Attitude

by Robin Stevenson

  “I know. That was really mean.” I hesitate, wondering whether I should try to explain the whole stupid voting thing. I don’t want to admit that I actually took part. I remember my own hand going up to vote against Iako, as if I were nothing more than a puppet with no mind of my own. “Melissa’s very competitive,” I say.

  “Ha. You think?”

  I laugh. “I guess that was kind of stating the obvious. But the thing is—well, maybe she feels kind of threatened by the new girls, you know? She really wants to get into PTP.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “I don’t know if I do,” I admit. “I mean, I sort of do. But I’d miss my family so much.”

  To my surprise, Cam doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. “PTP’s not the only route to being a dancer,” she says, and takes another bite of her apple.

  “It’s kind of hard to remember that when it’s all anyone talks about.” I open my lunch bag, reach my hand in—and snatch it back out with a shriek. Instead of a plastic-wrapped sandwich, my fingers touched something slimy.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” I dump the contents of the bag out onto the grass and stare at the slippery pink mess. “Ugh.”

  Cam bends closer. “Looks like your yogurt spilled over everything.”

  “I guess so.” I pick up the plastic container. “The lid’s still on tight. Weird.” My heart sinks. I open the container, but, just as I guessed, there’s no yogurt left inside. “Someone dumped it,” I say flatly.

  “Who would do that?” Cam says.

  I just look at her. “Take a guess.”

  “Melissa? But—well, why on earth would she do that? Messing with your lunch is hardly going to help her dance career.”

  “She’s mad at me,” I say. “Because I wouldn’t go along with her games.”

  “What games?”

  I take a deep breath. “She’s playing this stupid game, like we’re all on some reality show or something. She’s voting people off.”

  Cam laughs out loud. “She’s doing what?”

  I guess it is kind of funny. In a way. If you don’t think about it too much. “She’s deciding who she thinks shouldn’t be here,” I explain. “And then she gets her friends to vote to get rid of that person.”

  “Let me guess,” Cam says. “They voted for me.”

  I nod. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she says grimly. “It’s not your fault. I mean, you didn’t take part in it, did you?”

  I shake my head. “Melissa asked if I was in or out. I said out.”

  Cam points at my ruined lunch. “And that’s why she did this?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “That is seriously messed up,” she says.

  “Do you think we should tell anyone?” I ask.

  Cam looks thoughtful. “Well, she hasn’t really done anything except mess up your lunch, and we can’t prove that.”

  “No. I know.”

  She looks down at her apple, slowly turning it in her hands. “I wonder why they picked me to vote off first.”

  Cam sounds more curious than hurt, but I hate that she’s even thinking about this. “They didn’t,” I say. “They started with Iako.”

  “They voted Iako off? Seriously?”

  “We all did,” I say miserably. “I did too, Cam. I feel horrible about it now.”

  Cam takes a last bite of her apple, drops the core back into her lunch bag and chews slowly. She doesn’t say anything for a while, and I wonder what she’s thinking. I can’t imagine Cam doing anything just because Melissa told her to. There’s nothing puppetlike about her. “Why did you do that?” she asks at last.

  “I don’t know.” I make a face. “I didn’t like it, but I figured who cares if the girls are playing games and voting? I told myself that the teachers would see who could dance. It isn’t a popularity contest.”

  “Yeah, but still. You didn’t have to vote.”

  “I wish I hadn’t,” I say. “I was scared, I guess.”

  “So what changed? I mean, why didn’t you vote for me too?” Her eyes meet mine, direct and challenging.

  “I guess I was feeling bad about Iako. And I thought, you know, that we were…well, friends. Sort of.”

  “We are.”

  “It wasn’t just that,” I say. “I’d seen what had happened to Iako, and I was wrong about it not mattering. I mean, it wasn’t just the vote. It was what happened afterward. They all stopped talking to her. You can see it totally affecting her confidence. Even her dancing seems kind of flat, you know?”

  “She was already homesick anyway,” Cam says. “But now that everyone’s ignoring her, she’s really a mess. She was crying in the girls’ bathroom after class this morning.” There’s an edge of anger in her voice.

  “I think they might be doing more than just ignoring her,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  I take another deep breath. “I think Melissa took Iako’s shoes. Before that first pointe class, remember? Edie says that Melissa didn’t do it, but I don’t know if I believe her.”

  “What about the other girls? Danika and Anya and Zoe?”

  I shrug. “They go along with whatever Melissa says.”

  “Right.” Cam frowns, blue eyes narrowing and eyebrows pulling together. I can practically hear the gears turning in her mind. “We can’t let them get to us,” she says. “I mean, you were right, in a way. It’s what the teachers think that matters. They decide who gets invited to stay.”

  If what Melissa is doing is affecting Iako’s dancing, the teachers might not see her potential. “Do you think we should tell Iako? So that she doesn’t take it so personally?”

  She nods. “And Mackenzie and Julie. They’re next, I assume.”

  “I guess so.” A giant fist is squeezing my stomach. “Do we have to tell them about me voting for Iako? It’s not that I’m ashamed of it.” I shake my head, taking back those words. “I mean, of course I am—I feel awful. But I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  “I think she’d understand,” Cam says. “But don’t worry. I won’t say anything.”

  Ten

  Before the lunch break ends, Cam and I find the other new girls sitting together near the entrance steps, and I fill them in on what Melissa and her friends have been doing.

  Julie rips off a chunk of her fruit bar and chews ferociously. “What a total bitch.”

  Mackenzie is sitting in the splits, stretching. Her dark-lashed eyes are huge, her mouth a perfect O. “I can’t believe she’d do that,” she says at last. “It’s so mean.”

  “I don’t understand,” Iako says.

  “Okay,” Cam says. “You know those TV shows? Like Survivor, or—”

  Iako shakes her head. “No, no. I understand this. She voted me off the island. But why? I don’t understand why she does this.”

  “It is horrible,” I say. “But maybe it’s a compliment, Iako. She’s jealous of you.”

  “Jealous? I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “She thinks you are her competition,” I say. “Because you’re a good dancer.”

  “We’re all good dancers,” she says.

  “I know.” I look around at the four girls, noting Julie’s fury, Mackenzie’s wide-eyed indignation, Iako’s puzzled frown, Cam’s resigned expression. “So here’s what I think, okay? Melissa only has as much power as we give her.”

  Cam nods. “It’s what the teachers think that matters. That’s who decides who gets invited to stay.”

  “So we just ignore Melissa, right? We don’t let her get to us.” Julie looks thoughtful. “Actually, maybe we should really ignore her, like she’s doing to Iako. Pretend she doesn’t exist.”

  I shake my head. “No. Then we’re as bad as she is. We’re not going to play her games.”

  Mackenzie swings her legs back together.

  “Got it,” she says. “We stay focused and we dance our best.” Then she grins. “And we beat her and
Edie for the two Claras.”

  * * *

  That evening, Edie’s parents take us out for dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant with a fireplace, red-brick walls with dark wood beams, and white tablecloths. Mr. Harrison orders wine for himself and Edie’s mom, and Shirley Temples for me and Edie. I’ve never had one before. It’s got different-colored fruit juice floating in layers, and a cherry speared on a plastic skewer.

  “We’re celebrating,” Mrs. Harrison says. “Both of you auditioning for Clara! So exciting.”

  Mr. Harrison lifts his glass. “A toast! To two beautiful girls and amazing young dancers.”

  We all clink our glasses together, and my eyes meet Edie’s for a second. I wonder what she is thinking. I take a sip of my drink, which is as sweet as honey. “Thank you,” I say, dropping my eyes to the menu in front of me.

  “Edie’s favorite is the spaghetti and meatballs,” Mr. Harrison says. “Right, Edie?”

  “It used to be,” she says. “When I was about ten.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I say. Actually, it sounds great. I’m starving.

  We make polite conversation while we eat, but it’s strained. I’m sure Edie’s parents can tell that things between the two of us are tense. When I get up to use the washroom, Edie follows me.

  “We have to talk,” she says, leaning against the counter.

  “We do?” I raise my eyebrows. “You ignored me all day.”

  “I know, but it doesn’t have to be like this.” Her eyes meet mine. “If you would apologize to Melissa—”

  I cut her off. “Apologize to her? You’re kidding me.”

  Her cheeks flush. “She’s really mad, Cassandra.”

  “She’s the one who should apologize,” I say. “To me and Iako and Cam.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand plenty,” I say. “Melissa’s crazy, Edie. Either that or she’s just nasty. I don’t get why you don’t stand up to her.”

  “She’s my best friend,” Edie says.

  “So be a friend to her, then. Tell her to quit being such a bully.” I study Edie’s expression, wondering what she’s thinking. “She’s a good dancer,” I say. “She doesn’t need to do this stuff.”

  “I know,” Edie says. There’s a catch in her voice. “Please tell her you’re sorry, Cassandra.”

  “Not a chance,” I say. “The only thing I’m sorry about is not standing up to her earlier.”

  “I don’t know what she’s going to do.” Her shoulders slump. “And I don’t know what she’ll make me do.”

  “She can’t make you do anything,” I say a little scornfully. “You don’t have to go along with her.”

  “Yes, I do,” Edie says. “I’m not like you and Cam.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. Like, not caring what people think.”

  “I care,” I say, surprised.

  She shakes her head. “Maybe. But you didn’t vote for Cam, did you? You just said no. I couldn’t do that. Melissa would be furious.”

  “You’re scared of her? Some friendship.”

  “We’ve been friends since we were ten,” Edie says. “There’s lots about Melissa that you don’t understand.”

  I walk away from her, heading back out the bathroom door. “That’s for sure,” I say over my shoulder.

  Edie is just standing there, staring at herself in the mirror.

  Eleven

  The next few days pass uneventfully. We dance all day—ballet, modern, jazz—and I spend my evenings reading, stretching, practicing. Sometimes I talk to Cam on the phone, or I borrow Edie’s computer and check Facebook or email my friends back home. The audition is getting closer, and although the divide between the new girls and Melissa’s gang is as obvious as ever, nothing awful has happened.

  I start to relax a little. I start to think that maybe Melissa has given up on her scheming.

  And then the poop hits the fan.

  When Edie and I arrive at school on Friday morning, Diana confronts me in the hallway. “Cassandra, come with me to the office, please.”

  “What is it?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”

  “Just come with me.” Diana’s face is grim, her lips set in a thin, straight line.

  I turn to Edie, but she won’t look at me. “What’s wrong?” I ask again, quickening my steps to keep up with Diana as she marches down the hall.

  “I think you know,” she says curtly.

  “But I don’t!” Her coldness—and the unexpectedness of it—feels like a slap to the face. My eyes are stinging, and I have to blink away tears. “I haven’t done anything.”

  She opens the office door and steps back to let me go in ahead of her. Mrs. Hoffman is already there, sitting stiff and straight-backed behind a desk. She gestures for me to take a seat on a couch across from her, and I sink into it, feeling small and scared. Diana perches on the arm of the couch as if she doesn’t want to be any closer to me than she has to.

  “What is going on?” I ask. My heart is racing.

  Mrs. Hoffman takes off her reading glasses and lets them dangle around her neck. Then she turns her laptop around to face me. I lean forward, confused, and start reading what’s on the screen.

  I recognize the image immediately. “The school’s Facebook page?” I say, puzzled. Then I look more closely at where Mrs. Hoffman’s finger is pointing. There’s a post from the ballet school: Congratulations to our dancers who are auditioning for The Nutcracker! Good luck to you all!

  And underneath it, in the comments, is my name. My face. And a comment—apparently my comment: Ya, cuz they’re gonna need it! especially Miss floppy-foot Edie and spaghetti-arms Melissa!! lmao!!

  The air rushes out of my lungs in a whoosh. I can’t catch my breath. “I…that wasn’t…I didn’t…” I can barely form the words in my mouth. Mrs. Hoffman and Diana are both looking at me, their faces grave. “I didn’t write that,” I say. “I wouldn’t ever say that.” For a second, it seems so absurd that it’s almost funny. I can’t believe anyone would think I’d write that.

  “There’s nothing to smile about,” Mrs. Hoffman says coldly.

  “I’m not—I just—it’s so ridiculous! You can’t really believe I’d write that.”

  Diana and Mrs. Hoffman exchange glances and say nothing, and a panicky feeling starts to build in my chest.

  “Honestly,” I say. “It wasn’t me. I swear.”

  “How do you think this happened, then?” Diana asks, and her voice is surprisingly gentle.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “No one knows my password, so I don’t see…unless…”

  “Unless?” She leans closer to me. “Unless what, Cassandra?”

  I’m remembering last night. I borrowed Edie’s computer, tried unsuccessfully to Skype my folks, emailed a friend, checked Facebook. Did I log out? I can’t remember. Would Edie have posted as me, deliberately, to get me in trouble?

  I don’t want to believe it.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But I know I didn’t post that comment. So I don’t know how—but someone else must have done it.” I can’t decide if I should mention Edie or not. I remember her following me to the restaurant bathroom, trying to get me to apologize to Melissa. I don’t know what she’ll make me do, she said.

  I don’t see how anyone other than Edie could have done this—but I don’t know for sure, and I don’t want to accuse her if there’s even a small chance that I’m wrong.

  “Cassandra, please tell the truth,” Mrs. Hoffman puts in. “People make mistakes, but lying only makes matters worse.”

  I start to cry—I can’t help it. “I’m not lying,” I say. “I think I must have forgotten to sign out of Facebook and—well, someone else—posted in my name.” Even as I say it, I know how unlikely it must sound.

  The two of them exchange glances again.

  “I personally think we should withdraw her from the audition,” Mrs. Hoffman says. “At the very least.”

  “No, plea
se,” I say. I wipe the tears from my eyes and try to steady my voice. “I don’t know how this happened, but I swear I didn’t post that comment. I don’t even think that way.”

  Diana looks thoughtful. “I must admit I was surprised when I saw this.” She looks at Mrs. Hoffman. “Cassandra has always seemed supportive of other girls in class.”

  “It is very disappointing behavior,” Mrs. Hoffman says.

  Diana nods. “Yes, it is. Inexcusable behavior.”

  Mrs. Hoffman sighs heavily. “We’ll have to discuss this further and decide on an appropriate consequence,” she says. “In the meantime, I’d suggest that you delete that comment.”

  My face burning, I sign in to Facebook, delete the awful words beside my name and log out again. “I hope no one else has seen it,” I say.

  “So do I,” Diana says. “I suspect you’ll find out soon enough.” She stands up. “Go ahead. You’d better get to class. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Twelve

  I walk through the door and into the dance studio and instantly the movement and chatter stops dead. Nine girls freeze midstretch, mid-sentence, mid-laugh. Nine faces turn toward me. Nine pairs of eyes study my face. The silence hangs in the air like a thick fog. I look at Edie, but she drops her eyes. Beside her, Melissa smirks, eyes hard and challenging. My cheeks are ablaze and I feel a sick rush of shame, as if I really have done something horrible. I lift my chin, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing how upset I am, and walk through the figures like they are statues—this one in the splits, that one lacing a shoe, this one stretching her hamstrings. Gradually they all resume their movement, and I take a spot in the middle of the room, near Cam and Mackenzie. I sit down and take my shoes out of my bag.

  “Cassandra,” Cam whispers, “everyone’s saying you posted something on Facebook. I haven’t seen it, but…” She trails off.

  “I saw it,” Mackenzie says. “The school posted good luck to the girls who were auditioning—and you said we were going to need it.”