3: Chocolate Box Girls: Summer's Dream (18 page)

It’s funny how things change. Confidence seeps away, families fall apart, twin sisters fall in love and don’t have time for you any more. A dream can turn into a nightmare.

I don’t say this to the kids, of course.

‘Dance is a little bit of magic,’ I tell them instead. ‘It’s as old as the human race. It’s a way of saying things without words, of expressing ourselves, responding to the music. You need to work hard, though, to make the magic happen!’

‘We will!’ the kids promise.

One girl curls her hand round mine, peering up at me
with wide green eyes. ‘My name is Fern,’ she says solemnly. ‘When I’m grown up, I want to be just like you …’

No, you don’t, I think. You really, really don’t.

At breaktime I take them down to the dance school cafe for juice and biscuits and fruit; I pick at strawberries while they crunch on chocolate-chip cookies, and I remember the days when I had never heard of calories. I wish I could go back to that time.

At lunchtime the little ones sit down to sandwiches and crisps and ice cream. I have my own lunch: lettuce and tomatoes and tuna, a few segments of orange, a glass of water.

‘Don’t you want ice cream?’ Fern asks, eyes wide. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘No … it’s just … I’m trying to stay slim,’ I explain awkwardly. ‘I have a big audition on Saturday, for a really brilliant ballet school.’

Fern frowns. ‘And … you can’t eat ice cream any more?’ she asks. ‘I don’t understand. Because you’re thin already, ever so thin, Summer. You’re just like a real ballerina!’

‘Thank you,’ I say, my cheeks flushing with pleasure. I hope the teachers on Saturday agree.

Fern pushes her ice cream away, unfinished. ‘I’d like to be thin too,’ she says, looking down at her round little-girl tummy in the tight pink leotard, and I feel sick with shame.

‘You’re perfect just the way you are!’ I argue. ‘I promise. All of you are perfect! Eat up that ice cream!’

I push the dish back towards her, and she caves in instantly and scoops up a huge spoonful, laughing with her friends. What kind of a person am I, making a little girl feel like she can’t eat ice cream? I would never want her to feel like she wasn’t as good as anyone else. I would never want her to feel the way I feel inside, heavy, hopeless, hungry for something I can never have.

Across the dance school cafe, I watch Jodie sitting with her team, laughing as she decorates her ice cream with squiggles of sauce and sugar sprinkles. I shudder, but a part of me envies Jodie. She is chatting and smiling and eating ice cream, and I cannot honestly say that she looks big at all, just slim and pretty and happy. She looks at me and smiles, but I freeze out her grin with a frosty glare.

You don’t need her
, the voice in my head insists.
Look at her, stuffing her face! It’s disgusting!

I push my Tupperware box of salad away.

25

At four o’clock, when the workshops end and the kids are collected by mums, dads and grannies, I head for the senior ballet studio to put in some practice on my expressive dance.

Every step is perfect, every move smooth and streamlined. I dance and stretch and whirl and leap, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot lose myself in the music. I feel as though I am going through the motions, following a formula I know off by heart. I could do this dance in my sleep, yet I cannot bring it to life. The harder I try, the further away the magic seems to be.

Will the judges notice at my audition on Saturday? They are looking for perfection, technical excellence, and I think I can deliver that. They are also looking for something
extra – potential, expression, emotion, life. I used to be able to do that too, but lately, those qualities have deserted me.

No wonder I am afraid. My dream of becoming a dancer is turning into a nightmare.

By the time I come out of the final spin in my last dance, I am exhausted, shaking with the effort of trying to push past ‘perfect’ and find my spark.

‘Summer?’

Miss Elise’s voice cuts into my thoughts, and I turn to see my teacher standing in the studio doorway. She doesn’t look impressed. ‘This just isn’t you,’ she says. ‘Like I said last week, you’re working too hard. I can’t fault you technically, but … something’s been lost.’

My heart feels as if it is breaking in two. Miss Elise sees the look on my face and sighs. ‘I’m sorry, Summer.’ She moves towards me and slips an arm round my shoulders, comforting, kind, but abruptly I feel her recoil. I see shock run through her, and something like revulsion.

‘Oh, Summer,’ she says. ‘You’re skin and bone! Would you take off the T-shirt? You’ve been hiding away under that thing for weeks now.’

I bite my lip. I really don’t want to take off the T-shirt
because then Miss Elise will see that even if I have lost some weight, I still have a lot more to go. I cross my arms around my body, awkward, defensive.

‘The T-shirt?’ she prompts.

Turning away, I peel it off and stand huddled in my leotard. I feel like a beached whale, exposed, heavy, hopeless.

‘Good grief,’ Miss Elise says. ‘You’re wasting away …’

I see the shock in her eyes, hear the words, but all I can feel is a tidal wave of elation. I am in control. I’ve spent the last few weeks starving, my belly aching with hunger, mouth watering as my sisters tucked into strawberry cupcakes and pizza and cheesecake, without tasting so much as a mouthful myself. I have proved that I am strong, determined. I have changed the way I look, and it shows.

I look in the studio mirror. I catch a glimpse of a willowy girl with shadowed blue eyes, pale skin, fair hair pinned in neat braids around her head. She is slender, childlike. You can see her ribs through the stretchy fabric of the leotard; her hip bones jut sharply and her stomach is concave, hollowed out. Then the image changes. The mirror seems to warp as I watch, buckling and rippling like the fairground Hall of Mirrors on the film set.

My heart sinks. The girl staring back at me is huge, loathsome, a fat blob in a leotard. Salty tears roll down my cheeks, one after another, and I don’t seem to be able to stop them.

‘Summer,’ Miss Elise is saying. ‘Can you hear me? You need to start eating. And I want you to stop practising too – I mean it. You’re pushing yourself too hard.’

Don’t listen, don’t listen, don’t listen!
the voice inside my head screams.

‘You’ll make yourself ill,’ Miss Elise is saying. ‘I know what you’re doing, and trust me, it’s a very dangerous game.’

‘It’s not a game,’ I whisper.

She sighs. ‘No, it’s really not. But whatever it is, you need to stop it, right now. Do I have to call your mother and discuss all of this with her?’

‘Mum’s in Peru,’ I say flatly.

‘Of course – the honeymoon. Well … your grandma then? Should I be talking to her?’

I take a deep breath in and wipe the tears away. I square my shoulders, look Miss Elise in the eye.

‘I am not dieting,’ I lie. ‘And I’m not ill, I promise you. I’m just a bit stressed about the audition. Perhaps I’ve been
exercising too much, cutting out too many treat foods, but only because I want this so much. I really, really do.’

‘I know,’ my teacher says softly. ‘But, Summer, this isn’t the right way to go about it.’

What does she know?
the voice in my head rages.
She’s trying to stop you, spoil it all …

But Miss Elise is my teacher. She has always supported me, pushed me, encouraged me. She has always told me that she believes in me. Why would she sabotage me now? My head aches with confusion.

‘Summer, you have a very real talent for dance,’ Miss Elise says gently. ‘That’s special. But this pressure … the worry of the audition … you’ve let the stress and worry of it all get to you.’

‘I haven’t!’ I protest. ‘I’m fine!’

The teacher shakes her head. ‘You are a gifted dancer, but I’m not sure that residential ballet school would be the best thing for you at the moment. It’s not right for everyone. It’s a high-stress career, and unless you’re strong …’

‘I am strong!’ I whisper. ‘I can handle it! The pressure, the worry – it’s fine, Miss Elise; it’s just spurring me on to work harder!’

Thoughts race through my head, disastrous, dreadful thoughts. Miss Elise and Sylvie Rochelle are friends. Suppose my dance teacher tells Sylvie Rochelle I am not cut out for a career in dance? Success or failure for me could hinge on her words, her views.

‘I want this scholarship place more than anything!’ I plead. ‘You have to understand! Please don’t tell me it’s not right for me! Don’t tell Sylvie Rochelle I’m not good enough!’

Miss Elise frowns. ‘Of course I’ll support you, and I would never tell Sylvie you weren’t good enough – you are, that’s not in doubt,’ she says. ‘I’m just asking you to think about it some more, that’s all. Is this really what you want? This level of pressure and anxiety, all through your life? Because ballet is not an easy career to follow, Summer.’

‘I know that!’

‘Few dancers are talented enough to make a living from it,’ Miss Elise says. ‘Those that do are signing up for a world of hard work, punishing schedules, rejection. It’s not all bouquets of flowers and feathered tutus, and it’s a very short career, even for the best dancers …’

‘I know all that!’ I repeat. ‘Are you saying I’m not good enough? Are you saying I don’t have what it takes?’

But I don’t hear any more because I am running by then, out of the dance studio, grabbing up my ballet bag, then out of the building. I don’t look back.

26

I turn up as usual the next day because I don’t want to let the little kids down, but I stay away from Miss Elise.

I used to trust her. I used to think she was the coolest person I knew. A few words of praise from her would put me on cloud nine, once upon a time, but now I know what she really thinks. That I am weak, lazy, liable to crack under the pressure of being at dance school. Oh, and fat too, because when she tried to comfort me yesterday there was no way on earth she could have thought I was really ‘skin and bone’. That must have been a cruel joke because I know I am as big as ever.

I blank out the thought and put all my energy into working with the kids. I am getting to know them now, to see their strengths and weaknesses, their personalities, even a
little slice of their hopes and dreams. I take extra time with Fern, trying to boost her confidence, helping her with her steps and routines.