3: Chocolate Box Girls: Summer's Dream (19 page)

In musical theatre, the classes are working towards putting on a performance from
Annie
. Yesterday the group did drama exercises and warm-ups and today they are singing some of the songs. Fern surprises me by having a sweet, clear voice that grabs the teacher’s attention. ‘Good,’ he tells her. ‘Shoulders back, take a deep breath and let the singing come from deep inside you. Great stuff!’

Fern’s cheeks are pink and she glows with pride.

The next day the group starts to put together a routine around one of the songs, with some dancing and acting and lots of singing. It’s cool to see the routine come together, and encouraging to see that every girl has different strengths. Some are good at acting, some at dance, some at singing. Fern is shy, but when she sings, she shines, and at the end of the lesson the teacher tells her he’s picked her out of all the kids in the summer school groups to take the part of Annie.

Her eyes widen. ‘Really? Me? Are you sure?’

‘Certain,’ I tell her. ‘We need the best person for the job. And that’s you!’

‘I’ll do it then,’ she says, determined. ‘If you think I can.’

As the class file out afterwards, the teacher stops me. I am on my guard at once. Is he about to nag me about my weight too? Has Miss Elise told him to keep an eye on me?

Maybe not.

‘You’re very good with those kids,’ he says. ‘I’m teaching all the groups so I’ve seen the other student helpers, and you’re far and away the best of them. You put so much in. You care. You bring out the best in kids, build their confidence. That’s a talent in itself, you know. Thanks!’

‘Oh … no worries,’ I reply. ‘It’s fun.’ And I realize that it is.

This week really has given me something else to think about apart from the audition. It’s always there, of course, looming at the back of my mind, but just for a while, each day, I get to focus on the good stuff about dance, not the stressy stuff. I get to remember why I loved it so much.

Correction: why I still do love it so much.

Once I am back at Tanglewood, though, the panic starts. I don’t trust Miss Elise’s judgement any more, but still,
I am afraid to disobey her. I can’t risk messing up my audition.

Forbidden from practising, I am going stir-crazy. I make a quiche laden with cheese and cream and two trays of chocolate brownies that smell like heaven. I do not take a single bite. I mop the hallway and kitchen, tidy the living room and generally bug Grandma Kate. ‘You’ll wear yourself out,’ she warns me. ‘That’s no good – Saturday’s your big day, remember?’

As if I could forget.

You’ll fail
, the voice in my head tells me.
You haven’t worked hard enough. You’re not good enough …

I push out of the kitchen and walk across the garden, down the cliff steps and on to the deserted beach. It is probably too late to swim, and I am scared to wade into the water because I am out of my depth already, even on dry land. If I started swimming, the temptation to head straight for the horizon would be too much.

Instead, I turn and run along the sand, each step helping to silence the nagging voice inside me. I run until my head is empty, my body weary, my muscles aching. The light is fading as I turn and run back again, pushing myself, punishing my body, trying to find some peace.

As I reach the cliff steps, I see a hunched figure sitting on a rock at the bottom, looking out at the ocean.

‘Alfie?’ I say, startled. ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘Just passing,’ he quips.

‘Yeah, right.’

‘OK,’ he shrugs. ‘I just thought I’d swing by. Wish you luck, or break a leg or whatever people say, for the audition on Saturday. And you weren’t home, so I thought I’d do some sunbathing. And now even the sun’s given up on me …’

I sink down on to the warm sand, glad to rest and gather my breath. ‘I went for a run,’ I tell Alfie. ‘Trying to take my mind off it. But … well, thanks for the thought.’

‘It’s not that I want you to actually break a leg obviously,’ he says. ‘I just hope … well, I hope it turns out the way you want it to. Even if it does mean you moving away. You’ll come home for holidays, right?’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Obviously I will.’

It’s strange, though. I have poured so much energy and effort into working for this audition, yet sometimes I can barely remember why I want it so badly. I try to picture the glossy wooden floors and shiny, mirrored studios of Rochelle Academy from the brochure, but they slide out of reach
like distant memories, too vague to recall. It’s as if a whole part of my mind has been wiped clean, leaving me struggling to remember just what I am working for.

Which is kind of terrifying.

‘I’ll miss you,’ Alfie says into the darkness. ‘Who else could squash me flat with one glance when I try some dodgy practical joke at school? Who else would dare tell me not to wear eyeliner in public? Only you, Summer Tanberry!’ He laughs, but it’s a sad kind of laugh.

‘I haven’t always been very nice to you, have I?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Alfie says. ‘You’ve always been … well, lovely. Harsh sometimes, yes, but … well, I expect I deserved it!’

Lovely? I am not sure it’s even possible that Alfie Anderson could say such a thing about me, but somehow, in the dark, the words don’t seem so scary.

‘Maybe we just didn’t get each other,’ I shrug. ‘I thought you were loud and clueless and cheesy. Always trying to wind me up …’

‘I am all of those things,’ he admits. ‘I wasn’t trying to wind you up, though. I was only ever trying to get your attention.’

Even though I cannot see in the shadowy light, I know Alfie’s cheeks will be flushed with pink. This is what he was trying to tell me at the party – he has liked me all along. The endless pranks and teasing were just a way to make me notice him. And I never really did until now, when he dropped the jokes and grew up a little. Better late than never, I guess.

I know what it is like to try and try and try to capture someone’s attention. It’s what I used to do with Dad, when I was little. Growing up in a family of four sisters, it was hard to stand out, but dancing gave me a chance to do that.

‘Hey,’ Dad used to say, watching me skip round the living room in a pink net skirt at the age of five. ‘How’s my little ballerina?’

Keeping his attention was impossible, though, especially after he and Mum split. I can still feel the hurt of that in my chest, an ache, an emptiness.

‘I’m an idiot, right?’ Alfie says sadly.

‘No, you’re a mate,’ I tell him, hoping it doesn’t sound too cruel.

I am not looking for another boyfriend, but I realize that Alfie is a true friend. He is kind and loyal, and he has a
knack of being around when I need him. That’s more than I can say for Tia or Millie lately, or even Skye … I have pushed them all away, made myself too busy with practice, and they have allowed it to happen. It’s only Alfie who has refused to be discouraged.

‘OK then,’ he sighs. ‘Speaking as a mate – I’m worried, Summer. This diet thing. Healthy eating, whatever. It stops once the audition is over, yeah?’

‘Definitely,’ I say, and then all my certainty drains away. ‘I think so anyway. I hope so. Maybe. I don’t know, Alfie … I just can’t seem to help it.’

‘Talk to somebody,’ he says. ‘Your mum, your gran, your dad, a doctor. It’s getting scary. It’s getting out of hand, and I don’t know what to do.’

I guess that makes two of us.

27

That night I am changing out of my T-shirt and joggers when Skye walks into the bedroom and catches me in my bra and knickers. The smile freezes on her face and although I try to cover up quickly, I know it’s too late. She has seen me, and she cannot hide her shock.

‘Summer!’ she whispers. ‘What’s going on? You’re like a skeleton!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say calmly. ‘I’m no different. Just a bit more … toned maybe. From all the extra dancing.’

‘I could see your ribs!’ Skye accuses. ‘Your shoulder blades looked like they were about to slice through your skin! I know you’re watching what you eat, but … this is scary, Summer! I had no idea!’

Because you’ve been so wrapped up with Finch, I think
meanly. Too busy falling in love to notice how lost, how frightened I am.

‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘And I am eating, it’s just that we’re not sitting down to eat as a family any more. Everyone’s busy, doing different things. Besides, I made the tea! I ate about four brownies while I was making them, I swear … It’s just that I’m burning lots of energy from all that practice.’

Skye isn’t fooled. She drags the T-shirt out of my hands. My eyes flicker up to the mirror, and for a second I see my reflection as Skye sees it: a ladder of ribs, the long ridge of my spine, shoulder blades jutting sharply, wing-like. I look pale, wasted, worn out.

‘Stop it, Summer,’ she whispers. ‘Please? You have to stop this.’

Don’t listen
, the voice wheedles.
She doesn’t understand – none of them do. You still have a long way to go. Trust me … I’m on your side
.

‘Back off,’ I tell my sister harshly. ‘I’m fine, Skye. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

I cannot sleep. My head is a tangle of shadows and fears, my heart aches with sadness and a kaleidoscope of memories from long ago are whirling through my mind.

I didn’t think my own twin would turn against me, try to stop me from reaching my dream. Then I remember the look of shock on her face, and I wonder if I’ve got that wrong, if she’s honestly just concerned. Would she understand?

‘Skye?’ I whisper into the darkness, but my twin just sighs and turns in her sleep, lost in dreams of vintage dresses and a boy called Finch.

I check my mobile. There’s a message from Mum, telling me that she and Paddy are heading back to Lima, ready to fly home. She tells me to do my best on Saturday, that she is proud of me now and always, no matter what. My fingers hover over the call button for a long moment. If I could just talk to Mum right now … 

But I can’t. What would I say? ‘Hey, Mum, my life is falling apart. I’m scared to eat and I can’t dance and my dreams are in pieces around my feet, so don’t be proud of me … I’m a mess.’

I don’t think so. And if not Mum, not Skye, then who?

I snap the mobile closed and slide out of bed, shivering a little, and pad downstairs. There is no sound in the kitchen except the slow ticking of the clock, the hum of the Aga
and the sound of Fred the dog snuffling as he settles in his basket in the corner and chases imaginary rabbits in his head.

It is past two o’clock, but Dad’s bit of Australia is ten hours ahead of us. We Skype him every Christmas and birthday, but I have not actually called my dad since the year he left, when Skye and I went down to the call box in Kitnor to plead with him to come home because Coco was crying and Honey was raging and Mum’s smile was so brittle we thought she might shatter into a thousand pieces at any minute. Dad told us to stop worrying, that it was all for the best, that he still loved us even though he wasn’t living with us any more.

That was the day we knew we’d really lost him, the day we understood that he was never coming home again.

I find Mum’s address book in the dresser drawer and tap out the code and number for Dad in Australia. The line connects and Dad’s voice fills the silence, muffled, distant, slightly annoyed.

‘Hello? Charlotte, is that you? I’m at work, for God’s sake!’

‘It’s me,’ I whisper. ‘Summer. I wanted to talk to you!’

‘Summer!’ he says, as if trying to place me. ‘Summer? Is something wrong?’

No, Dad, nothing’s wrong. It’s two in the morning and I am scared because my life is falling to bits, but no, nothing’s wrong. I don’t say this, of course.

‘I just wanted to talk,’ I say lamely.

‘Well … that’s very nice, Summer, but I’m pretty busy right now. Was there something in particular?’

I swallow hard. It feels like there is a lump the size of a golf ball in my throat, stopping me from speaking, breathing.

‘No, no … I just wanted to tell you I have my audition on Saturday. For the dance school. And I’m a bit … um … nervous.’

Far away, on the other side of the world, I can hear Dad talking to someone else, giving orders, asking for a report to be on his desk within the hour.