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1. 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!!" He knew precisely what she had in mind. Panic rushed in on him like a runaway horse. "There isn't anybody else, Casey. You're the one." They reached the top of the stairs, dodging a swarm of pink fairies darting out of the girl's dressing room. Casey faced his teacher, color rising to his cheeks in a soft red haze. "Ms Deane, I can't do it," Casey cried, as if in real distress, "I - I just can't!!!" He had to get out of this. Somehow. Anyhow. "I'm afraid you'll have to." "But -" "No buts, Casey," she interrupted, vague amusement spicing her tone, "come on, I'll help you get changed." Taking the boy's hand, she led him into the change room, ignoring his shrill objections. The enticing scents of perfume and stage powder wafted through the door. Casey dragged his feet, squirming uncomfortably. They were entering the dreaded GIRL ZONE. "But, Ms Deane -" Casey's voice trembled like an infant's, protesting even as he complied. His heart began turning somersaults as they stepped through the open doorway. A few of the older girls were loitering by near the mirrors, powdering their faces and doing their hair. Casey recognized more than half of them from the Modern Dance Class. Tricked out in jet-black leotards and ghostly white makeup, they were the Ravens (like in that movie with Brandon Lee), Ms Deane's elite troupe. Casey moaned inwardly. This was getting worse by the second. He groped for an excuse. "I've never rehearsed with Katrina and the others, Ms Deane, I don't know the routine! I'll make a mess of it, I know I will." "No, you won't, you'll pick it up in no time. You're one of the best students we have. Now take off those clothes, Casey. I'll get your costume." "Take off my -?" Casey sputtered, glancing wildly around the room. The blood virtually froze in his veins: he could image nothing worse than undressing before a roomful of girls. He shot a sideways glance towards the Ravens, all of whom were regarding Casey with considerable interest. A huge wave of embarrassment surged through his system, his lower lip tremored in despair. "Noooooo," he begged, pulse racing in his throat, "please Ms Deane, I don't want to, not in here -" Unfortunately for Casey, Evelyn Deane was not a woman to be defied. Transfixing him with an irresistible stare, she leaned in closer, towering over the eleven year-old like a hungry, red-tressed virago. "GET those jeans OFF young man!" "No, no, please Ms Deane," Casey pleaded in the hopeless, quailing voice of a first grader, "don't make me do this -" "NOW," the tall woman growled in a tone that could liquefy steel. Moaning in shame, Casey peeled off his top and began unbuttoning his pants. He bit his lip in childlike dismay, struggling to hold back the whimpers threatening to escape his throat. This couldn't be happening! In a matter of moments, the evening had flip-flopped into a nightmare. The girls by the mirror whispered to one another and giggled. Casey's blush deepened to the shade of a maraschino cherry. He wavered on the verge of tears, knowing he had no choice but to follow his teacher's orders. Turning completely away from his tittering little audience, he slipped the jeans slowly down his thighs, revealing his fresh, white briefs to all and sundry. A ripple of tinkling laughter filled the dressing room. Meanwhile, Ms Deane had stalked over to the costume racks, pulling out a can-can outfit and examining it carefully. Casey had a trim figure, a shape as feminine as any of the girls performing in the Montmartre number. He could probably squeeze into a size six with the help of a waist cincher and a suspender belt. Yes, this one would do nicely. Stepping helplessly out of his jeans, Casey stood up in his singlet and underpants, two bright roses standing out on his cheeks. He felt completely disgraced, divested of what little dignity he'd ever known as a boy. Humiliation poured over him like some thick, warm liquid; he shivered with silent outrage - she had done this to him, forced him to parade half-naked before a bunch of giggling eighth graders. Once word got 'round at school next Monday (as he was certain it would) the teasing would never stop. Truth be told, Casey actually looked like a girl, with his wavy blond hair and his soft, pouting features. He'd always possessed a rather feminine appearance: even now, people often commented on how 'pretty' (and rather effeminate) he was. Narrow shoulders, tiny waist, full lips and a delicate bone structure all contributed to the illusion - which was probably why Ms Deane had chosen him to replace Janey North in the first place (or so he imagined) He was wearing a snowy white vest and a pair of bikini underpants; the simple, unadorned kind that could be worn by either sex. From a slight distance (or even at extreme close up, for that matter), he could easily have been mistaken for a young girl wandering around in her vest and panties, waiting for the curtain call. Ms Deane strode up behind him bearing an armload of satin frills, placing the costume on the make-up counter. "This is what you'll be wearing, Casey. The underwear may look a little complicated, but I'll help you with some of the trickier items." She spread the ensemble out across the counter like a Las Vegas croupier fan-tailing a deck of cards. The dress was a blaze of garish red satin embellished with florid yellow lace. The halter-style top was studded with rhinestones and oversized frills around the bustline. Brilliant white petticoats had been sewn into the skirt's lining; Casey could see the frothy material peeking out from beneath the hemline. The whole outfit looked loud, gaudy and wickedly expensive. A cold thrill seemed to run the length of his spine as Casey surveyed the garish spray of polyester ruffles and gauzy nylon flounces. In a few minutes, he'd be zipped up into this - this party dress - and sent out on stage to make a public spectacle of himself. It wasn't fair! Why was she doing this to him?! Why was she making him dress up like a SISSY when there were at least a dozen girls downstairs who could have taken Janey's place?! Hovering at the brink of hysteria, Casey looked up at his teacher, his eyes huge and moist and imploring: "Miss Deane, I can't do it, I just can't!! I - I'm a boy, not a girl!!!" 2. Ms Deane leant down, placing her hands on Casey's arms, looking sharply into the boy's eyes to gain his attention. There were only seven minutes left. "Yes, I know you're a boy, Casey," the ballet instructor told him, speaking in a fast, staccato rhythm, "but it can't be helped. Katrina's class is one girl short, and they need you. You're the only one who can do the steps at short notice. You remember the quadrille I taught you last summer?" Casey nodded, thinking back. It was all still there. "That's all you have to do, Casey. Jenny and Katrina will do the more complicated steps. It won't be hard. Just hold up your skirt and follow the lead." Casey winced at the image of himself prancing across the stage with his dress over his head (and his undies on display for the whole world, let's not forget that vital piece of information). Ms Deane read his expression. "Don't worry about it, Casey. Nobody's going to recognize you. In a dress and make up, you'll just be another chorus girl," Ms Deane told him, gesturing towards the costume. "Come on, it's time you climbed into this. Take off your vest." Casey hesitated several seconds, knowing he really had no other choice. There would be absolutely no negotiation here: refusal was never an option where Ms Evelyn Deane was concerned. Surrendering to his fate with an almost imperceptible sob, Casey raised his hands and allowed her to peel his singlet off over his head. Gooseflesh played across his ivory tummy. "Now, the underwear." (WHAT?) Evelyne shifted her position slightly, then reached out towards Casey's hips. What is she DOING??! he thought wildly, as Ms Deane hooked her fingers though his plain cotton undies. He opened his mouth to protest, to shriek his opposition, but all he could manage was tearful, defeated groan. The soft fabric slid down his thighs. The room spun around him; Casey nearly fainted as the cotton settled gently around his heels. This was literally his worst nightmare. Eve patted him several times on the bottom. "OK, let's get you dressed," Evelyne remarked, then led Casey over to the dressing counter by the hand. He trailed along on tip-toe, a pretty young boy with platinum hair spiraling halfway down his back. His complexion glowed with a tender rose tint, his girlish figure arched in a graceful arabesque. He endured this final humiliation without objection, wiping his cheeks with his free hand and fixing his gaze on the floor. He didn't even raise his head when the girls started whistling and catcalling from the other side of the room. "There, that's better," Evelyn said, ignoring the hoots and jeers of the Casey Admiration Society across the floor, "now we can get started." Darting a glance towards the clock, Ms Deane began sorting out the costume with swift, practiced fingers. Casey watched in mute resignation, achingly aware that his pert young bottom was on full exhibition. He simply couldn't believe he was going through with this - or that he'd given in so easily. It was as if some tiny part of him actually wanted to be dolled up like a fairy in a Christmas pageant. He banished the thought with an impatient shake of his head. I'm NOT a girl, he thought again, then glanced over towards cancan outfit. (Oh) Casey gasped in surprise as his gaze swept over the virginal lace underthings Ms Deane was laying out across the make-up counter. A sweet, fluid heat crept through his belly. He hadn't even paused to consider what he'd be wearing underneath - the sight of the dress had driven everything else from his mind. His heartbeat accelerated into overdrive as he realized the extent of his predicament. I ... have to wear this? he thought incredulously. The underwear was nothing short of captivating; flimsy, translucent remnants shimmering with silk and lace. Pristine white panties lay side by side with sheer black stockings and a number of mysterious, complex items Casey didn't recognize. Things with bows and clips and hooks he'd never seen before. The very sight of them sent a chill racing though his slim torso. Hot flushes raged through his bloodstream; he tried to glance away, but the lingerie (particularly the panties) seemed to exert an almost hypnotic influence over the boy's bulging eyes. Ms Deane picked up a long, delicate strip of black lycra between two fingers; an intricate web of lace from which four adjustable straps descended. Casey moistened his lips with a flickering pink tongue. His breathing shallowed and quickened. Emotions he couldn't identify flooded his mind as the dance teacher kneeled down to slip the suspender belt around his tiny waist. He had no idea what it was, but inexplicably, he couldn't wait to feel it touch his alabaster flesh. "All right," Ms Deane said crisply, "hold still." Ms Deane fastened the suspender belt into position. Casey felt the hook-and-eye lock into place, dimpling his waistline. French lace teased his skin, long black suspenders dangled lightly against his thighs. Cool, tickling feathers seemed to stroke his tummy as the teacher adjusted the waist-strap, her fingertips brushing his belly button several times. Casey trembled with each contact. "Put your hands on my shoulders," Eve ordered curtly. It was time for the hosiery, and she didn't want the boy tripping over his feet while she slipped the denier up his legs. She worked quickly, smoothing out the sheer ebony nylon and tugging it gently up to mid-thigh. Stretching the elastic to the breaking point, she clipped the suspenders onto the stocking tops, then sat back on her heels to study her handiwork. Running a critical gaze down Casey's inner thighs, Eve marveled at their graceful curvature. Casey had exceptional legs for a boy; long, slender and about as smooth as polished marble. Four years tapping the boards had toned up his calves, leaving them sleek and rather coltish. The black stockings were a perfect fit, and served to emphasize their length and beauty. Probably grow up to be a Barbie doll, she thought ruefully. Meantime, Casey was trembling with apprehension. His head swirled with conflicting emotions: shame, dread, guilt. And humiliation. Humiliation, huge and irresistible, roaring through his body like a river bursting its banks. He was nude, stark dripping naked, and Ms Deane was dressing him in girl's underwear. The image flashed through his consciousness with neon intensity. But I'm a boy, he thought in silent protest, looking over at the mirror. Very soon, his metamorphosis would be complete. He'd be a she. A pretty little girl with a brilliant smile and a mischievous glint in her eye. He'd be sent out to flash his panties before half of Chamberlain, squealing with excitement as she spun through her number. Petticoats flailing around his chin, he would twirl across the stage in reckless abandon, his suspenders and stockings on full view of the audience - Then: Ms Deane's knife-edged voice, snapping her back to reality: "OK, stop day-dreaming and step into these." Casey looked down, his heart pausing momentarily. It was time for the panties. They were a pair of high-waisted full-briefs, glistening white nylon edged with exquisite pink traceries. The bottom was a mass of dainty frills, hundreds of diaphanous lace ruffles which primped and fluttered at a touch. Glaringly bright, they looked pristine, innocent and easily the most feminine thing Casey had ever seen. "Quickly, Casey. We don't have much time." Casey slipped into the pants, shimmying his hips as Eve drew them up over his hips. Casey zoned in a fugue of disbelief; in a matter of minutes, he'd be dancing the can-can before an audience of hundreds. And worst of all - he was wearing frilly underpants. Eve looked at the clock, ticking blithely away over the door. Five minutes to go, and the girl didn't even have her lipstick on yet. The dress lay in a glittering huddle over the dressing counter, its sequins reflecting the lights above the make-up mirror. They'd never make it down to the stage in time. If it was just the costume, they'd be alright, but there were the gloves, the make-up and the waist-cincher to consider. And then there was the hair ... I'll have to cancel the Montmartre number, Eve thought (not without regret, considering how hard her troupe had worked on it). Katrina and the others would be disappointed, but there was simply no other option at this point. Unless ... Ms Deane called out to the girls by the mirror. "Could you give us a hand, please?" Six pair of eyes wheeled towards Casey simultaneously, then the Ravens were on their feet, jostling each other aside in adolescent exuberance. All of them understood what their flame-haired instructor wanted, and each wanted a piece of the can-can boy. "Yes, Ms Deane!!" Shrill, birdlike voices echoed off the ceiling as the Ravens charged their quarry. Eve stepped aside to allow them a clear view of their prey, and the girls descended on Casey in a body. He was swallowed up in a storm of flurrying hands and midnight leotards. Their voices blended incoherently around him. "What first?" "The dress! Unzip the back. Here -" "How do you do this up?" "Give me a hand, will you?" "Does this thing hook or clip?" "Hooks up, I think-" "He's not wearing a bra!" "He doesn't need one." "Neither do you." "Hey, shut UP!!" "Hold still, Casey!" "CUTE!" "How do you - ?" "- straight up under the skirt -" "Cheryl, grab the rouge!" They raced Casey through his transmorphosis in under two minutes, leaving him hot and flushed. One of the girls fiddled with his hair, tying it up with plastic hair clips and a handful of orange feathers. The rest stood back to admire their efforts. All of them went quiet with surprise. Ms Deane stepped back to view him at a distance. She wore the expression of someone utterly astonished despite herself. The dance instructor had known it would work all along, but still ... "Uncanny," was Ms Deane's only comment. The girls began to chatter in amazement. They were no longer looking at a feminine boy playing dress-ups. A few seconds ago, he'd been a child of vaguely indeterminate sex, now he'd somehow morphed into a perfectly normal-looking ten year old girl. No, more than normal - pretty. Surprisingly pretty. "You look great, Casey," one of the girls said, a remark followed by an instant chorus of approval. "She doesn't have any garters," someone piped up, "you can't dance the can-can without garters, Casey." "She's got suspenders," said another girl, "that's good enough isn't it?" "Well, yeah, but -" And suddenly, they were all over him again, touching and prodding, adjusting his clothes, smoothing his hair, fussing and fidgeting about so much that Casey didn't even notice they were starting to use the female pronoun to describe him. It might have gone on forever if Ms Deane hadn't broken them up. "Okay, that's enough. Time's up, Casey. Let's go." Ushering the can-can boy ahead of her, Ms Deane exited the dressing room with her usual air of self congratulation, leaving the Ravens alone to gossip amongst themselves (and boy, did they have a lot to talk about now). None of them noticed brief exchange that passed between teacher and student as they approached the stairs. "Here," Eve said, handing Casey a pair of hot red garters, "put these on." 3. Katrina and Jenny and all the others were waiting anxiously downstairs, uncertain as to whether they would still be performing this afternoon. Janey's sprain had come at the worst possible time: they needed at least six to do this number, quadrille or not. They had some idea as to what Ms Deane had in mind, but a flat refusal was more than a possibility. What if Casey said no? There was no one else their age who could fill in for Janey - at least no one as good as Casey was. "How could Janey break her ankle at a time like this?" Katrina was demanding of no one in particular, "she's put us right out of the show with her dumb stunts." "It wasn't a dumb stunt," replied Cindy Bayliss, defending her absent friend, "she was practicing her handstands and fell over. And it's just a sprain, she didn't break anything, Kat." "Well, it's still left us stranded up the creek, hasn't it? We'll never find someone to replace her in time." "What about Casey? Ms Deane said she was going to -" "He'll probably say no," Gail Williams cut in pessimistically, "what boy wants to do the can-can? Everybody would call him a sissy." "Hey - there she is now," Katrina said, pointing to the stairs. "Who's that with her?" They watched narrow-eyed as Ms Deane approached with their new can-can girl in tow. A slim, shy looking little girl in a red satin ball-room dress, none of them recognized her at first. It was several seconds before the penny dropped. Debbie Thomas stepped forward, mouth a-gape: "Kay-See?!" Casey hugged his arms in embarrassment, lowering his face and nodding toward the floor. Gail and Cindy ran forward, gasping with delight (WOW - is that really YOU, CASEY? Hey!!) and Casey found himself surrounded for the second time in as many minutes. Katrina and Jenny waded in, touching his hair and checking his petticoats with cries of disbelief - particularly when they saw what he was wearing underneath. Casey tried to hold his skirt down against their explorations. "All right, time to get ready," Ms Deane interrupted, bringing the party to a premature halt, "You're on next, girls. Over by the curtain, let's go." Eve clapped her hands smartly together. The girls ran lightly across the floor with little screams of excitement, scooping up handfuls of satin and lace. Casey followed after, his skirt billowing around him like a satin cloud. No time now for reservations. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his blush had spread all the way to his hairline. 4. Out in the theater, the Hostess of Ceremonies was looking over the program. The Civic Center was packed to capacity tonight - must have been more than a thousand people filling the rows. As it was, the seats were booked out for nearly a week in advance. Not bad for a small-town dance festival, especially this far out in the suburbs. Glancing towards the wings, she noted that Evelyn Deane's dance troupe was in place for the next number - six young girls in garish costumes, petticoats hiked up to their thighs. This was going to be quite the spectacle, according to all accounts. Gesturing for silence, she tapped the mike, adjusted her glasses, then introduced the imminent festivities with a hint of spice in her voice: "Well, the next number will certainly be a treat, ladies and gentlemen. The Spencer District Dancing School is pleased to present a taste of Gay Paree. Monsieurs et madamoiselles - the French Can-Can!!" The auditorium's loudspeakers rung into life as the audience began to applaud. Offenbach's universally familiar overture to Orpheus in the Underworld echoed across the floor as the cancaneuses made their entrance, skirts bunched up to their hips. All of the girls wore prim white garters - all save one; a tall, stunning blond with a saucy grin and legs that could kill at a hundred yards. "She" was wearing a pair of bright red garters just below her stocking tops. Flaring and flashing with every movement, they almost screamed for attention. And attention was what they got. Casey dominated the performance from the first step. The spotlights followed his spirited dash to center left. The girls circled the stage, falling into position with their petticoats whipping about their thighs. Casey took his place between the two principals - and the Can-Can really began. Casey lifted his hemline clear up to his throat, allowing the crowd a spectacular view of his thighs, stockings, and lavishly frilled underpants. Crinolines were raised across the floor, and the girls sprinted forward in a dazzle of shining lingerie. A startled gasp sailed up from the audience. The hall erupted with cheers of satisfaction; howls and wolf whistles split the air. Moving slightly forward off the others, Casey kicked his right leg over her head and brought it down in a circular motion, an action repeated by the remaining five dancers. Inexplicably, Casey had taken the lead, and the rest were following his cue. Smiles beamed from face to face, silvery laughter chimed above the music. None of them had realized just how much fun this was going to be. The girls began spinning like tops, their skirts threatening to fly away. Several begin turning cartwheels and handsprings, all calculated to reveal every inch of their lingerie. They worked their way through a complicated series of high-kicks, flip-flops and turn-overs with undisguised enthusiasm. Seized by an irresistible impulse, Casey suddenly doubled over and executed a perfectly balanced handstand. His petticoats immediately fell away, showing off his slender legs and flimsy nylon panties. With his hair brushing the floorboards and skirt reversed over his head, Casey couldn't see the audience, but there was no mistaking their roars of appreciation. The walls were almost shaking with the thunder. Still holding his balance, Casey scissored his legs open in mid-air. His suspenders elongated by at least six inches, straining against his upper-thighs. Casey giggled in spite of himself - wouldn't it be embarrassing if one of those tense black straps snapped right here in front of the crowd? Then again, he had plenty to be embarrassed about as it was. Being closest to the edge of the stage, Casey's knickers were on full display to everybody in the first four rows. Every ribbon, every bow, every dainty scrap of lace was clearly visible. His nebulous black stockings stood out in urgent contrast as Casey concluded his aerial splitz. His pulse was thudding like a trip-hammer; he'd never felt so pretty, so feminine in his life. Bringing his legs together once more, Casey dropped over onto his feet like a gynmast in dismount. His dress fell back into place, covering his underwear behind a curtain of red satin. Can't have that now, can we? No room for false modesty here! Throwing both hands high over his head, Casey launched into a forward handspring. Polyester frills frisked about stockinged calves, cheeky little panties flickered back into view. Another cheer burst up from the audience. Katrina and Jenny cantered to the front of the stage whipping their petticoats from side to side, joining Casey as he landed on his high heels. The timing seemed almost supernaturally correct: Casey never stumbled, never hesitated, never placed a foot wrong. Raising his crinoline up to his shoulders, he flung himself into the dance with renewed vigor, firing highkicks in rapid-fire bursts. Katrina and Jenny followed suite, proudly disclosing their gartered stocking-tops to half the population of Chamberlain. The rest of the girls spun about, tossing their skirts over their heads and exposing their bottoms in a flourish of white lace. Watching unseen from the wings, Evelyn Deane studied Casey's form in subdued fascination. She'd known the boy was talented, but she'd never suspected he was capable of such (all right, let's be truthful here) virtuosity. Twenty minutes ago, he'd been on the brink of tears, now he was undergoing some kind of transfiguration. Eve shook her head in awe. She felt as though she were looking at the next Njinsky ... or maybe Fontaine, depending on the costume. Out on stage, the troupe had whirled into its final configuration. Kicking up their stilettos in a welter of lace and garters, they offered the crowd a final glimpse of their firm young calves, their tightly strung suspenders, their girlish, naughty smiles. What am I DOING?! Casey asked himself, lifting his left sole into a tendon-straining pat en l'air. What was he doing here, exhibiting his panties to like a million people at once?! Panties were sacrosanct; an unmentionable secret to be kept hidden beneath layers and layers of silk and satin. Except, of course, while he was dancing the Can-Can. And what could be more exhilarating than that? Reaching the grand finale, the girls turned in a line, bent over and presented their panty-clad bottoms to the audience. Skirts flipped inside out in a wave flowing left to right: one two three four five SIX!! Pert young bottie-cheeks were thrust out in a halo of foaming crinolines, sussie-straps stretched to their limits, glossy red pumps clacked together with the sound of breaking ice. Frilly round buttocks clenched and jostled for center stage, their lush curves bulging through their gossamer sheaths. Casey peeked out from below her layered underskirt, looking out towards the theatre. The audience had exploded into a standing ovation: row after row of spectators rose their feet, clapping their palms and yowling their congratulations, their bravos, their encores. The boards beneath the girls' feet started vibrating in resonance as the tumult continued to climb. "Casey - that was fantastic!!" Katrina Waylan whispered, her face the color of a wild strawberry. "Yeah," Jenny Griffiths agreed with an admiring giggle, "you're the bomb, Casey!!" The motion was carried by all present; Casey certainly was the bomb. All six girls wriggled their fannies in a unanimous declaration of triumph. Faultlessly white panties glared beneath blazing spotlights. Out beyond orchestra pit, the cheering swelled towards a crescendo. Encore, Encore, ENCORE!! Now I'm really blushing, Casey thought, shyly regarding her new friends with a touching mixture of affection and gratitude. And with that, the curtain came down on the Montmarte number. Purple Velvet swept the stage, bringing an end to the evening's festivities. The footlights dimmed, the applause began to fade. The cancan was over. But for Casey, the show was only just beginning.