Pirouette

by Robyn Bavati

  Simone slowly shook her head, but she knew she wasn’t fooling Hannah’s perceptive mother.

  Vanessa remained in the doorway a moment longer, then said good night and walked away.

  Simone tried to focus on the play she’d been reading, but thoughts of Tom ruined her concentration.

  “Hey, sis?” This time it was Adam in the doorway, wearing pajamas, hair wet from the shower.

  “What?” asked Simone.

  “Midnight feast in my room? Nine o’clock?”

  Sweet of him, but Simone preferred to mope on her own. “Sorry. Still studying,” she said.

  Soon after Adam had left the room, Simone changed her mind. Hanging out with Hannah’s younger brother might be just the therapy she needed. She snapped the book shut.

  Adam had forgotten to close her door, and the sweet, nutty aroma of the almond crescents he and Vanessa had been baking wafted upstairs. Simone’s phone beeped just as she was heading out of the room, and she ran back in to check the message.

  I knw wat ur hiding. Own up or i’ll tell.

  Adam and the nine p.m. midnight feast instantly forgotten, Simone texted Hannah with trembling fingers.

  Urgnt. Jst got text msg #3. Call me ASAP.

  This latest message, the third so far, was downright intimidating.

  Her heart in her mouth, Simone paced the room. She waited anxiously for Hannah to call, the thought of being busted made worse by the realization that, after all their efforts to keep their identities secret, they’d have lost their boyfriends for nothing if the truth was revealed now.

  Neither Simone nor Hannah had given much thought to how long their deception would continue, or how they would end it. It was scary to think that now the decision might not be theirs to make.

  Later that evening, Simone slipped quietly down to the kitchen. She was pouring herself a glass of juice when she became aware of a murmur of voices. Manfred and Vanessa were in the study, talking quietly, and she would have ignored them had she not caught the name “Hannah” spoken in muted tones. She strained to hear the conversation.

  “But she spends so much time alone in her room. Isn’t that unhealthy?” Vanessa was asking.

  Manfred’s voice was reassuring. “I’d say that’s pretty normal for a teenage girl. Though never having been one myself, I can’t be sure.”

  “I just wish she’d confide in me,” Vanessa replied.

  “Teenagers don’t confide in their parents,” Manfred said. “They confide in their friends.”

  “Do you think she might have confided in Adam?”

  “I doubt it,” said Manfred.

  “But they were always so close.” A brief silence ensued, then Vanessa continued. “I have a feeling there’s a boy involved. When I was a teenager, I spent hours pining over boys who didn’t know I existed.”

  “In that case, they must have been either very blind or very stupid. Lucky for me that they were.”

  Vanessa chuckled.

  Simone smiled wryly and crept upstairs.

  Her thoughts turned to her mother as she climbed into bed. If she was worried about how Tom would react when he learned the truth, what about Harriet? That was something she didn’t want to think about—but Harriet would find out, eventually.

  She’d gotten herself into this whole mess in the first place because she’d lacked the courage to confront her mother. Now the confrontation would be so much worse, because it wasn’t just a matter of letting Harriet know she couldn’t become a professional dancer—she’d have to deal with the consequences of having deceived her all this time.

  Simone had wanted a break from the VSD—but she’d also wanted, she realized now, a break from her mother.

  Did that make her a horrible, ungrateful daughter?

  Would Harriet ever understand?

  forty-one

  If someone had plunged a knife in her chest, Hannah didn’t think it could hurt any more. Maybe the physical pain would be a relief. Matt had avoided her all week, and when he was told to partner her in pas-de-deux, he held her with obvious reluctance, visibly recoiling from her touch. When she spun to face him, he steadfastly refused to meet her eye. The pair were so clumsy together that Mr. Dixon finally told him to dance with Julie instead. “You’d better get over whatever disagreement you’ve had with Simone,” the teacher added, clearly annoyed. “Dancers don’t have the luxury of allowing personal issues to interfere with their work.”

  Both in and out of class, Matt did his best to stay away from Hannah, just as Tom was refusing to contact Simone. But while Hannah could understand Tom’s behavior—he thought it was Simone he’d seen with Matt—Matt’s animosity didn’t make sense. Hannah wasn’t sure what she’d say to Matt if given the chance, but she never had the opportunity; whenever she tried to approach him, he veered off in another direction.

  To make matters worse, it wasn’t just Matt who was treating Hannah like a leper. Mitch was also giving her a wide berth, disappearing whenever he saw her coming but not before throwing a contemptuous glance her way. Even Jess seemed torn by divided loyalties, her attitude toward her friend lacking its usual warmth.

  “What have I done?” Hannah said to Jess. “Why won’t Matt even talk to me? And why’s Mitch treating me like I’ve got the plague?”

  Jess groaned in frustration. “Like you don’t know.”

  “I don’t,” said Hannah.

  “Tom told Mitch,” said Jess. “On Sunday, after the Dance Spectacular. And Mitch told Matt.”

  “Told him what?”

  Jess sighed dramatically, as if Hannah were deliberately trying her patience. “Tom told Mitch that he met you at Candance and that he’s been seeing you every Sunday ever since. He said you were his girlfriend—at least he thought you were. What did you expect, Simone? How did you think Matt would react when he found out? Or did you assume he wouldn’t?”

  “But it’s not true,” Hannah protested. “I haven’t been meeting up with Tom. I haven’t seen him once since Candance.”

  A flicker of doubt crossed Jess’s features.

  “Jess, don’t you believe me?”

  “I want to,” said Jess.

  “Please,” said Hannah. “I’m not the sort of person who would two-time a guy.”

  “No, you’re not,” Jess admitted. “At least, you weren’t. But you’re so different this year, I sometimes feel I don’t know you at all.”

  For a few interminable days, Hannah spent breaks and lunchtimes wandering the campus alone. Was it her imagination, or had the story of her “treachery” spread throughout the school? She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed she’d become the subject of a dozen whispered conversations. The small campus, which had seemed so warm and inviting, had suddenly turned friendless and claustrophobic. For the first time since starting at the VSD, Hannah longed for Dani and her other friends at Carmel College. If only life could go back to how it was the week before!

  If she tried telling Jess, Matt, and Mitch the truth, they might not listen or believe her. And even if she could trust them with so huge a secret, she wasn’t sure how they’d react to having been lied to all this time. Confessing now might make things worse.

  In class, she was unable to concentrate. When Miss Sabto instructed her to grow tall and light, she couldn’t do it. She felt as if a heavy rock had lodged inside her.

  And it wasn’t just her classical dancing that was suffering, either.

  “Simone,” said Mr. Dixon during rehearsal for a contemporary piece, “this is a joyous dance, not a funeral wake. Don’t look so glum.”

  Whenever Hannah thought of Matt, which was most of the time, her dancing suffered even more. If only he weren’t ignoring her. If only he’d give her a chance to explain. Still, if the quality of her dancing depended on somebody else, then she clearly wasn’t as good a dancer as she’d hoped.

 
For the first time since arriving at the VSD, she was so unhappy that she seriously considered telling Simone she wanted to swap back. At least then she could face her defeat in the cocoon of home.

  But how could she drop Simone back into the mess that she, Hannah, had created? No, Simone had suffered enough already at the VSD. It wouldn’t be fair.

  Besides, if they swapped back now, what would she have accomplished? What would the past few months have been for? Hannah hadn’t quite given up on her dream of becoming a dancer, and though she doubted her talent and ability, she still entertained a vague hope that somehow it would all work out …

  But as teachers cast worried glances in her direction, she had to admit that her grand adventure was becoming a nightmare.

  “Simone,” said Harriet one evening, “are you okay?”

  Hannah nodded briefly, mumbling something about having had a bad day. Harriet was probably the last person she’d dare to confide in.

  At night she hid her misery from Simone when they talked on the phone, though Simone was the one person who would understand. And Simone too was miserable—Tom still hadn’t called.

  When the phone call ended and Hannah found herself alone in her sister’s bed, exhausted but unable to sleep, she yearned for home. She wanted to snuggle up in the crook of her mother’s arm and be on the receiving end of one of her father’s bear hugs. She wanted to wrestle Adam for the remote control, or sing along with the younger brother who’d always looked up to her no matter what.

  Bunching her pillow to her damp cheeks as she tossed and turned in the darkened room, Hannah thought of Kimmy and his way of sensing when something was wrong. She longed to feel him nuzzling up against her, watching her with large, dark, knowing eyes.

  She thought of the comfortable home she’d always had, and the wonderful family …

  She’d been so focused on her goals that she hadn’t considered how her actions might affect others, how they might react when they learned the truth about what she’d been up to these last few months.

  A shudder went through her as she tried to imagine how they might feel.

  Would they understand, empathize, and forgive her be-

  havior? Or would they be angry?

  What if they never loved her again?

  forty-two

  When Manfred and Vanessa arrived at Carmel College with Simone, the three headed straight to the multipurpose hall where Simone had collected her timetable on her very first day. Although nearly a month remained till the end of term, the hall was now set up for parent-teacher interviews, which were well underway. About thirty-five desks stood at regular intervals behind a notice board that displayed the names of the teachers and where they were sitting. In front of the board, students and their parents mingled.

  Simone clutched her schedule of appointments while Manfred and Vanessa studied the seating plan. A bell rang, and there was a flurry of movement as teachers abruptly concluded their five-minute interviews and parents moved on to their next appointment.

  Simone marveled at the well-organized system. At the VSD, parent-teacher interviews were haphazard affairs, with lots of jostling in crowded classrooms and pushy parents

  slipping in ahead of others who’d been waiting longer. Here, the interviews ran like clockwork.

  “Show me that list again,” said Vanessa.

  “Our first appointment’s with Mr. Field,” Simone replied, passing her a printed sheet filled in by hand.

  “Your level convener?”

  “Yes,” said Simone. “He’s supposed to give an overview of each student’s performance and ask the parents if they have any general concerns.”

  “And have we?” asked Manfred, his eyes twinkling.

  “I don’t think so,” said Simone.

  Vanessa wrinkled her forehead as she studied the schedule. “You seem to have forgotten Mr. Aaronson.”

  “Um, no. I didn’t forget him. I don’t have him this year.”

  “Really? But I’m sure I signed off on Hebrew,” said Vanessa, frowning.

  “You did,” said Simone, “but I switched to French. I thought I told you.”

  Vanessa threw Manfred a questioning look.

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” said Manfred, “but I thought she should do French all along. It’s not as if she’s planning to live in Israel. And think about all the French references in literature,” he began, launching into one of his favorite topics. “When you understand the linguistic connections between French and English, you get so much more out of—”

  “Hannah,” said Vanessa, cutting him off, “you were the one who picked Hebrew.”

  “I know I did,” Simone replied. “But I changed my mind. I agree with Dad—I think French will serve me better.”

  “Serve you better? You know, your spoken expression really has become more sophisticated,” Manfred said, beaming approval. “It must be all that reading you’ve been doing lately.”

  “But didn’t I buy you the Hebrew textbook?” Vanessa was asking.

  “I swapped it for the French one at the school bookshop,” Simone explained. “It wasn’t a problem.”

  The bell rang again and a burst of human traffic added to the general swell of noise.

  “Come on,” said Simone. “It’s our turn now.”

  As they crossed the floor to the desk where Mr. Field was sitting, Simone noticed how different the teachers seemed with parents around. They were all so determinedly cheerful that it was almost impossible to imagine them growling at students.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Segal, and Hannah,” said the level convener, shaking first Manfred and then Vanessa by the hand. “Please take a seat.” He flipped through a list of teachers’ comments. “Well,” he began, “I think you’ll be very pleased with Hannah’s progress. It appears she’s become a serious and conscientious student, and less of a chatterbox than she used to be. Her teachers tell me she’s quiet, thoughtful, and cooperative. She’s working extremely well in all her subjects, and has even topped the class in French … ”

  “So, how did your parent-teacher interviews go?” Adam asked when Simone returned.

  “Fine,” said Simone.

  “You’re lucky they’re over and done with,” he said. “Mine aren’t till the last week of term, and I bet my teachers will say horrible things.”

  Simone leaned over and ruffled his hair. “Nah,” she said. “How bad could you be?”

  “Don’t do that,” he said, pulling away. “Don’t treat me like I’m four years old.”

  “Sorry,” said Simone, surprised at how offended he seemed.

  “Hannah?” said Vanessa. “Don’t forget that tomorrow you’ve got another appointment with Dr. Johnson for the Fischer seal.”

  forty-three

  Embarrassed by how badly she was dancing, Hannah in-structed herself to focus. But when her turn came to perform a series of fouettés, she lost her balance almost as soon as she began. She started over, and stumbled again.

  Miss Sabto said nothing. She didn’t need to. Never before had Hannah had such a strong desire to be invisible. Aware of the mixture of smug and pitying looks directed her way, she wished she’d stayed in bed that morning instead of coming to school.

  “Don’t forget to write your names down for the parent-

  teacher interviews,” Miss Sabto told the class at the end of the lesson. “As your dance convener, I’ll be reporting on your progress in all your dance subjects.”

  During the morning break, Hannah tried not to think about the upcoming parent-teacher interviews and the poor report she was bound to receive. She bit into an apple, but found she could neither taste nor swallow.

  Julie saw her throw it in the bin. “Hey, Simone! Are you okay?”

  “Actually, no. I’m having a really lousy day.”

  “Come outside, then,” Julie suggested.
“Hang out with me.”

  Hannah managed a grateful smile. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’d be rotten company. Maybe later.” She couldn’t trust herself with Julie. Another kind word and she’d burst into tears.

  After Julie had gone, Hannah wandered past the staff room and caught the tail end of a conversation.

  “So that’s it, then,” Miss Sabto was saying. “We’ll have to ask her to leave the school.”

  It was official, then. Hannah’s fears had been realized. The worst had happened. She had failed. She willed herself to move, but couldn’t.

  Suddenly the staff room door opened and Miss Sabto stepped out. She took one look at Hannah’s face, put an arm around her shoulder, and steered her into an empty classroom. She sat her down gently at one of the desks.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Simone.”

  Perhaps the time had come to reveal the truth. If she said nothing, then at the parent-teacher interview Miss Sabto would suggest to Harriet that her daughter leave the VSD. And while Simone might be happy to do just that, she should be able to do it openly and honestly, with her head held high. Simone should not have to skulk away in shame because of Hannah’s failure.

  But if she confessed, she’d have to deal with the consequences—it would be too late to change her mind.

  Hannah buried her face in her hands. Whatever she said or did, nothing would change the dreaded outcome.

  Should she tell Miss Sabto who she really was?

  One way or another, their parents would soon learn the truth.

  If Hannah didn’t tell Miss Sabto now, while she had the chance, whoever was sending those ominous texts might tell her first—or tell Manfred and Vanessa, or Harriet.

  But if she did own up, perhaps Miss Sabto would be able to help. She had to trust someone.

  “Simone?” The teacher’s voice was full of concern.

  Hannah plunged in.

  “I’m not Simone,” she murmured softly.

  “Sorry?” said Miss Sabto.

  “I said, I’m not Simone. I’m her sister, Hannah.”