“No way. That is never happening.” I say to my boss. “Sorry, no.”
“C’mon, please? It’ll be…..character building!!” My boss is pleading, but the answer is still no. I know it won’t be character building, he just can’t find anyone else to do the job. Plus, as the only female in my workplace, though I hate to admit it, I would fit in better at a ballet school than any of my male colleagues.
“Why do we need an FBI agent at a ballet school anyway? It’s not exactly hardcore danger!” I ask. I’m not going to do it, but still, I’m curious.
“We suspect there’s some funny business being plotted for the championships this year. You know Mencula Whitespring?”
“Do I know her?” I cut my boss off. “She’s only the most notorious gunwoman in the ballet business!!” I’m growing excited, and starting to rethink my decision to say no. If she’s involved, this could be my most action packed case yet!
“Yes, her. She’s back on the radar, and wanting to get revenge on Polly Camara for placing higher than her in twenty twelve’s championships.” My boss continues. “She’s plotting something massive. We got an anonymous tip off and they didn’t say what she was planning, just that we need to stop it.”
***
This is how, 10 hours later, I’m having my long, untamable blonde hair styled into a ballet bun, and my tan face being brushed by a makeup artist. I’ve been fitted into a tutu and tights, and my small frame looks the part of a ballerina. There’s just one problem. Last time I danced was at my sweet sixteen birthday party, and lets just say, I became single because of it. Seriously, I’m terrible. I’ve been booked into an intensive day of dance lessons tomorrow, but I don’t think it’s going to cut it; yes, I can follow instructions- being an FBI agent has seen to that- but the only time I’m co-ordinated is when there’s a gun in my hand and a criminal in front of me. I hate dresses, but I could pass as a professional dancer- if I was standing still.
As soon as I agreed to take this job, I packed a bag and was rushed to the airport, badges were flashed, and 20 minutes later we were on a flight to New York City, where the competition is held. None of this seems real. It feels like I’m reading an average-quality story written by an eighth grader...except it’s about my life. I’m staying in a fancy hotel, which I go back to after they’ve finished fitting me and doing my makeup. I order room service, flop down on the bed, and flick on the telly to watch the simpsons. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m not paying for anything on this trip, so I order a double-chocolate sundae and garlic bread on top of my curry. I eat it all, and half an hour later, I’m asleep.
***
“I said LEFT!! Are you an IDIOT???” Man, I wish I got the smiley kindergarten teacher in the next room, not this scary woman. I feel like a two year old, not the 24 year-old that I really am. Just then, my phone buzzes, and I’m thankful of an excuse to stop trying to dance.
“I got a message, I have to check it, it’s probably really really important.” I say, and head over to my bag. It’s from my boss.
WE DO NOT NEED YOU TO BE
ABLE TO DANCE. YOU’RE INTO
THE FINALS!!
I let out a happy shriek, but I was wondering how he pulled that off. So I text
YESSS! I AM FAILING AT THESE LESSONS.
BUT HOW DID YOU PULL THAT OFF??
I explain to my dance teacher that I don’t need dance lessons anymore, but thankyou anyway. She tells me that judging by what she’s seen today, I will always need dance lessons. Man, thats cold. I pick up my bag and leave, then get a taxi to my bosses hotel/office.
When I arrive, he explains that he told the head of the competition what’s going on, so now I’m in.
***
“I’m pretty sure I’ve located her. She goes on before me.” I say into the earpiece I was given this morning. “She goes by the name of Zelora Rebers. And she’s dyed her hair. She’s blonde now.”
“Then how do you know it’s her?” My boss enquires.
“You know the tattoo on her lower back? I saw it in the changing rooms this morning. It’s definitely her.” I confirm, then hang up and follow ‘Zelora’ to the cafeteria. She picks up her phone, and from the next table, I can hear everything.
“It’s all set. Have you got the keys?....Good….No, 3 after me…….Yeah, she ate it all…...No, they’re the FBI, they don’t care about a ballet school….true, I am legendary….. nah, they wouldn't….. okay, bye.” She hangs up her phone and I quickly shove the notes I took back into my bag. She glances over and raises her eyebrows at me, so I get some food to make my reason for being there seem legitimate. Before I know it, the ballerinas are being called to the wings, and the person before ‘Zelora’ is on. It’s a girl named Drew, who looks about 19, and mostly all she does is flick her pretty black hair and jump around the vast stage. When I first saw the sleek auditorium, my blue eyes-which are now outlined in black liner-widened and my pale pink outlined lips dropped along with my jaw. My large feet feel hemmed-in by the tight pink pointe ballet shoes I’m wearing, but it’s okay because the daintiness of my footwear makes it easy to tiptoe. Mencula, or ‘Zelora’, as the MC calls her, is called to the stage. She might be an evil mastermind, but she does dance well, I’ll give her that. Her piece goes on smoothly for about 5 minutes, and she gets a massive cheer afterwards.
Then it’s my turn. I stumble onstage, and the lights shining at me are so bright that I can’t see anyone in the audience. I hop around for a few minutes, then stumble off again. That was probably worse than my sixteenth. I’m glad I’m single this time though.
There’s a man on after me, who’s almost as good as Mencula, and then it’s Polly Camara’s turn. The knot in my stomach grows. She starts dancing, and everything’s going fine until about a minute into her routine. The music stops at the same time that the lights suddenly go out. I peek out the wings and see a figure moving in the lighting box. Then I spot the person sliding onto the stage. Polly suddenly starts projectile vomiting. I flashback to Mencula’s phone conversation earlier. “Yeah, she ate it all”.... she must’ve poisoned her lunch. I turn my attention back to the figure, who has almost reached Polly. The figure, who I can now see is Mencula, slides something silver out of her tutu, and I do the same. The gun in my hand is smooth and cold, and the shiny metal reflects Mencula’s glinting eyes. I step in front of Polly, who is now retching off the side of the stage, and look Mencula right in the eyes. We raise our guns simultaneously, and all my senses are hyper-alert. I feel an exhilarating rush of nervous adrenaline, and I hear the two gunshots what seems like years before I feel the pain. The impact of the bullet in my chest makes me whip my head around, and I see the crimson liquid dripping from Polly’s temple. Just as I fall to the ground, I pull my guns trigger, aimed at Mencula’s head. The ground greets my fall, and on top of the searing pain in my chest, I hit my head and let out a cry. Then everything goes black.
“C’mon, please? It’ll be…..character building!!” My boss is pleading, but the answer is still no. I know it won’t be character building, he just can’t find anyone else to do the job. Plus, as the only female in my workplace, though I hate to admit it, I would fit in better at a ballet school than any of my male colleagues.
“Why do we need an FBI agent at a ballet school anyway? It’s not exactly hardcore danger!” I ask. I’m not going to do it, but still, I’m curious.
“We suspect there’s some funny business being plotted for the championships this year. You know Mencula Whitespring?”
“Do I know her?” I cut my boss off. “She’s only the most notorious gunwoman in the ballet business!!” I’m growing excited, and starting to rethink my decision to say no. If she’s involved, this could be my most action packed case yet!
“Yes, her. She’s back on the radar, and wanting to get revenge on Polly Camara for placing higher than her in twenty twelve’s championships.” My boss continues. “She’s plotting something massive. We got an anonymous tip off and they didn’t say what she was planning, just that we need to stop it.”
***
This is how, 10 hours later, I’m having my long, untamable blonde hair styled into a ballet bun, and my tan face being brushed by a makeup artist. I’ve been fitted into a tutu and tights, and my small frame looks the part of a ballerina. There’s just one problem. Last time I danced was at my sweet sixteen birthday party, and lets just say, I became single because of it. Seriously, I’m terrible. I’ve been booked into an intensive day of dance lessons tomorrow, but I don’t think it’s going to cut it; yes, I can follow instructions- being an FBI agent has seen to that- but the only time I’m co-ordinated is when there’s a gun in my hand and a criminal in front of me. I hate dresses, but I could pass as a professional dancer- if I was standing still.
As soon as I agreed to take this job, I packed a bag and was rushed to the airport, badges were flashed, and 20 minutes later we were on a flight to New York City, where the competition is held. None of this seems real. It feels like I’m reading an average-quality story written by an eighth grader...except it’s about my life. I’m staying in a fancy hotel, which I go back to after they’ve finished fitting me and doing my makeup. I order room service, flop down on the bed, and flick on the telly to watch the simpsons. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m not paying for anything on this trip, so I order a double-chocolate sundae and garlic bread on top of my curry. I eat it all, and half an hour later, I’m asleep.
***
“I said LEFT!! Are you an IDIOT???” Man, I wish I got the smiley kindergarten teacher in the next room, not this scary woman. I feel like a two year old, not the 24 year-old that I really am. Just then, my phone buzzes, and I’m thankful of an excuse to stop trying to dance.
“I got a message, I have to check it, it’s probably really really important.” I say, and head over to my bag. It’s from my boss.
WE DO NOT NEED YOU TO BE
ABLE TO DANCE. YOU’RE INTO
THE FINALS!!
I let out a happy shriek, but I was wondering how he pulled that off. So I text
YESSS! I AM FAILING AT THESE LESSONS.
BUT HOW DID YOU PULL THAT OFF??
I explain to my dance teacher that I don’t need dance lessons anymore, but thankyou anyway. She tells me that judging by what she’s seen today, I will always need dance lessons. Man, thats cold. I pick up my bag and leave, then get a taxi to my bosses hotel/office.
When I arrive, he explains that he told the head of the competition what’s going on, so now I’m in.
***
“I’m pretty sure I’ve located her. She goes on before me.” I say into the earpiece I was given this morning. “She goes by the name of Zelora Rebers. And she’s dyed her hair. She’s blonde now.”
“Then how do you know it’s her?” My boss enquires.
“You know the tattoo on her lower back? I saw it in the changing rooms this morning. It’s definitely her.” I confirm, then hang up and follow ‘Zelora’ to the cafeteria. She picks up her phone, and from the next table, I can hear everything.
“It’s all set. Have you got the keys?....Good….No, 3 after me…….Yeah, she ate it all…...No, they’re the FBI, they don’t care about a ballet school….true, I am legendary….. nah, they wouldn't….. okay, bye.” She hangs up her phone and I quickly shove the notes I took back into my bag. She glances over and raises her eyebrows at me, so I get some food to make my reason for being there seem legitimate. Before I know it, the ballerinas are being called to the wings, and the person before ‘Zelora’ is on. It’s a girl named Drew, who looks about 19, and mostly all she does is flick her pretty black hair and jump around the vast stage. When I first saw the sleek auditorium, my blue eyes-which are now outlined in black liner-widened and my pale pink outlined lips dropped along with my jaw. My large feet feel hemmed-in by the tight pink pointe ballet shoes I’m wearing, but it’s okay because the daintiness of my footwear makes it easy to tiptoe. Mencula, or ‘Zelora’, as the MC calls her, is called to the stage. She might be an evil mastermind, but she does dance well, I’ll give her that. Her piece goes on smoothly for about 5 minutes, and she gets a massive cheer afterwards.
Then it’s my turn. I stumble onstage, and the lights shining at me are so bright that I can’t see anyone in the audience. I hop around for a few minutes, then stumble off again. That was probably worse than my sixteenth. I’m glad I’m single this time though.
There’s a man on after me, who’s almost as good as Mencula, and then it’s Polly Camara’s turn. The knot in my stomach grows. She starts dancing, and everything’s going fine until about a minute into her routine. The music stops at the same time that the lights suddenly go out. I peek out the wings and see a figure moving in the lighting box. Then I spot the person sliding onto the stage. Polly suddenly starts projectile vomiting. I flashback to Mencula’s phone conversation earlier. “Yeah, she ate it all”.... she must’ve poisoned her lunch. I turn my attention back to the figure, who has almost reached Polly. The figure, who I can now see is Mencula, slides something silver out of her tutu, and I do the same. The gun in my hand is smooth and cold, and the shiny metal reflects Mencula’s glinting eyes. I step in front of Polly, who is now retching off the side of the stage, and look Mencula right in the eyes. We raise our guns simultaneously, and all my senses are hyper-alert. I feel an exhilarating rush of nervous adrenaline, and I hear the two gunshots what seems like years before I feel the pain. The impact of the bullet in my chest makes me whip my head around, and I see the crimson liquid dripping from Polly’s temple. Just as I fall to the ground, I pull my guns trigger, aimed at Mencula’s head. The ground greets my fall, and on top of the searing pain in my chest, I hit my head and let out a cry. Then everything goes black.