, in his eccentric, meandering way. He rolled over and poked me in the ribs and I tried to muffle a squeal.

And then again, maybe not.

Without waiting for a response, he pulled himself up off the damp grass and padded barefoot back towards the college, muddy trainers dangling from one hand.

I remained as he left me, examining the smooth oval of flattened grass at my side.