If you loved the movie Center Stage you won't be able to put our eBook Gala Performance down. We've included the entire first chapter here to give you a taste of what awaits you in dance's first electronic novel. 

"I won't dance on the same stage with Samantha Sunderland," Evelyn Ferguson said, turning on her heel and heading for her dressing room with the unmistakable splayfooted gait of a thoroughbred ballerina. Paul Christian hurried after her, pushing a couple of stage hands unceremoniously out of the way.

"Evelyn, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to upset you. Look, the whole future of Ballet America is at stake. Please hear me out. We've got to boost ticket sales and get major funding fast. Try to see this from my point of view. Samantha is a 16-year-old international gold medallist. You are a legend in your own time. If she makes her professional debut the same night you give your farewell performance, the press will eat it up. We'll be front page news!" He paused, out of breath, as Evelyn whirled around in front of her dressing room door and fixed him with a defiant glare.

"I intend to have my last moment in the spotlight on my own," Evelyn said evenly. "Once I'm out of the way, you can bring in that little powerhouse and let her wow them all you want. But don't ask me to pit this 46-year-old body against hers." Her tone had turned poignant and her eyes, anger making them a deeper shade of blue, welled up. She pushed open the dressing room door and slipped inside. Paul shouldered his way in after her. Away from the stares of the other dancers who had been milling about in the hall, Evelyn let the tears come. Awkwardly, not accustomed to seeing Evelyn this vulnerable, Paul put his hands on her shoulders in a gesture of comfort. At last her sobs subsided.

"I don't want to be compared to some kid while I'm bowing out. Retiring from the stage is hard enough as it is," Evelyn said. "It's like dying, Paul. Dancing isn't what I do. It's who I am."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Paul said.

"Now it's my turn to be sorry," Evelyn said, pulling away and accepting the handkerchief he offered her. "I can't even begin to imagine how you must have felt about giving up your performing career at the age of 32 to take on this directorship. I've wondered but I never had the stomach to ask."

"It wasn't easy," he said. "But I saw the directorship as a chance to make a difference. I was a good dancer, yes, but not a great one. I wasn't one for the history books. If I can save Ballet America, though, that will be my legacy." 

Evelyn drew in a deep breath. She had known, of course, that there were financial problems, but she hadn't let herself believe they were serious enough to threaten the existence of Ballet America. Now, though, Evelyn shuddered.

"Help me turn things around and save Ballet America, Evelyn," Paul said at last. "You most certainly are one for the history books. You are the greatest ballerinas of our time. And believe me, a performance with both you and Sunderland would be a surefire headliner. The Board of Directors agrees with me. So do our key patrons. Look, we have no intention of making you look bad, I promise you. That would defeat our whole purpose." 

"I have to make my entrance as Odette in less than a half an hour, Paul," Evelyn said. "This is not an ideal time for me to make a decision, to say the least. The only thing that should be on my mind is 'Swan Lake.'"

"Then agree to meet with me later," he said. "How about Wednesday after company class? We'll go some place out of the way and get a bite to eat. Won't you do that much for me? We have to settle this before the PR department sends out a release announcing that you're retiring."

She smiled in spite of herself. He was so young, so earnest, so bent on accomplishing his mission. Back when he was still performing, he had invariably been typecast as a handsome, gallant prince. And now, even though his plan infuriated her, the set of his square jaw and the way he ruffled his shock of blond hair with his hand when he was trying to make a point had the effect of charming her. 

"All right," she said. "Wednesday after class." He flashed a grin, his chameleon eyes looking as green as the sweatshirt he was wearing. After he had left, Evelyn sat down at her dressing table and scrutinized herself in the mirror. Her dark hair, pulled back into a bun, was threaded now with silver. She erased the lines at the corners of her eyes, pulling the skin taut with her fingers.

"Take another bow, Evelyn," Ryan said, still a little out of breath. "It's you they want."

The ballerina and her prince stood behind the gold velvet curtain on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. She smoothed her tutu and stepped out onto the apron alone. The opening night audience rose and broke into a chorus of "bravas," tossing flowers at her feet. For an instant, before she rewarded her admirers with a deep curtsy, she gazed out at the vast, darkened house. The sense of exultation she had always felt during curtain calls was mingled now with sadness. She would not see the world from this vantage point many more times. As she knelt to pick up the barrage of bouquets, tears trickled into the beads of perspiration on her cheeks. Ryan Morrison joined her for one last bow, and then they turned to go backstage while the house lights were brought up.

Ryan gave her a hug, and thanked her for the evening's performance. At 21, just promoted to principal, he was honored to have been cast as Evelyn's partner in the role of Prince Siegfried. This, their first performance together, had seemed to him to go well and he hoped she felt the same. She did. "We were very good," she said. "At least that's my opinion. Let's hope Ginger Rawson agrees." 

Rawson, a rising young dance critic for the New York Times, had already developed a reputation for being ruthless. She didn't mince words. Not that she couldn't be lavish with praise if she were so inclined, but by and large, she was tough. This would be her first review of Evelyn. That thought made Evelyn wince. But she pushed it out of her mind and gave herself over to basking in the praise of her colleagues.

"Fabulous!" said Richard McCree, who had danced the role of the sorcerer, Rothbart. "Nobody does it the way you do it."

Just then, Paul Christian caught up with Evelyn. He was grinning broadly. "You were amazing!" he said. "Don't forget, we have a lunch date for Wednesday after class."

She nodded and managed a smile.

"Is there a way to get backstage?" asked a tall man who was holding a program and a pen.

"Why?" asked the usher.

"I want to get Evelyn Ferguson's autograph," the man said.

"You can wait outside the stage door," the usher said.

"Where is it?" the man asked. "I've never been to New York before."

The usher pointed the man in the right direction. He joined the other well-wishers waiting for Evelyn to emerge. As he stood there, images from the evening's performance flashed before him -- Evelyn quivering, her arms fluttering, fear emanating from her every movement. . .Evelyn lifting a perfectly sculptured leg aloft while balancing on the tip of one satin pointe shoe. . . Evelyn hurtling into the air, then finding her mark and ending in an arc on her partner's waiting hands pressed above his head. . . Evelyn running, haughty and evil, her steps speaking eloquently of her malice. . . Evelyn turning again and again and again, one leg whipping her around and spinning her at last to a seemingly effortless finish. . . 

He was roused from his reverie by a burst of applause. Evelyn had appeared at the stage door. Graciously, she signed program after program. When a lithe teen-ager with a tell-tale ballerina bun got her turn, Evelyn wrote "Keep dancing!" Tears stung her eyes for the third time that day. She blinked them away, wishing life had a rewind button. The pulse-pounding triumphs of the dancing years had slipped by all too fast. Then as the fans began to disperse, the tall out-of-towner stepped up and pressed his program into her hand.

"I've never see anything so beautiful in my life," he said. There was a long pause. He looked at her expectantly. She studied him, searching her memory. Was he someone she should know? A patron? A reporter? A composer? He seemed to think she would recognize him. He looked like an aging linebacker, tall, a little beefy, terribly handsome, gray at the temples. He had eyes as startlingly blue as her own, and they were pleading now, wanting her to know who he was. And suddenly, she did know. She remembered a certain autumn evening under a maple tree, years and years earlier. He had stroked her long, dark hair. Then he had pulled her to him, his arms enveloping her with warmth against the chill of the air. Gently, he had touched his lips to hers and pressed closer with all the eager passion of young love. The sweetness of that first kiss came back to Evelyn with astonishing immediacy.

"Mike Davis," she said, barely audibly.

A slow smile spread across his face. "I've put on a little weight I guess," he said at last, and they both laughed, remembering the lanky kid he had been the last time they saw one another.

"You look wonderful, Mike," Evelyn said.

"You, too" Mike said.

"A little more, um, seasoned," Evelyn said.

"I like that," Mike said. "At this age, we've got character. You probably don't remember, but in Mrs. Harrington's English class our junior year, we read a poem by John Donne. One couplet struck me then and it has stayed in my mind ever since." He cleared his throat, looking a little embarrassed, and then said, "'No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace/As I have seen in one autumnal face.' We read that right before you left for New York. I wasn't even going to get to take you to the Senior Prom, let alone be around to see what your autumnal face was going to look like!"

"I hated saying good-bye to you, too," Evelyn said. "I promised myself I'd keep in touch, but somehow I never did. My schedule was insane. I got into the company when I was still sixteen, and I also had academic courses at the Professional Children's School. I never went back to Michigan because my dad got transferred to Ohio right after that."

"I saw the 'For Sale' sign on the lawn. It would have been nice to see you around town at Christmas or in the summer," Mike said. 

Evelyn nodded. "What brings you to New York?" she said.

"Business," Mike said. "I have my own financial consulting firm. One of my best clients just moved here."

"Wow. That's impressive. But I always thought you'd end up in sports," Evelyn said." You were the big football star in high school."

"Yeah, but not everybody goes the distance, Evelyn," he said. "You're the only one I can think of from high school who actually did."

She blushed. "I didn't mean it that way," she said. "I think it's fantastic that you're an entrepreneur. What about the rest of your life? Are you married?"

"Yep. Twenty-five years," he said. "Two kids, one grandchild due any minute."

She gasped. "A grandchild!" she said. "Boy, it really is time for me to retire." He looked startled. 

"It's the same for us as for athletes," she said lightly. "We can't go on forever. How long are you going to be in New York? Could I see you for coffee or lunch or something?"
"I'm leaving early tomorrow morning. I've been here a week already but they kept me hopping and I didn't have a minute to myself until tonight," he said.

Evelyn laughed. "What you're telling me is that if I want to talk to you, this is my only chance, right?"

"Right. Sorry. But don't feel obligated if you're tired," he said.

"Not at all," Evelyn said. "I'm like a horse after a race. Why don't you come back to my apartment for a nightcap?"

"OK," he said, and they headed across the Lincoln Center Plaza, past the fountain, with Evelyn giving a running commentary on the Chagall paintings, the Henry Moore statue, and the various venues for the arts. As she talked, he linked her arm in his. The wool of his suit was pleasantly rough against her bare arm. She felt her whole body tingle. He didn't know, of course, but her cheeks flushed anyway and she lost her train of thought. He smelled of expensive cologne, but beneath the fragrance were other notes, his own. It was the same musky scent she remembered from the brief but beautiful interlude they had had together when they were so young. Walking with him now, she was happy in the same way she had been back then. It didn't matter that he was married and a father and a grandfather-to-be. It didn't matter that she could never have him. She let herself revel in the moment, feeling safe and at peace and very, very glad to be alive. Even that nonsense about dancing on the same stage with Samantha Sunderland seemed easier to deal with now. She'd simply tell Paul Christian that his idea was out of the question.

Mike hailed a taxi. "Riverside Drive and 86th Street," Evelyn said to the cabbie." As they pulled out into the after-theatre traffic, Mike said, "I feel as though I'm in a dream. And I never want to wake up." 

Ginger Rawson e-mailed the dance desk at the New York Times the minute she got home from the opening night gala and performance.

Hi! Something big is about to happen at Ballet America. I did a little sleuthing at the pre-performance gala, and one of the tuxedos let it slip that Ferguson is going to retire. Then during the intermission, the same guy told me he thought Christian was cooking up a big publicity stunt. I'll get my review to you right away and tuck in some references to what my source told me. Wouldn't want Clive Barnes to scoop us over at the Post ! :-)
Best, Ginger

With that accomplished, she popped a piece of gum into her mouth in lieu of the cigarettes she had just given up, and began to work on her review. She stared at her screen-saver for a long time, wrestling with possible titles and leads. This could be the story that would really set her burgeoning career in motion. She wanted very much to get it just right.

"A doorman!" Mike said as he and Evelyn got out of the cab.

Evelyn grinned. "Don't be too impressed. This is a nice building, but my apartment's not exactly palatial. I've been in the same rent-controlled one-bedroom ever since I was eighteen. I'm barely ever home anyway and it's all the space I really need."

"Sorry, but I'm impressed anyway," he laughed. "Remember, this is the first time I've been to the Big Apple."

Evelyn led the way across the marble lobby, stopping at her mailbox before going on to the elevator bank. "My parents picked out this apartment," she said, pressing the button for the 16th floor. "They wanted security for me, and they didn't want a walk-up. I can't complain. Oh, I hope you're not allergic. I have a cat."

"No problem," Mike said. "We have a dog and two cats."

When the doors opened on 16, Mike followed her down a long, carpeted hallway. She unlocked the door to 16D, swinging it open and flicking on the light. "This is Pirouette," she said, as a sleek white cat with green eyes greeted them. "And this is the place."

"It's terrific!" Mike said. "Look at that view!" Outside the windows, starlight competed with the sparkling Jersey skyline across a magnificent expanse of the Hudson River.

"You should see it at sunset," Evelyn said. "Here. I always keep a bottle of champagne on the chill just in case. You do the honors."

Mike popped the cork, and proposed a toast: "To a love that never died." Evelyn blinked. Finally she raised her glass and said, "I'll drink to that."

Mike had a million questions. He wanted to know about every exotic detail of Evelyn's life. He wanted the stories behind all the photographs that lined her walls and shelves. He wanted to hear about her world travels. He wanted to know what her days were like. He marveled when she outlined her grueling schedule, with the rigorous hour and a half class each morning followed variously by hours of rehearsals or a performance in the evening.

"I've never forgotten what the ballet mistress told me when I first joined the company," Evelyn said. "'One day off, and you know it. Two days off, and I know it. Three days off, and the audience knows it.'"

"So much discipline," Mike said when he heard Evelyn repeat that mantra.

"True," Evelyn said. "But I get high on dancing." She paused." Anyway, it's not as though I never indulge in other pleasures of the flesh," she added, punctuating her pronouncement with a wink and a sip of champagne. The Brie she had put out was perfectly runny by then. She scooped some up on a cracker and gave Pirouette a dollop in her dish. "I'm planning on becoming a restaurant critic when I retire," she said, only half joking. "I'm going to eat myself into my old age."

"You'd look just as beautiful if you were a little more zaftig," Mike said. "But what's all this about retiring?"

Evelyn sighed. "It's time, that's all. OK, Fonteyn pulled it off until she was almost 60, but that's not my style. If I can't dance the way I've always danced, I don't want to get out on that stage. And the truth is, I'm starting to feel my age. I'm pushing."

"Are you looking forward to retiring?" Mike asked.

"Suzanne Farrell once said that no one is ever prepared to be an ex-ballerina," Evelyn said. "She was right. So was Robert Frost when he wrote 'No memory of having starred/ atones for later disregard/ or keeps the end from being hard.'"

Mike shook his head and whistled softly. "Me, I'm looking at early retirement, hopefully at age 55. That's been my goal and I've been saving for it. All I want is no responsibilities, no hassles, just lounging around, playing golf, doing some traveling. Must be amazing to love what you do for a living."

"I wish dancers were like orchestra conductors or writers," Evelyn said. "David Roundtree, the maestro who conducted tonight, is almost 80. And Agnes de Mille wrote a fabulous book the year before she died at 83. But we're finished at an age when we'd be considered young if we were heads of state or CEO's. What makes it worse is that during the first part of our careers, we're physically fit but artistically immature. What does a sixteen-year-old know about life? The irony is that just about the time we really have something to bring to our roles, the body starts to betray us. Then it's over." She stopped, gazing out at the twinkling riverscape and stroking Pirouette. Finally she said. "And what do we do with the rest of our lives?"

Mike reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder. "Have you got any kind of an answer?" he asked.

"Not really," she said. "There's a career transition program for dancers, but I can't bring myself to contact them. I don't want to be told that I should start taking college courses and get into another field. Some dancers do that. They study law or whatever. But dance is my passion and always will be." She stopped, and Mike tactfully waited in silence while she found her voice again.

"Sometimes I think about getting married and having kids before it's too late," Evelyn said when she had regained her composure. "I could still make that happen if I hurry, I guess. But it's so abstract. I've never fallen in love with anyone I've been involved with except Alexander Ossipov. You may have heard of him. He was a great choreographer. He took me under his wing when I first joined the company. But he was twice my age. He died some years ago."

"He was the only one you ever loved?" Mike asked, avoiding her eyes. 

"You and I were just kids," she said gently. "Puppy love. That's what we had, Mike."

"If that doesn't count, then I've never fallen in love," he said. 

"But your wife. . . " Evelyn said.

"Had to get married," Mike said. "Oh, hey, Maureen's a great girl. She's been a great wife and mother. But there's nothing there. I've never talked to anyone about this before. I wouldn't want it to get back to her. Or to my boys and their wives. I've been the model family man, scout leader, PTA, soccer coach, the whole nine yards. Now I'm all set to be Grandpa. It's been a good life. No sense hurting anybody's feelings at this stage of the game."

Evelyn laughed. "Your secret's safe with me," she said.

"But back to you," Mike said. "Besides the idea of having a family, couldn't you teach or something?"

"I guess so," Evelyn said. "But I think it might break my heart to sit on a stool and bark orders while the new generation dances the way I used to -- or better."

Mike nodded. "I can see how that would be hard. I'm certainly not in your league, but I can relate. We have a basketball hoop over the garage door. When my boys were little, I could dribble circles around them. Now they can outdo the old man any day of the week." He paused. "Well, look it's getting to be the wee hours," he finally said. "I should be shoving off. Early flight tomorrow."

"I understand," said Evelyn. "I could use some shuteye myself right about now. I have a big week of performances ahead of me. And on Wednesday I'm meeting the director for lunch. I'm definitely not looking forward to that. He's talking about a publicity stunt. He wants to pit me against Samantha Sunderland on the same stage for my farewell performance."

"And she is. . .?" Mike asked.

"Young, talented and about to become my arch rival," Evelyn summed up.

"Are you going to go along with the plan?" Mike asked.

"No," Evelyn said. "I'm afraid I'd open up the New York Times and find a review that said, 'Samantha Sunderland is at the peak of her powers, but Evelyn Ferguson is an old crone who should have stopped fooling herself a long time ago.'"

They both had to laugh. "I'm no expert," Mike said. "But from what I saw tonight, you could still take anybody on. What was that part when you were wearing the black tutu and you did that turn on one leg forever?"

"Fouettés, 32 of them," she said. "I've never missed them in my entire career. But get this. They say Sunderland puts in triples every third turn. I think that's vulgar, but the crowd would go crazy. She's of a generation that was weaned on the international competitions. She won a gold medal at the prestigious new one that was held in Madrid last month with contestants from all over the world. There's no art to it in my opinion. Just showing off tricks. But now the audience has an appetite for that. I don't want any part of it. That's another reason it's time for me to move on."

"I'll have to take that on faith," Mike said.

"Well, I'm glad you caught me before my final curtain, so to speak," she said. "And tonight felt like a good performance. I wonder whether the new critic at the Times will think so."

"When will you know?" Mike asked

"Let's see. This is Monday. Probably on Wednesday."

"I'll pick up a copy," Mike said. "And I'll write a poison pen letter if you get skewered."

She walked him to the door. They moved toward one another. He took her in his arms and gave her a kiss as sweet and urgent as that first one so many years ago. Then he was gone.