Excerpt and Giveaway: Phantom's Dance by Lesa Howard

Description:

Christine Dadey’s family uprooted their lives and moved to Houston for her to attend the prestigious Rousseau Academy of Dance. Now, two years later, Christine struggles to compete among the Academy’s finest dancers, her parents are on the brink of divorce, and she’s told no one about her debilitating performance anxiety and what she’s willing to do to cope with it.

Erik was a ballet prodigy, a savant, destined to be a star on the world’s stage, but a suspicious fire left Erik’s face horribly disfigured. Now, a lonely phantom forced to keep his scars hidden, he spends his nights haunting the theater halls, mourning all he’s lost. Then, from behind the curtain he sees the lovely Christine. The moldable, malleable Christine.

Drawn in by Erik’s unwavering confidence, Christine allows herself to believe Erik’s declarations that he can transform her into the dancer she longs to be. But Christine’s hope of achieving her dreams may be her undoing when she learns Erik is not everything he claims. And before long, Erik’s shadowy past jeopardizes Christine’s unstable present as his obsession with her becomes hopelessly entangled with his plans for revenge.

For me, writing turned out to be a lesson in getting to know myself, and along the way I discovered something that completely changed who I am, at least who I thought I was. When I finally decided to wrestle my fears to the ground and choke the ever-loving-life out of them, I started attending writing conferences, taking lessons, learning everything I could about the craft, but I still had these horrible doubts about my grammar. I never worried about coming up with a story or having writer's block. My imagination is just too wild for that. But I knew that if there was anything holding me back it was my grammar. It's not that I didn't know the "rules" but sometimes I had trouble executing them. At this point, I'd been immersed in the education field. I planned to get a degree and teach junior high. Yeah, you read that right. I could be reduced to a quivering mass when posed a grammar question, but I was working toward becoming a teacher. 

Then at some point, I can't remember exactly when, but whether it was a series of events or conversations with other educators, I had an epiphany. I realized without a shadow of a doubt that I had a learning disability and it had a name, Dysgraphia. When I read all the symptoms of the disorder I was shocked. I'd suffered, dealt with, almost every manifestation on the list of warning signs since elementary school. The National Center for Learning Disabilities defines Dysgraphia as: a learning disability that affects writing, which requires a complex set of motor and information processing skills. Dysgraphia makes the act of writing difficult. It can lead to problems with spelling, poor handwriting and putting thoughts on paper. People with dysgraphia can have trouble organizing letters, numbers and words on a line or page.

EXCERPT

To avoid the elevator music, I pulled my iPod from my bag again and thumbed through the playlist. The doors started to slide into place when suddenly an arm jabbed through the narrow opening and forced them apart once more. A man in a business suit stepped inside, followed by a blond-haired guy I recognized from a few months back when I’d seen him by the rooftop pool. We made eye contact as he reached for the button panel, and I averted my gaze, at once aware how small the elevator was.

When he’d pushed the button for his floor, he waved a hand in the air to get my attention. Then he pointed to the panel. I’d forgotten to choose my floor. Embarrassed, heat crept up my neck and I raised my hand, all five fingers spread apart. He smiled and pushed the fifth-floor button, and my stomach fluttered as I bit my lip to keep from smiling back at him.

In a few swaggering strides, the guy was across the elevator and leaning lazily against the handrail, stacking his suede chukkas one atop the other. After arranging his plaid over-shirt so that it hung loosely away from his tee, he clipped his thumbs casually into his jeans pockets.

For the second time in less than thirty minutes, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. I seriously wished I’d changed into street clothes before leaving the studio. Fighting the desire to adjust the waistband of my sweats, I pretended to have great interest in my iPod. If only I’d taken my hair down, rather than leave it in the somber bun I wore for school every day.

The doors closed and the elevator lifted, gently gliding skyward, and I glanced at the boy. He was cute, really cute, and my stomach fluttered again when he caught me looking at him.

When we stopped at the third floor, the door opened and the man exited. Slowly, the younger one dragged himself from the handrail, taking a wide step that brought him close to me. A full head taller than me, he paused long enough to nod slightly as if telling me goodbye. I sucked in a ragged breath, pulling in the smell of cologne that no doubt had the word noir in its name. He was so close I could have touched the cleft in his chin, and my fingers itched to. I’d never seen such an impressive dimple. And his silver-blue eyes were out of this world. Images of a lone werewolf popped into my mind. I’d definitely read too many of the paranormal romances passed around the Academy.

*****

I cast about. Was he behind me? 

“Van, are you messing with me?” 

“Your technique is flawless, but you stifle your gift with it.” 

To my left. He was behind the curtain to my left. 

“Who’s there?” The voice had a gravelly edge to it. There was no way it was Van’s high-pitched, juvenile speech. 

Rather than answer me, the guy continued his critique. “You worry too much about your form. You should trust your body to do what it’s trained to do.” 

I trod over and yanked back a curtain. “Who’s there? Are you one of the Diamondbacks?” That of course was ludicrous, because the only formation they knew was on a football field. 

Then it dawned on me. “Oh, you’re a security guard. Well, I was about to leave,” I explained to him. “I was looking for Evander Woodruff, and I—” 

“I’m a dancer.” 

“Pardon?” 

“I’m a dancer.” 

“Oh. A member of the company?” 

“Not this company.” 

“What company are you with?” 

“I’m not.” 

“You’re not making sense. And where are you?” I twisted my head like an owl. 

“Behind the curtains.” 

“Yeah, I got that.” It sounded like he’d moved so I did a one-eighty to follow his path. “But why?” 

He hesitated. “It’s what works for me.” 

“What?” 

“Let’s just say I have my reasons.” His tone was superior and sounded strangely familiar. “But I saw your dancing,” he said. “And your technique really is outstanding, but you’re uptight and it shows.” 

“Excuse me.” I sputtered. 

“Don’t be offended.” He chuckled. “I just think some of your steps were stiff and it needed to be pointed out.” 

“And you think you’re the one to do that.” 

“Well, yeah. It doesn’t seem anyone at this ridiculous school knows how to help you.” 

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About the author:

I'm not the typical author. I didn't always enjoy reading or writing. While in school, I found it to be a chore I'd just as soon skip. I would rather have been daydreaming, my favorite past time. It wasn’t until I grew up and didn’t have to, that I realized reading was fun. I soon discovered that reading fueled my daydreaming. So, remembering a short story I'd written in high school, I began imagining expanding that story into a book. Before long I found I had loads of ideas for not just the short story but other books and stories as well. Fast forward a few years, a lot of studying about writing, practicing my writing, studying some more, taking classes from people who knew what they were doing, studying and practicing yet more, and ta-dah, author! In the same way I had learned I loved reading, I learned I loved writing, too. It’s just that writing is a lot harder than reading.

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