Hits different, p.1
Hits Different, page 1
For you all out there, you are beautiful in every way – remember that!
T. G.
For all my disabled friends who live harder, louder and brighter; this one’s for you.
L. H-J.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
A Note From Tasha
The Authors in Conversation
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Copyright
Chapter One
I’ve been dancing my whole life.
There’s nothing like the rush of nailing every step, every flick of a hand in a new dance routine. I can lose myself in the movement of my body, in the way the beat feels in my chest, the satisfaction I get from every perfectly timed move. In that moment, everything else in life falls away.
When my body is in motion, I feel free.
I feel me.
But it’s all a secret from the rest of the world. It’s just for me.
My phone is precariously propped against the window frame which just about gets the right angles for filming my routines. It doesn’t have to be perfectly shot anyway, because I never show anyone.
I flop onto the bed and watch back the video. It took me all morning to get the choreography down for SHINee’s track ‘Lucifer’, and I actually look pretty good. Sure, dancing routines solo when they’re usually performed by a group of five people is a totally different vibe, but I think I did a good job of adapting the choreography. My arms could snap sharper, and I spy one of my feet lagging a bit as the beat changes, but I style it out enough that I don’t think anyone but me would even notice.
I’m a perfectionist. There’s always room for improvement.
But it’s good enough for now.
Inevitably, I’ll do a few more takes before I move on to a new routine in a few days. That’s how it’s been since I was a little girl. Pick a song, dissect the choreography until I can play it back in my head with my eyes closed, and perform it to my phone camera. Sometimes I get creative and mix some things up, like I did today with ‘Lucifer’.
But that’s it. It never goes further than that.
They never get posted anywhere, but I save them all to my Cloud, which I’ve had to upgrade a few times over the years to get enough storage. They’re like my diary, in a way. All the dances are tied to memories and moments in my life, like how I learned a routine to ‘XO’ by Beyoncé because Pen was playing it the day I went on my first date with Mason. Or the routine for ‘Bye Bye’ by Rosa Cordova that I made Pen learn with me the week we finished high school. It’s my life, and I don’t want to share them with anyone else.
Once the video is stored safely, I delete it off my phone. That’s another one locked down.
I should hurry up and get ready for dinner, but instead, I do my semi-regular browse through the new job adverts on Entertainers International, a website that collates all the available jobs for dancers, singers and lots of other performers. Most of the jobs are for cruise ships or hotels or even the occasional corporate event. They don’t tend to deviate from that, so I usually just lie here thinking about the possibilities of living in another country, dancing in a fancy hotel.
I don’t know why I do it, if I’m honest. It’s not like I’d ever apply for any of them. It’s more like window-shopping. Imagining a different life. There’s just something kind of comforting to me about seeing all these dancing jobs all over the world, and knowing that people are out there applying for them. I know Mason thinks it’s weird though, so I don’t do it when he’s around. Dancing is just a hobby, after all.
But as I’m scrolling, something catches my eye.
Agency seeks new and unique dancers for understudy roles on international tour with major recording artist.
An international tour? Imagine that. That’s the sort of thing I used to dream about when I was a teenager and I’d rope Pen into doing routines with me in front of the huge mirror of Mum’s built-in wardrobes. Dancing every day and being paid for it . . . that must be really cool. But still, it’s not realistic, is it? It’s not a career that a normal person like me can have. It’s probably the sort of thing you have to be posh to do, or you’d have to know someone in the industry already. Maybe all dancers are nepo babies? I don’t really know.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mason, which brings me back to the real world. He’s taking me out to dinner tonight to celebrate his promotion at work.
Mason
Sorry babe, running late.
Do you want to meet me at
the restaurant instead?
Cassie
That’s totally fine. See you
soon xoxo
We’re going to this cute little Italian place on the Shambles where we had our first date, almost a year ago. I always feel so fancy when we go there, even though it’s not like there’s a dress code or it’s super expensive. It just feels special, I guess. I feel special there.
Mason and I met on a dating app, and I knew straight away that he was a bit of me. The dark blond hair, the bright blue eyes. He looks like he could play a very English version of the boy next door. And when we met, I realised just how smart and driven he is. I wasn’t sure he’d really go for me, because it’s not like I’m as career-minded as he is, but we had the cutest date followed by cocktails in one of the nice outdoor bars in town.
We keep things casual between us, not putting any labels on anything. It works. We’re young, after all, and it’s not like I’m ready to be his wife. Imagine. I know that he cares about me, and in our own way we’re committed to each other. He’s not met my parents, and I’ve not met his yet either but that’s fine. They live down in Devon where he grew up, so it would be a long trip to go see them. Mine are only twenty minutes away, so I figure when we get round to that stage, we’ll start with them. I still can’t quite believe it’s almost been a year. Life’s funny like that. You always think you’ll get round to something, but time can go by in a blink.
Meeting at the restaurant means he must have forgotten that he was going to pick me up, but that’s OK. There’s enough time to get a bus. I might even have time for one more take before I go . . .
Before I can set my phone back up, Pen bursts into my bedroom and I leap out of my skin. They’ve walked in on me dancing before; they know it’s what I’m always doing up here, after all. As usual, they’re a riot of colour in an orange-and-pink heart-patterned jumpsuit over a stripy T-shirt.
‘Have you seen this?’ asks Pen, shoving their phone practically under my nose. Their auburn curls bounce excitedly.
‘What? Your phone? Constantly in your hand,’ I say.
‘Har har,’ they say. ‘Very funny. Obviously I mean the thing on the phone. Take it, will you? It’s an article about Rosa Cordova’s European tour.’
I take the phone. I’m still gutted I couldn’t get tickets to see Rosa Cordova perform, but the restaurant where I work barely pays me enough to cover my rent, eat and pay the bills. If I’m really lucky, I can occasionally stretch to a slightly nicer bottle of wine, rather than the supermarket’s own brand.
But I’ve watched a ton of Rosa’s shows from this US tour on TikTok and it all looks amazing. Huge sets, costumes that change every few songs, and some of the best backup dancers I’ve ever seen performing choreography that I’m dying to learn, if I can find a full-length video anywhere. So far it’s just thirty-second clips that cut back to people screaming ‘I love her’ and, during the chair routine, ‘I wish I was a chair.’
‘All her dancers left the tour,’ Pen says wide-eyed, before I even start reading.
‘What?!’
‘Yeah, there’s been a huge leak about it. They’ve all been hired out from under her for the Payton Rey tour.’
Rosa and Payton were huge rivals in the early 2010s, two teen singers who were always pitted against each other. Obviously, I was just a baby then, but there’s been loads of deep dives on YouTube recently about their long-running feud, especially now that they’re both on enormous tours. For Payton it’s a comeback tour. Rosa, queen that she is, never left.
It wasn’t clear whether their rivalry was real or manufactured for the publicity, but this seems like real drama. I scroll down the article, hungry for more details.
‘What are they going to do on the Payton tour?’ I scoff, thinking of the last few performances Payton has done at awards shows. They never excite me. The movement seems obvious, and there’s so little consideration for different audience view. ‘They’re just going to end up holding props and wiggling. It will never be choreographed as well or as much as Rosa’s shows. Why would you leave for second best?’
‘All right, we get it. You’re a nerd about dancing,’ Pen says, bumping my shoulder and giving me a warm smile.
‘This is so bad though. Some of Rosa’s dancers have been with her for years and years. What’s she going to do? It’s awful.’
‘I know, it’s terrible, isn’t it.’ They say this with far too much enthusiasm for someone who usually only loves a bit of drama when it’s fictional. Pen is hardly reading DeuxMoi or Popbitch on the regular. I’m not even sure they’d know what those are. And yet, they’re practically vibrating with excitement.
Clearly, I’m missing something.
‘Why exactly are you telling me this, Pen?’ I say, frowning.
They gently take the phone from me, and scroll to the bottom of the page, before returning it to my open hands.
‘They’re basically starting again and redesigning her entire show before the European tour, at her compound in Ibiza. Like building new sets, making new costumes and training up new dancers.’
‘That’s huge? I’m not sure anyone’s ever done that before.’
‘Hello? Did you miss the part where I said new dancers? Look. They’re doing an open-call audition.’
‘Oh, that must be the job I was looking at just now,’ I say, trying to sound casual about it.
‘Daydreaming again?’ they say, which I choose to ignore.
‘I was wondering who the artist was. Rosa Cordova . . . Wow.’
My mind flashes to the many, many (possibly too many) TikToks I’ve seen, the impressive and brilliant routines. The way the dancers move as one, like a flock of starlings against the night sky. The artistry and spectacle of the show they create with and around Rosa. There’s just really nothing else like it.
‘They’re hiring new understudies,’ I say, ‘so I guess only the main cast got poached, and they promoted all their current understudies. It’s a big cast . . . they must have so many people on standby in case someone can’t perform.’
‘You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?’
‘Not really. It’s just how it works, isn’t it?’ I say, looking through my wardrobe for an outfit for dinner. ‘I’m just interested, as a fan of Rosa, in what that’ll mean for her next tour. It could be a disaster. Or amazing. It’s wild.’
‘Right.’ Pen is staring at me.
I sigh. ‘What?’
‘Do you not think it’s more interesting that this understudy job, dancing with one of your favourite musicians, arguably your dream job, is right there in your hands?’
I frown. ‘What are you on about, Pen?’
‘Sweet thing,’ they say gently, their big green eyes softening. ‘That could be you if you just apply.’
‘What?’ I say, not quite believing what Pen is saying to me. ‘Are you having a laugh?’
‘I would never joke about an opportunity for your dream to come true, Cass.’
Even though they’re talking nonsense, I kind of love them for how seriously they say this. But they are being completely ridiculous. As if I’m going to apply to be an understudy for Rosa Cordova. The hiring people would be laughing at my CV. What am I going to put on there? Washes dishes for a living and has a passable sense of rhythm?!
Pen looks at me as though they can hear my thoughts, which, to be fair, they know me well enough to basically do. ‘You should read through the info on the advert and have a proper think about it.’
‘Which I guess you’ve already done?’ I deadpan.
‘Naturally, darling. I’m nosey,’ they say, and I laugh despite myself. ‘But really, have a look. There’s a bit in it about how they’re encouraging applications from dancers from underrepresented backgrounds.’
‘Pen, I don’t think they need any more slim white girls,’ I laugh.
‘You know that’s not what I mean.’
‘Hm,’ I say, staring at the article again, and running my finger along my hairline to my cochlear implant.
If it was anyone else saying this to me, I would feel weird. But Pen’s known me so long, and they know what it’s like to be visibly different from everyone else.
‘Just do an application,’ they insist. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘I embarrass myself?’ I say seriously.
‘OK? That doesn’t sound too bad in the grand scheme of things, does it?’
A voice in my mind says it would be worse to not try and never find out. My stomach is filled with butterflies and I don’t even know why. I’m not really seriously considering this, am I?
Sure, when I was a little kid I dreamed of being a dancer. But it’s not like I’ve kept up going to dance classes, though the fact I work a minimum-wage job has something to do with that. I’ve not been to an actual dance class since my first cochlear implant broke, and I couldn’t face trying when I couldn’t hear anything.
And it’s about more than just filling out one application. I’m worried it would open a Pandora’s box of questions about my future.
Besides, I love my life in York with Pen, and Mason. And being a kitchen porter is easy for me – every day is the same and I’m a hard worker, so I get the job done, even if its sticky and smelly and often gross. No one bothers me back there, and I don’t have to talk to customers. Sure, it might not be what I want to do long term, but the fact that the chefs will prepare whatever I want for lunch makes up for it a little bit. I’ll work out something realistic I want to do eventually. It’s fine for now.
Mason always talks about the importance of coming up with a career plan. But he would; that’s his job talking. Plus, there’s a bit of an age difference between us. I’m only twenty. He’s twenty-six. I still have time to work out what I’m doing with my life, right?
What I don’t want to do is start filling my head with silly ideas about futures that will never happen. That’s a direct route to heartbreak.
‘Cassie? I know you’re thinking about it, deep down,’ Pen prods.
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I say and it comes out as a whisper. ‘I don’t think I’m qualified.’
‘They’re not asking for qualifications or previous experience. Look, there’s this whole section about new talent.’
They try to show me on the phone, but I bat them away. ‘Pen, I’ve got to get ready for my date or I’m going to miss the bus.’
‘I thought Mason was picking you up?’
‘He’s running late,’ I say as I dig through my jewellery drawer for a cute necklace to wear, hoping that turning away will end the conversation.
Typically, it doesn’t. When I turn around, they ask, ‘Just tell me you’ll think about it?’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Done. Thought about it. Case closed, I think.
‘A bit more than that, please, Cass,’ they add, before disappearing into their room.
Most of the time, I love that they know me so well. The rest of the time that familiarity has a habit of biting me on the butt.
We’ve been best friends since we were twelve and realised that our shared love of romcoms, the cheesier the better, made us compatible. Plus, we were the different kids. I wear a cochlear implant; they are non-binary. That difference in how we experience the world connected us.
But our friendship really solidified when Pen’s parents decided to get divorced. When it got too much, they’d come stay at my house and we’d pyjama up and put on whatever show they liked. I just wanted them to be OK.
And then when we were sixteen and sitting our big exams at school, my cochlear implant started acting up. I’d had it fitted when I was six and they’re supposed to last for pretty much your lifetime, or so I’d hoped. But mine straight-up broke, which meant I couldn’t hear anything at all. Like, literally nothing. People think that cochlear implants are some perfect quick fix that mean you can immediately hear perfectly, but it’s a piece of technology you have to train yourself to use. And technology can break, even after all that. And there was a long wait for a new one to get ordered and fitted. It was a really lonely, scary time. But Pen made sure that I was keeping up with classes and revision by taking the most detailed notes possible for me. They even started taking a course in BSL from their phone so that they could talk to me that way. They just are my rock.
When we left school, not really sure what we were doing with our lives, we moved into a tiny little flat on the outskirts of York. Everything we’ve done since, we’ve done together. I love that about us.
And if I applied for that job, well, it would be me alone, wouldn’t it? Not that I’m actually going to apply. Even if the link is right there, on the page that’s still open on my phone.
