Iako nods, puts her shoes on and goes on pointe so smoothly and quickly that it appears as natural as standing flat-footed. She has long thin legs and looks like she was born on her toes.
“These shoes are a little too big for you, yes? The shank extends slightly beyond your heel.”
Iako nods and sits back down, but I’m not sure she understood. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for her—she is as far from home as I am, and on top of that, she has to communicate in a foreign language. I feel a flash of anger—at Melissa, for targeting someone who probably could use some friends, and at myself, for going along with it.
“Try these,” Mrs. Hoffman says, passing her another pair, which Iako puts on. “Stand again.” She holds out a hand, gesturing for Iako to rise onto her toes again. “Yes, yes. Better.” She pats Iako on the shoulder. “Very good. Make sure you break them in properly. You know how, yes?” She demonstrates, kneading the box with her fingers and flexing the shank. Iako nods, gives her a grateful smile and sits back down.
Edie nudges me. “She can’t even speak English.”
“So?” I say. “We can’t speak Japanese.”
“Of course not. But we’re not trying to go to a ballet school in Japan, are we?”
“I think she’s brave,” I say. “Don’t you?”
She hesitates. “I guess so. Sort of.”
I watch as Mrs. Hoffman nods approval over Cam’s feet and the fit of her shoes and fusses a little over Julie’s. “Tch, tch. Not the most flexible foot, is it, dear? You can’t do much about the height of your arch, but I’ll give you some exercises to do.”
“I know,” Julie says ruefully. She looks younger than the rest of the group and has curly fair hair that keeps springing free of her bun. “My teacher back home says I have flat feet.”
“Well, yes, but flat feet can be strong feet. You work with what you have. Margot Fonteyn didn’t have high arches and it didn’t hinder her career, did it?”
Julie laughs. “Exactly what my teacher always says.”
“It’s quite true. Feet like Melissa’s, with a high instep and high arch, create beautiful lines and have the flexibility for great jumps, but if you don’t work hard and do your exercises”—she shoots Melissa a look—“they can also be prone to injury.” And with that she moves on to the last girl in the line, Mackenzie, who is a light-skinned black girl, small but very strong.
Edie nudges me again. “Have lunch with me and Melissa, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Melissa overheard some of the teachers talking,” she says. “There’s going to be an audition coming up.”
“An audition?” I lower my voice. “For what?”
“The Nutcracker,” she whispers. “Guess what role.”
“Not Clara.”
“Yup. Clara. Actually, they’re looking for two Claras.”
I blow out a long slow breath. The Nutcracker. I fell in love with ballet as a four-year-old after I saw The Nutcracker on television. I’ve even had small parts in it back home, once as a mouse and once as a soldier. To dance the part of Clara would be a dream come true. But...“That’s not until Christmas, though, right?”
“Yeah. So I guess you won’t be here.”
“I might be here,” I say. “I mean, I’d kind of like to stay.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’d kind of like to?”
“I want to stay,” I say, meaning it. “I do.”
“Well, we’ll see,” she says, frowning slightly. “I’ll talk to Melissa.”
I think of what my dad always says—you get out what you put in. I’ve always believed that my success depends entirely on me—my courage, my passion, my determination to dance—but Edie’s words and tone of voice scare me.
She makes it sound as if my fate rests entirely in someone else’s hands.
Five
The gray clouds that hung low all weekend have cleared, and it’s a gorgeous, sunny day. Edie and I take our lunch bags outside and sit on the grass. We both have lunches packed by her mom: turkey sandwiches, carrot sticks, sliced peaches. The Harrisons are very health conscious; they’d be horrified if they peeked into our kitchen cupboards back home. Mrs. Harrison says proper nutrition is important if you want to be a dancer, and I guess that’s probably true, but I sure miss steak pies and ice cream.
Edie glances at her watch. “I don’t know what’s taking Melissa so long,” she says. “She was just getting a drink from the vending machine…” She breaks off. “Here she comes.”
Melissa jogs across the grass and drops down beside us. She sits with her legs in the splits, stretching. “Pointe class after lunch,” she says. “How long have you been on pointe, Cassandra?”
“Two years,” I say. Going on pointe was something I’d started begging to do when I was eleven, but Peter had said my feet were still growing and that rushing pointe work could be damaging. When I turned twelve, he finally said my feet and ankles were strong enough. I was excited about my first pointe class, but, I have to admit, it was disappointing. Just a few minutes of exercises, and I’d been on the verge of tears from the pain and frustration. It was so much harder than it looked. After that, I’d spent countless hours stretching and strengthening my feet. When I watched TV, I did resistance exercises with my toes pushed against a stretchy latex band. When I brushed my teeth or waited for the school bus, I did foot flexes. In class, I worked at the barre practicing rises, relevés and échappés, and I waited impatiently to go into the center of the room and actually dance. Peter had finally started letting me do a little more, but I’d still felt impatient. I wanted to do everything that the older girls did.
Of course, now I am one of those older girls, dancing on pointe—and I still wish I could do more. I still ache to dance like the senior dancers.
Edie smiles at me. “Two years? That’s the same as me,” she says.
Melissa takes a sip of water and looks at me over her water bottle. “When I started coming here three years ago, I was already on pointe. I started at ten.”
“Wow.” When I was ten, I used to fantasize about pointe shoes and try to stand on my toes in my sneakers, but I’d been nowhere near ready. “That’s pretty young.”
Melissa shrugs. “My teacher at my old school said I was exceptionally strong for my age. Here, they don’t usually start before twelve though, so you won’t be too far behind most of the girls. Did you do the Cecchetti exams in Australia?”
“Yes.” I take a bite of my sandwich. “I’ll do my grade six in December. Unless, you know, I’m still here.” I meet her eyes. “Edie says you heard that there might be an audition for The Nutcracker.”
“I heard Mrs. Hoffman talking to one of the other teachers when I was down at the office. She said they were looking at the girls in PTP for Clara. Then she said that maybe some of the summer session girls could audition too. ” Melissa looks around, making sure that no one is close enough to overhear. “I’d better be one of them.”
“Me too,” Edie says quickly.
“I’ll make sure I am,” Melissa says.
I laugh. “But how can you? I mean, isn’t it up to the teachers?”
She makes a dismissive gesture. “You either want to be a dancer or you don’t, Cassandra. And if you want it, then you do whatever it takes.”
I don’t quite trust Melissa. Then again, a chance to dance Clara…“I want it,” I say.
“Good.” Her thin face splits in a wide smile. “Smart choice, Cassandra.”
There is an uneasy sensation in my belly. I feel like I’ve just agreed to something that I don’t quite understand, and I’m still worrying about it half an hour later as we’re filing into the studio for pointe class.
“Places at the barre!” Diana calls out.
I’m first to the barre, and I take the front spot, figuring I won’t be distracted there by watching and comparing myself to everyone else.
Edie nudges me. “Um, Cassandra? Melissa always stands at the front of the barre.”
> “Oh. Sure. Sorry.” Flustered, I step aside and let Melissa take my place. Edie squeezes in behind her, leaving no room for me.
“There’s room over here,” Cam calls, and I join her near the back. “What was that about?” she asks in a low voice.
“I guess Melissa has dibs on that front spot,” I say.
“So you stood aside for her.” Cam shrugs. “It’s your call, of course…”
“But?”
She raises her eyebrows. “I know we only just got here, but I get the impression that Melissa is used to being number one.”
“Yeah. Well, she’s great, isn’t she?”
“She’s a good dancer,” Cam says carefully.
I think she might say more, but Diana is already calling out directions.
“First position, please, girls. Elongate your spine, eyes forward…Julie, turnout from the hip…and start the rise onto the balls of your feet, into the highest demi-pointe you can…that’s right, Zoe, nice…and pushing up into full pointe…and releasing back to demi-pointe…and back into first position.” She walks over and taps my bum. “Tuck, Cassandra. Squeeze.”
I tighten my muscles.
“Again. Demi-pointe…full pointe…and back to first. Mackenzie, it should be a smooth, fluid motion. Melissa, can you demonstrate?”
Melissa does a series of pointe exercises, with Diana pointing out her excellent turnout and the alignment of her feet. “Now let’s see the rest of you try it again. No sickling your feet, remember! Nice and straight!”
I don’t know what Melissa is planning to do to make sure she gets to audition, but it seems to me that the part of Clara will be hers if she wants it.
“Julie, that’s better. Cam, too much weight on your baby toe, you’re on the corner of the box—there, that’s it, that’s better—” Diana breaks off. “Where’s Iako?”
We all stop and look around. “I saw her at lunchtime,” Cam says. “She didn’t say anything about missing class.”
“Hmm.” Diana frowns.
“Shall I check the washroom?” Cam offers.
“Yes. Thank you, Cam.” Diana claps her hands. “Okay. Second position, girls. Julie, turn out from the hip, not the knee.”
I try to focus on my position, but I can’t concentrate. This morning, Melissa and the other girls—including me, I think, with a flush of guilt—voted Iako off. And now she’s gone. It has to be a coincidence, I tell myself. Melissa can’t make people disappear…
“Cassandra! Are you paying attention?” Diana’s voice is sharp.
“Sorry,” I say, realizing that everyone is doing relevés in fifth position and I am still standing here flat-footed.
“Don’t jump onto pointe, girls. A smooth motion. Cassandra, if I asked you to let go of the barre right now, I think you’d fall over.”
She’s right. I’m off balance. I hastily adjust my position and check my reflection in the mirror.
“Cassandra, look at the waistband on your leotard,” she says. “See that straight line? It should be level. Make sure your hips are even…there! That’s better.” Diana watches for a moment, and then tells us all to stop. “It isn’t magic,” she says. “It’s technique. It’s all technique. Balance is easy when your body is in the right position. Try again. Tailbone directly over the ball of your foot. Lift your abdomen. Long straight spine.”
“Diana?” Cam is standing in the doorway with her arm around Iako, who has clearly been crying. “Iako’s pointe shoes. She was given new ones this morning, but they seem to have disappeared from her gym bag.”
“Are you sure you didn’t leave them somewhere?” Diana asks.
Iako wipes her arm across her eyes. “I think…someone took them.”
Diana frowns. “That seems rather unlikely, Iako.” She sighs. “Please go and see Mrs. Hoffman and get another pair. Quickly.”
Iako nods and scurries off like a scared mouse.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. My turnout isn’t bad—my position is pretty close to perfect—but it all feels a bit forced and mechanical. The elastic springy feeling in my legs is gone, and the music isn’t filling me with energy the way it usually does. Come on, Cassandra, I whisper under my breath. You came here to dance, so dance.
But when I look into my eyes, I don’t see a dancer. All I see is fear.
* * *
When Iako returns to class, her eyes are puffy and her face is flushed from crying. She gets her shoes on and joins us at the barre, but her concentration is shot. Diana keeps telling her to focus and pay attention. As we leave the studio at the end of class, I notice she is limping, and I realize she hadn’t even had a few minutes to break in her new shoes. The box must still be hard as stone.
“Iako!” I call out to her impulsively.
“Yes?” With her spindly legs and wide dark eyes, she looks like a startled fawn.
“Um, are you okay?”
She nods. “Thank you. Yes. I am okay.”
“I’m from Australia,” I say. “So I figure you and me—well, we’re both a long way from home.”
“It is hard,” she says. “But it is good to be here.”
“Yes.” I hesitate. “I’m sorry about what happened. With your shoes.”
Her eyebrows pull together in a frown. “I do not understand it,” she says. “I know they were in my bag.” She gestures helplessly. “But I am so tired. I must have forgotten. The jet lag, you know?”
“I know. I keep waking up at, like, three in the morning.” Way down the hall, I can see Edie and Melissa staring at us. “I should go,” I say. “I just wanted to say—well, you dance beautifully.”
She smiles and suddenly looks older and more confident. “It is my life,” she says.
Six
That evening, I borrow Edie’s laptop and Skype my parents. I have to wait until almost bedtime to call them because Vancouver time is so far behind the time at home. I’m in my pajamas, but in Adelaide it’s five o’clock tomorrow afternoon. It’s weird to think about. As soon as my mom’s face appears on the screen, I feel a wave of homesickness so bad I just about break down and cry.
“Cassie! Wait a sec, honey. I’ll call your dad.” She steps away from the camera, and I can see the living room couch and the cluttered bookshelves behind it. “Mike! It’s Cassie!” she yells, and a moment later both of them are there, crowding close to the camera and grinning widely.
“How are you guys?” It’s hard to talk—there’s a lump the size of Tasmania in my throat. “I miss you,” I say.
“We’re fine, fine,” Mom says. “Tell us all about it. Are you okay? Not too homesick? How’s the dancing?”
“It’s good,” I say. “The teacher—Diana—she’s excellent. And guess what? There’s going to be an audition for The Nutcracker! They’re looking for a Clara. At least, that’s the rumor.”
“Wow, that’s great,” Dad says.
“Isn’t that a Christmas production though?” Mom asks.
“Um, yeah.” There’s a long silence, and then I stumble on. “I mean, I probably won’t get the part. There are a lot of girls here who are really good.”
“Including you, Cassie,” Dad says.
“You are good,” Mom agrees. “Actually, I just ran into Peter—”
“You saw Peter? Really?” I miss him, too. He’s thirty or so but very good-looking, so a lot of the older girls have crushes on him. He’s like a big brother to me though. He’s been teaching me since I was nine.
“At the grocery store,” Mom says. “He was raving about you.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. He said you were very talented.”
“Mom, did he use that word? Or is that your interpretation?”
She laughs. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I do, I just wanted to know what he said. Exactly, I mean.” Peter doesn’t give a lot of compliments to his students. A “well done” from him is high praise.
“Well, he did use that word. No, wait, let me think. He said yo
u had real talent and innate musicality.” She makes air quotes with her fingers.
I savor the warm glow those words give me and feel my cheeks getting hot. “Diana—our teacher here—she says that dance is the hidden language of the soul.”
“Whatever that means,” Dad says. He’s grinning, though, like he really does understand.
“I think it means...I think it’s about how, when you dance, you’re expressing who you really are,” I say.
“Ah well, you should be a star, then,” Dad says.
I make a face at them both. “I miss you guys,” I say again.
“We miss you too,” Mom says. “But it won’t be long. Just four weeks. It’ll be over before you know it.”
My eyes sting, and I think I might cry.
“You just do your thing,” Dad says. “Dance your heart out. Do some pliés and some of those cheese things.”
I laugh despite the tears that are threatening to spill over. “Cheese things?”
“You know. Fondues.”
“Dad!” He knows exactly what fondus are. And frappés, which he pretends to think come from Starbucks. It’s been a running joke between us for years.
He chuckles. “You’ll be fine, Cassie. Just have fun.”
“Call us again soon,” Mom says.
I nod and say goodbye. I wish I could ask them what they think about all the stuff that is going on with the other girls, but it’s too hard to explain.
Now, sitting cross-legged on my bed and staring at my own reflection in the dark screen of the laptop, I can’t stop worrying. Did Iako really misplace her shoes? Or did Edie and Melissa have a hand in it? I pick up Jackie, my bear, and squeeze him tightly.
There’s a knock on the door, and Edie pokes her head in. “Are you still Skyping your parents?”
“No. I’m done.” I shove Jackie behind me and close the computer. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just wondering what you thought about your first day at the academy.” She balances on one foot, her left hand resting on the doorknob, and does an attitude—like an arabesque, with one foot extended behind her, but with her leg bent at the knee and lifted high. The line of her back and her leg are beautiful, and her turnout is excellent. She makes the position look as easy and natural as standing on two feet.
Attitude Page 3
