3: Chocolate Box Girls: Summer's Dream (20 page)

‘Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘It’s chaos here. So you’re in a new dance show, is that it? Don’t worry, you’ll be brilliant as usual. My little ballerina.’

A tear rolls down my cheek, salty, silent. He couldn’t even be bothered to listen properly.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Right. Dad, I have to go now. Someone’s calling me.’

‘No worries, take care, do your best!’

‘I will,’ I promise.

The line goes dead.

Friday goes by in a blur. The morning is filled with rehearsals and the afternoon with the dance show itself, so I am kept busy running around making sure my team is OK. Kelsey forgets her tap shoes and Rowan’s leotard splits along one seam and Fern’s curly Annie wig keeps slipping down over one eye, but with the help of borrowed shoes and last-minute stitching and several heavy-duty hairgrips, everything is perfect for the performance.

As Fern and the rest of the team take their bows at the end, I clap and cheer louder than any of the parents, my heart filled with pride and happiness. It is the most alive I have felt in weeks.

Back home, Grandma Kate has made omelette and salad and I eat almost a quarter of the omelette, Skye watching me like a hawk, before slipping the rest to Fred the minute she goes to the fridge for more lemonade.

‘I want to come with you tomorrow,’ she announces as we stack the dishwasher. ‘What with Mum being away and everything. For moral support. OK?’

I look at her eyes, dark with reproach, and I am torn between regret and terror. Does she really care, or would she just force-feed me chocolate and milkshake on the car journey there? I can’t risk that. Maybe she is worried, but it’s too little, too late.

‘It’s not OK actually,’ I say. ‘Miss Elise is taking me. Let’s just leave it at that.’

‘Your mum asked me to go along,’ Grandma Kate frowns. ‘That was the plan, and I’d love to see this new dance school …’

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll do this alone. I’m so nervous already I just wouldn’t be able to hold it together if anyone else was there. I’m sorry – it’s just that I need to focus.’

‘I suppose,’ Skye huffs. ‘Anyway, we’re planning a big beach barbie tomorrow night to celebrate … everyone’s invited!’

‘Big mouth,’ Honey says with a roll of her eyes. ‘That was meant to be a surprise!’

‘What if there isn’t anything to celebrate?’ I protest, stricken. ‘I might not find out how I’ve done for ages …’

‘We’re celebrating the end of you practising every spare minute,’ Skye says. ‘And the end of you being stressed and wound up the whole time …’

‘And the end of you eating like a sparrow,’ Honey chips in. I shoot her a warning look, but she pretends not to notice.

‘That too,’ Skye says grimly, but Grandma Kate doesn’t seem to hear.

‘Don’t worry, Summer,’ she says. ‘It will all be over by this time tomorrow.’

‘I can’t wait,’ I sigh.

28

I am so nervous my hands are shaking and I have to tie and retie my new pointe shoes two or three times to get the ribbons right. I am in the changing rooms of Studio One at the Rochelle Academy, and the room is a crush of girls in leotards and white tights, chatting, laughing, checking their perfect hair.

I check my mobile. A message from Mum telling me she loves me, that she and Paddy are rooting for me; a message from Skye telling me to knock their socks off; a message from Alfie Anderson saying he got my number from Skye and wants to wish me luck.

I smile, in spite of myself.

Every ten minutes a stern-faced woman with a clipboard comes through to call somebody out into the studio. Ten
minutes … is that all we get? Eight weeks of stress and worry and endless practice, so that our futures can be decided in ten minutes flat? Crazy.

‘I am just so buzzed,’ one girl says. ‘Mum and I have travelled all the way from Birmingham …’

‘It’s an amazing opportunity,’ another chips in. ‘My dance teacher says that Rochelle Academy is set to become one of the most prestigious ballet schools in the country …’

I cannot imagine spending the next five years of my life with these girls; I can’t even imagine spending the next five minutes of it with them.

‘OK?’ Jodie says into my ear, and I am so glad to see her that for a moment I struggle to remember why we’re not friends any more.

‘Not OK,’ I whisper.

‘Me neither,’ she says. ‘Talk about butterflies in my tummy – it’s more like a herd of elephants.’

‘I can’t do this …’

Jodie takes hold of my hands. ‘Summer Tanberry, you totally CAN. Yes, it’s scary, but it’s just an audition. We’ve practised, we know what to do … we’ll be OK. This is just stage fright. It’s normal!’

What does she know?
the voice inside my head hisses.
Don’t trust her!

I take a deep breath in. ‘Why are you being nice to me?’ I ask.

Jodie sighs. ‘Why wouldn’t I be nice to you? We’re friends, aren’t we? At least we were. I’m sorry you’re upset with me, but if I spoke to Miss Elise, it was only ever because I was worried about you, because I was trying to help …’

‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry, Jodie.’

‘It’s just because I was worried,’ she repeats, squeezing my hands. ‘You’re a brilliant dancer, Summer. Believe it. Get out there and show them!’

The stern-faced lady appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. ‘Summer Tanberry, please!’

Miss Elise and I follow her along a wood-panelled corridor hung with ballet prints. I falter and look more closely. I recognize them from an art book Mum showed me a couple of years ago, of an artist called Degas. I remember thinking at the time that he made the magic of dance come alive with a few strokes of pastel, but as I look now, all I can see are the dancers themselves.

They are strong and curvy, their shoulders muscled, legs
sturdy, their bodies stocky and powerful. They are not waifs, not even close. My head clouds with confusion. Have I got it wrong somehow, all that stuff about shape and build? Surely not.

Ugly
, the voice in my head says, but it seems quieter now, less certain.
Huge, hideous …

‘Summer?’ Miss Elise asks gently. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes … yes, sure.’

But I am not OK, of course. I take one last look at the pictures, and I can see that those dancers are not huge or hideous or ugly. They’re beautiful. What if everything I thought was right turns out to be wrong? Cold fear settles inside me, heavy as stone.

I don’t know what I am doing here.

I know that the studio is big and light and airy, with a sweet scent of floor polish and resin and expectation. I know that there are three people seated behind a table at the far end of the studio, and that one of them is Sylvie Rochelle. I know that there is a cold sweat prickling the back of my neck as I walk across the shiny wooden floor into the centre of the room, and I know that my heart is
beating so loudly it is a miracle nobody asks what the noise is.

I am afraid – of not being good enough or thin enough; of not having what it takes to be a dancer. I wonder if the voice is right, if I am wasting everybody’s time here, my own included. The fear sinks down through my body like petrol soaking through dry grass, and I begin to dance.

I dance well. My barre exercises are good, my set piece strong, and then Miss Elise changes the CD and Stravinsky’s wild music begins. I take a deep breath and the music takes hold of me, the way it used to, and I lose myself. I feel the flames leap through my body, crackling, burning – I dance with every bit of my heart and soul, with fear and hope and hunger. And all the time, the flames are raging, right inside me, burning me up.

There is no chance of Miss Elise or anyone else saying that I have no ‘spark’. This dance is all spark, fireworks and flame, destructive, beautiful. When I finish, breathless, I look up and see the three judges looking at me wide-eyed, as if I have done something unexpected, unimagined, perhaps slightly scary.

Pink spots of shame begin to bloom in my cheeks as I
stand, shivering slightly now, beneath their gaze. Sylvie Rochelle is the first to speak.

‘Summer,’ she says. ‘Thank you! I can see that you love to dance. Such energy, such emotion.’

I blink. Energy? Emotion? This seems unlikely to me. I feel empty, hollowed out, exhausted.

‘So you can dance,’ the man on Miss Rochelle’s left says, peering over narrow glasses rimmed in red. ‘But what else do you have to offer? What are your plans, your dreams?’

I open my mouth to explain that a chance like this is all I have ever wanted, all I have ever dreamt about, but the words are like gravel in my throat, sharp, painful.

Pathetic
, the voice in my head says, braver now.
You could never fit in here. You’re not good enough, not dedicated enough, not thin enough
.

‘Summer?’ the man prompts. ‘Your hopes, your dreams?’

‘I … I don’t know,’ I stammer, flustered.

He frowns. ‘We have just three scholarship places to award. Can you tell me why you think we should give one of them to you?’

I search around for reasons. There used to be a million and one of them – my future was all mapped out, bright
and shiny and successful. I have worked so hard the last few weeks to make it real. I have pushed myself to breaking point, or maybe beyond it, but right now, I cannot find one single good reason why anyone would give a scholarship place to me.

Silence fills the studio, heavy and ominous. In the corner, I can see Miss Elise covering her face with one hand, as if giving up on me. ‘Are you eating properly?’ the woman on Sylvie Rochelle’s right asks. ‘You are very thin. This is a pressured environment, a pressured career. You need a good sense of self-worth to handle it all. We cannot take girls who starve themselves in a misguided attempt to fit in – we’re looking for dancers who are strong, both physically and mentally.’

‘I am eating fine,’ I protest. ‘I am strong! I’m just … naturally …’

Gross
, I think.
Big. Chunky, meaty, fat, solid
. But when I look in the mirror I know that’s not the reality.

‘… slim,’ I finish.

In your dreams
, the voice taunts me, but I push it away.

I glance across at Miss Elise, who looks stricken. I have blown it, I can see. Everything I ever wanted is falling through my fingers, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

‘I eat healthily, most of the time,’ I say in a cool, clear voice. ‘But … well, my parents run a chocolate business, so I do get tempted sometimes. Nobody’s perfect. I’m just lucky, I guess. No matter what I eat, I don’t put on weight.’

The lies drip off my tongue so easily I surprise even myself. I can see Miss Elise, her eyebrows raised, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise.

‘I need this place,’ I go on. ‘It’s my dream. I have worked hard for this, but it hasn’t felt like work because I’ve loved every minute. I am strong, I promise you, much stronger than I look. Give me a chance. I want to dance – I want to lose myself in the music, feel it with my heart and soul. I want to be a dancer more than anything else in the world.’

I smile then, my best stage smile, sparkling, bright.

The adults talk quietly together, and then Sylvie Rochelle turns to me. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘That will be all for now. Letters will be sent out next week to confirm which of you have been offered a place, but …’

Her face softens and she smiles at me. ‘I think we can safely say that it will be good news for you, Summer. You’re a natural.’

The floor shifts a little beneath my feet and for a moment
I think I may fall. I don’t, though. I stand tall, my shoulders back, my chin tilted high.

‘Thank you,’ I say shakily. ‘Thank you! You don’t know what this means to me!’

Sylvie Rochelle smiles. ‘I think I can guess.’