Life is Sweet

by Cathy Cassidy

  When Summer was given the place at Rochelle Academy we’d both worked so hard for, I was genuinely pleased for her; she was one of my best friends, and she deserved the chance to shine. I would have been very mean to have begrudged her that. I cried myself to sleep every night for a week, but I would never have shown anyone just how gutted I felt.

  And then Summer dropped out and her place was offered to me.

  ‘I’m so proud of you, Jodie!’ Mum had said. ‘Only the very best young dancers are given this kind of opportunity!’

  I smiled, but deep inside I knew I was second best to Summer, that I always would be.

  ‘Modesty gets you nowhere in this life,’ Sparks says, toasting his toes in front of the woodburner. ‘You can’t just switch off the passion and pretend you don’t care. That’s only half a life, Jodie! You have something special, you know that, don’t you?’

  I look across at Sebastien and he glances over at me, grinning briefly before looking back towards the DVD. I wonder if he knows I think of him in those half-dreaming moments before I sleep, before I wake? I wonder if he cares? He’s a friendly boy, but I don’t think he has a clue who I even am.

  ‘I’m a realist,’ I tell Sparks. ‘Why reach for the moon when you don’t have a skyrocket to get there?’

  ‘I don’t have a skyrocket either,’ he replies. ‘It’s not going to stop me. Today Rochelle Academy … tomorrow the world!’

  I wish I had half his confidence.

  10th November

  Dear Summer,

  I’m sorry that we didn’t get to meet up at half-term. I’m not sure if you actually got my messages? I rang you a few times, but it all sounded kind of crazy and hectic and you never did ring back, so maybe you didn’t get the messages at all. I hope that it’s not because you’re mad at me or anything.

  I spoke to Skye the last time, and she said you were doing fine, just that you were spending a lot of time at the clinic, and if you didn’t have time to see me you would definitely write. I hope you do, and that you’re feeling better, Summer. It’s so odd to think of you being ill – you’ve always been so strong.

  It was weird to be back home – I’ve spent the last six weeks feeling homesick, but after the first few days home I was counting down the time until I went back to Rochelle. It’s hard to explain … it’s the hardest I have ever worked, but I love it. It gets under your skin. Well, I guess you know about that. There’s loads going on in the run-up to Christmas, and this week they’ll be announcing which ballet we’ll be putting on for our first major production, and everyone is working extra hard, hoping to get picked for one of the main roles. I know I don’t have much of a hope, but I’ll give it a go.

  Skye told me you’re with Alfie now; that’s a surprise! Hope it’s going well. I have a bit of a crush on that French boy I told you about, Sebastien. Not sure he even knows I’m alive, but hey … you can’t pick who you fall for, can you?

  I feel a bit silly writing to you and never getting any replies, so if I don’t hear from you this time I’ll leave it a while and catch up with you at Christmas. I’ll be thinking about you, though, promise.

  Love you lots,

  Jodie

  xxx

  3

  I thought that ballet was second nature to me already, but after weeks of daily practice, it becomes as instinctive as breathing. Moves that were challenging to me a couple of months ago come easily now, but my teachers raise the bar higher ever week; they want us to push harder and harder, reach for some impossible, invisible goal. We keep pushing, keep reaching.

  I can feel my body getting leaner, stronger; my muscles ache from hard work, and my toes are bruised from hours and hours of pointe work. At Rochelle Academy, you live and breathe dance. It’s part of the deal.

  And all of us are waiting to find out what the Christmas production will be, and whether we might have a chance of a solo. The first week after half-term, Sylvie Rochelle calls an assembly in Dance Studio One to announce that we will be working on a production of The Nutcracker, to be staged the week before Christmas at the theatre in nearby Plymouth. Every student at the academy will take part.

  I look at Sparks, to my right, his fingers crossed, his face hopeful; Tasha, to my left, chewing her lip. A metre away, Grace is sitting rigid with anxiety, her forehead creased, her eyes bright with a mixture of fear and longing. All around the studio, the students are pensive, wound up, daring to dream that it could be them. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

  I am careful to stay guarded, my face a mask of careless nonchalance. A girl who knows she is second best cannot afford to hope too much, or to care. I am not hoping for a solo … the chorus line will be good enough for me. I am not ready to be centre stage.

  The leading roles go to Annabel, who’ll be playing Clara, and Grace, who gets the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy. When Madame Rochelle tells us that Sparks will be playing the Nutcracker Prince, he lets loose a whoop of pure joy, hugging everyone in sight. The rest of us get smaller roles, short solos from the second act of the ballet when Clara is in the land of the sweets. I’m given the part of ‘Hot Coco’ who does a Spanish flamenco-style solo, and I don’t know whether to be terrified or happy. Naomi, Priya, Niamh, Tasha and some of the others all land similar cameos, and then Madame Rochelle reads out the parts for the younger students who will make up the chorus, doubling up as party guests and snowflakes and mice. Relief rushes through me, joyful, intense; I have a solo, a respectable role, a part worth having. Then the doubts crowd in, sucking all the joy out of the moment. A solo. I’m not ready for this, not brave enough, not good enough. And everyone will see that.

  ‘A-mazing,’ Tasha whispers, beside me. ‘We got solos! How cool?’

  ‘Cool,’ I agree.

  Beside me, Sparks is fizzing with glee and Grace’s face is radiant at the news that she has a major part. I know how much this means to her, and I try to be glad.

  ‘We will begin working on the production tomorrow,’ Sylvie Rochelle says. ‘Well done, everybody – I know you will do your best. For now, mes chéris, you are dismissed!’

  We stand to go, but as I file past Madame Rochelle with Naomi, Tasha and Sparks, she reaches out and touches my arm.

  ‘Jodie?’ she says. ‘I wish to speak with you a moment. You ’ave five minutes?’

  My heart thumps, and my mouth is suddenly dry; is something wrong? Am I in trouble?

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘No problem …’

  ‘Shall I wait?’ Tasha whispers.

  ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll find you,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  I follow Sylvie Rochelle to the side of the studio as the last of the students leave. I have attended ballet lessons every day for six weeks with her; she is a strict and exacting teacher, but inspiring. She looks at each one of us and sees our strong and weak points. Has she seen mine?

  She smoothes back her neat, greying hair, tilts her elegant chin. Her blue eyes, sharp and bright, seem to see right into my soul.

  ‘I ’ave been watching you very carefully, Jodie,’ she says. ‘You show great skill and promise in classical ballet, yet all the time I feel there is something … missing?’

  Fear closes my throat. Something missing? I am dancing for hours each day, pushing myself harder than I ever have before; if something is missing, I’m not sure it is within my power to find it. Will my stay at Rochelle Academy be over so soon?

  ‘Jodie?’ she says gently, and my name sounds alien, exotic, in her strong French accent. ‘Do you understand what I am saying? At the auditions,
back in August, I felt you were holding something back. That is why we did not offer you a place to begin with; I sense the same … how should I say, reserve … in the way you dance now. Technically, I cannot fault you. You do what I ask of you – work hard … yet somehow, still, you are holding back. I need my students to dance with their heart and soul, not just with their bodies. You ’ave to want this, Jodie. You ’ave to want it more than anything else in the world. When you do that, the magic begins.’

  ‘I am trying my best,’ I argue.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Sylvie Rochelle says. ‘I think you are playing safe. I want you to take some risks, open up, show me that you have something to give!’

  ‘Yes, Madame Rochelle,’ I whisper.

  I turn away, holding my shoulders back, my head high. I put every ounce of energy I have into making sure I look calm as I walk carefully out of there; I will not let her see my tears. The trouble is, in a boarding school, there is nowhere to run to if you want to be alone. I share my bedroom with three other girls, and I have never seen the common room with less than half a dozen people in it. Even the bathroom is no escape – if you’re in there too long someone comes along and starts hammering on the door, I kid you not.

  At Rochelle Academy, when you want some space, there is only one option.

  I walk along the corridor and push through the heavy oak front door, run down the steps and out across the frost-rimed grass. There’s an old summer house half hidden behind a stand of willow trees down beside the river: the doors hanging off, the paint peeling on the veranda – the wood beneath weathered to a silvery grey. Some of the other students must know about it too because inside, in the corner, there’s an old wicker chair and a blanket with chocolate wrappers, banana skins and squashed-up Coke cans littered around it.

  It’s not my private place, I know, but I have never seen anyone else here. It’s where I come when I want to be alone.

  I make it as far as the steps before the tears come, sliding down my cheeks, hot and salty and bitter. I sink down on to the steps and wrap my arms round my body, gasping and shaking as the sobs rack through me. Sylvie Rochelle thinks I am holding back. That’s crazy – why would I hold back? I am giving everything I have, and still it’s not enough.

  The truth is that Sylvie Rochelle has seen through me, seen that I am second best, not good enough.

  It’s only as the tears begin to subside that I realize I am still dressed in leotard, tights, leg warmers, wraparound cardi and pointe shoes, and that I’m achingly cold.

  Could it get any worse?

  It could. It really, really could.

  ‘Hey,’ a voice says behind me, and someone drapes a jacket round my shoulders, thick and warm and heavy.

  A boy sits down beside me on the ramshackle steps, dark hair falling across his face.

  Sebastien.

  4

  I drag the sleeve of my cardi across my eyes to blot away the tears. My sleeve comes away damp and streaked with eyeliner. I bury my head against my knees. If I count to ten, will Sebastien go away?

  Apparently not.

  When I look up, he’s still there, his face kind and concerned, his corduroy jacket with the badges all over one lapel still hanging round my shoulders.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ I ask, my voice still wobbly and thick with tears.

  ‘Long enough,’ he says. ‘I came out here after Sylvie announced the cast list. Well done on the solo, by the way. I am playing the Mouse King. Lucky me!’

  ‘It’s not a bad part,’ I say.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says with a Gallic shrug. ‘I guess it proves that I do not get, what do you say – special treatment for being Sylvie’s godson, as some of the students may think. She is scrupulously fair and honest, no?’

  ‘Too honest, sometimes,’ I blurt out, suddenly angry. ‘She just told me I am holding something back, not giving enough to my dancing. What more does she want? Blood?’

  The minute I say the words, I wish I could take them back. I don’t even know this boy, yet I’ve shown him how hopeless, how insecure I am. Worse still, I have criticized Sylvie Rochelle – a world-class ballerina, principal of our dance school … and, oh yes … Sebastien’s godmother.

  I wish the ground would open and swallow me up.

  Sebastien laughs. ‘This is what has upset you? Ah, Jodie, Sylvie will push you hard. She sees something in you, something special, and she will not rest until everybody else sees it too!’

  ‘I don’t mean to be negative about your godmother,’ I say. ‘She’s amazing, obviously. An awesome teacher. But to be totally honest, I don’t think she actually sees anything in me. I think she’s sorry she gave me a place here.’

  The French boy frowns. ‘No … I do not think so. My godmother, she does not make mistakes.’

  ‘She made one with me,’ I tell him. ‘I auditioned with a friend from my old dance school, a really gifted dancer. She was given this place, but then she got sick and couldn’t take it. Sylvie Rochelle didn’t choose me, not really; I’m second choice.’

  If there is one way to make an impression on the boy you’ve been crushing on, it’s to spill your guts and show him how needy, how insecure you are. That and the tear-stained face should do it. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut?

  It’s too late, of course; the floodgates have opened, and all my doubts and fears have come tumbling out, stark, ugly, embarrassing.

  Sebastien frowns. ‘You carry this doubt with you all the time?’ he asks. ‘This fear that you are not supposed to be here? Trust me, Jodie, my godmother does not take “second best” dancers; this I can promise you.’

  I pull the jacket a little closer, shivering.

  ‘She didn’t choose me,’ I repeat. ‘I was a last-minute substitute. How do you think that makes me feel?’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Not good,’ he guesses. ‘This is how I feel too – I would not be here if Sylvie was not my godmother. I am a good dancer, good enough to make the grade, but Sylvie felt – and I agreed – I might be better studying at home in Paris. There was a dance school specializing in contemporary dance I would have loved to go to. Do you think I wanted to leave my home, my friends, to move to another country? This was not my choice, nor Sylvie’s – it was my mother’s.’

  I look sideways at Sebastien; suddenly he looks less self-assured, less confident. Something vulnerable, uncertain, flickers behind his dark blue eyes.

  ‘How come?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘It suits my mother to get me out of the way for a while. She is divorced, and lately she has been seeing a new man. Having a teenage son around all the time did not suit her, so I am here, out of the way.’

  ‘But … you don’t want to be here?’

  ‘I am not stupid,’ he says. ‘Sylvie is one of the best teachers in Europe. Training with her will open doors for me one day. And Sylvie has a soft heart and believes that a good dancer can become a brilliant dancer if he – or she – is willing to give his heart and soul. I’m here because I am lucky enough to have Sylvie as a godmother, and perhaps I should be ashamed of that, but I am not – just the opposite. I will work and work until I make her proud that she took a chance on me! I will prove that I am worth taking a risk for!’

  I blink. One or two of the more gossipy students have speculated that Sebastien was here because of his family connections, but you would never guess it to see him dance. He is good, as good as anyone – and he works really hard. Maybe that’s why – because he has something to prove?

  Our eyes meet, and a spark of connection flares between us. I am aware of my smudged eyeliner, my eyes pink from crying, my hair
coming adrift from its bun and hanging down around my face in unruly ringlets. Sebastien looks right back at me, taking all of this in. I find myself wondering what it would be like to stretch out my fingers, trace the contours of his perfect cheekbones, and then I blush crimson at the very thought.

  I drag my eyes away, try to focus on what he’s just told me.

  ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t realize!’

  He frowns and looks out through the canopy of willows, across the frosted grass towards the golden stonework of the academy.

  ‘It is not so bad,’ he tells me. ‘My mother – she loves me, and she believes she is doing this for the best. It’s just that it has turned out to be the best for her, not for me. I do not talk about this to anyone at the dance school, Jodie, you understand?’

  ‘I won’t say anything,’ I promise.

  ‘It is not so bad,’ he says. ‘I enjoy the contemporary dance lessons very much. Joe Nash is an amazing teacher.’

  ‘I know,’ I agree. ‘He’s cool. I’m a bit out of my depth in his classes, though!’

  ‘It is new to you … that is to be expected,’ he says.

  We sit for a while in silence; me huddled in the corduroy jacket, Sebastien leaning back on the old steps, thoughtful.

  ‘I think it is it true, what Sylvie said,’ he says at last. ‘You hold back, a little, with your dancing. What are you afraid of?’

  ‘Nothing!’ I protest.

  But I’m not sure this is the truth. I am afraid of rejection, for starters – I have been knocked back before, first at the Royal Ballet School auditions when I was ten, and then here. In between I have lived with the casual assumption of everyone back home that Summer was the star, the one destined for the top. Having such a talented friend is hard. I was glad for her, always, and very proud; but sometimes I wished people could see past her dazzle, and maybe, just maybe, notice me.