Casey Rodgers waited back stage at the Civic Center, his tummy fluttering with excitement. It was shownight for his dancing school, and everyone was rushing about frantically preparing for their numbers. Very soon, he'd be out on stage dancing before a large audience, the culmination of months of exhausting rehearsals. The long period of training had left him as tense as a tightly strung bow.

The murmuring crowds he'd seen out in the theatre had added considerably to his last minute butterflies. The place was utterly packed with people - parents and kids, teachers and students, old folk from Chamberlain Retirement Village. Hundreds of interested parties, all turned out in their Sunday fineries to cheer and whistle and hoot as the latest generation of Fred Astaires wove through their steps.

All those faces, all those eyes, turned up towards the stage!

Casey took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He really had nothing to worry about. He and his troupe were doing a Broadway style tap-dog number; complicated and tricky at times, but none too difficult after so many hours of repetition. It was pretty silly, really. He knew he'd perform the drill without a hitch, he'd done it at least a thousand times before. But then, he always felt this way on shownight.

Turning away from the curtains, he walked back towards the dressing rooms. Backstage was currently in a state of siege; girls running everywhere in tutus and leotards, boys decked out in vests and tails climbing the wings. A gabble of mothers trailed close behind, fussing and scolding, calling for order above the din.

Well, at least I've got half an hour to practice, Casey thought, glancing around in the general chaos, if I can just find a spare corner with enough space to tap a shoe. He considered going outside and using the loading bay, but decided against it. Didn't want miss his curtain call; he'd never hear the end of it. He pushed his way over towards the stairs leading to the changing areas. Everyone seemed to be down here, the dressing rooms were probably empty.

"Casey. CASEY!!"

"Huh?" Casey whirled towards the voice.

It was Ms Deane, his ballet teacher.

Evelyn Deane was a long, streamlined woman in her mid-thirties, willow-slim and lean hipped. Her eyes were always hard and serious, no matter what mood she was in. The woman was wading through a cloud of Lilliputian Kylies, her classical features marked with impatience. Casey wandered over to meet her halfway.

"There you are," she said, looking him over with a familiar knitting of the eyebrows, "I've been searching for you everywhere." Casey's heart sank roughly six fathoms; he was in trouble. No idea what the problem was, but he knew that tone: honey laced with razor blades.

"I was just looking for a place to -" he stammered in a high, uncertain voice. Ms Deane cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"You'll have to get changed again. You're on in ten minutes," she said, gesturing for him to follow her up the stairs. He hurried along behind, not quite certain what his teacher had meant. As far as Casey knew, he was already in costume: black top, black jeans, and size five work boots. What was going on here?

"I thought I was on in half an hour, Ms Deane," the boy protested fretfully, "I'm in the Tap-dog number."

"Not any more. Toby Macklin will be taking your place."

"What?"

"You're out of the Tap-dogs, Casey."

"Why?" Casey exclaimed, still not understanding. He'd spent what seemed like six years perfecting his routine, and now Ms Deane was tearing it out from under his feet.

"Look, we don't have a lot of time, Casey," Ms Deane explained, shooing him up the stairs, "Janey North just twisted her ankle and we need someone to replace her. You'll be taking her place."

"What?"

"You're taking Janey's place".

"Janey North? But she's in -"

Suddenly, Casey understood. Everything. He gaped up at his teacher, his face a mask of disbelief. Janey North was one of the girls in the Montmartre number, the one everybody had been talking about for the last three months. Casey's eyes widened in dawning horror.

"But she's doing the can-can, Ms Deane!" Casey wailed, "I can't do that! I'm - you - you'll have to get some one else!!"

To be continued...

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