Life is Sweet

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Maybe I do keep a little bit of myself back,’ I admit. ‘It’s not a crime, is it? I’m not really one of life’s risk-takers!’

  ‘Perhaps you should be,’ he says. ‘It is fun! I think you can be a risk-taker, Jodie. Like me.’

  I shake my head. ‘My friend Summer – the girl who got ill – she was the kind of dancer who took risks, gave everything. Look what happened to her! She burnt out, got eaten up by it all …’

  ‘What kind of ill?’ he wants to know, and I tell him, even though I’ve never told the details to anyone before, not Sparks, not Naomi, not Tasha, not even my parents back home. I don’t know why it feels OK to tell Sebastien, but it does, somehow. It feels right. I explain how the pressure pushed Summer over the edge and into the arms of an eating disorder, how she ended up losing herself, losing her love of ballet, losing her whole future.

  ‘Scary,’ he says. ‘I hope your friend gets well again, but what happened – it wasn’t your fault, Jodie. You got this place because you are good. My godmother offered you a scholarship place. She thinks you have something special … and she wants to see it in your dancing.’

  ‘She’s asking too much,’ I say. ‘Lots of dancers work hard and focus on skills and technique. Can’t that be enough? Why does Sylvie want more from me?’

  ‘Because she sees more in you,’ Sebastien says, simply. ‘I know she does because I see it too … there is so much hidden with you, Jodie Rivers. So much going on beneath the surface.’

  He stands abruptly, shivering without his jacket in the cold, reaching out a hand to pull me to my feet.

  I like the feel of his hand in mine, and I think he likes it too. We stay that way all the way back to the school, and by then I don’t think I will ever want to let go.

  15th December

  Dear Jodie,

  I know this isn’t quite what you wanted, but I happened to find one of your letters to Summer a while ago and I wanted to get in touch. I know she hasn’t written to you, but your letters mean the world to her, I promise. She reads and re-reads them, then folds them away and stores them in her desk. I think those little glimpses into life at dance school are like gold dust for her.

  Summer is OK … wobbling a little right now, I think, but the doctors say that the run up to Christmas is often a difficult time for someone who has anorexia. In case you are wondering, I did pass on your message when you called at half-term, but things were a little hectic here (as usual) and Summer felt a bit anxious about meeting up. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Honey has messed up one time too many and the fallout here has been pretty full-on. Honey’s gone to stay with Dad in Sydney for a while, and that’s upset Summer loads, as you can imagine.

  So, yeah … all a bit chaotic here. A bit sad too. Still, we’re getting ready for Christmas and that’s cool, and Summer says she’d love to see you while you’re home, if you’d like to. I hope you can. I bet you’ll be able to cheer her up better than anybody.

  anyhow, hope you don’t mind me writing … just wanted to fill you in on what’s happening with Summer. Let me know when you’re home, and when you might be free to meet up!

  See you soon,

  Skye

  oxox

  5

  The Mad Hatter Cafe is bright with tinsel and fairy lights, a glittering oasis in the quiet dark of Kitnor High Street. There’s a bite of cold in the air, the threat of snow to come. My dad drops me off with a promise to return in an hour, and I watch his car drive away with a sinking feeling. Will meeting up with Summer really cheer her up, as Skye hopes, or will it make things worse? It can’t be easy, catching up with your old friend to listen to stories of the dance school life you were supposed to be leading, can it?

  I push open the door to the cafe and step into the warmth, and right away I see Summer and Skye sitting at a table in the corner. I wave and walk across to join them, slipping into a seat opposite Summer. The twins have drinks already, a diet Coke for Summer, a hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows for Skye. The waitress comes over and I order a hot chocolate and a cupcake iced to look like a reindeer’s face, complete with red-nose cherry.

  ‘I’m not staying,’ Skye says, scooping up a spoonful of melted marshmallows. ‘I’m helping out with the costumes for the village pantomime … I need to be there in five minutes. I just wanted to say hi, that’s all …’

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘The costumes thing sounds great!’

  ‘It is,’ Skye says, draining her hot chocolate. ‘Look, I’d better go – have fun, you two!’

  She stands up, shrugging on a red wool coat with a black velvet collar, and sweeps out of the cafe with a grin and a wave. Suddenly, the easy chat is replaced by silence, shyness. I notice how frail Summer is looking, her skin so pale it looks translucent, blue shadows streaked beneath her eyes.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ I say. ‘I’ve missed you like mad.’

  Summer smiles, but it’s a sad smile.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t written,’ she says. ‘I love your letters. They almost make me feel like I’m there … and then I remember that I’m not, and it makes me feel so sad.’

  I bite my lip. ‘I can imagine. It must be really hard. I wish you were there too; it’d be amazing! You’d absolutely love the place … It’s so pretty, a real Victorian mansion. The dorms are really cute. They’re all painted different pastel colours … Ours is baby blue, but Grace hates it and she’s campaigning to be allowed to paint it pink …’

  I am gabbling, I know, but I feel anxious, awkward, keen to fill the silence with something, anything. Summer reaches out and touches my hand.

  ‘It’s OK, y’know,’ she tells me. ‘I’m not mad at you, Jodie. I’m glad you’re at the academy. I wish I could have gone, but I couldn’t, and knowing you’re there is the next best thing. Tell me all about it … everything! Is Sylvie Rochelle very strict? How was the Christmas production? Do you love it, Jodie? Tell me everything … and what’s all this about boys?’

  I laugh, and the tension lifts as I explain all about the dance classes: the classical ballet, the character classes, the contemporary dance classes, which I am starting to love more and more. I tell her about dancing my short solo in The Nutcracker, about Naomi and Tasha and Sparks and how Grace drives me nuts sometimes with her fussing and her fretting and the shelf full of soft toys she has above her bed.

  ‘So … Sparks is just a friend?’ Summer checks.

  ‘Definitely,’ I insist. ‘He’s funny and outrageous and hugely talented. He’ll be famous one day, I’m sure of it …’

  ‘No romance, then?’

  ‘Well … there is Sebastien,’ I confess. ‘The French boy I told you about, Sylvie Rochelle’s godson. He’s really good-looking and he has the coolest accent I have ever heard in my life, and … well, I like him. We’re sort of going out …’

  I flick open my phone and find a few Instagram pictures of Sebastien looking cool and French and moody.

  ‘Wow,’ Summer says. ‘He’s gorgeous!’

  ‘He really is,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what he sees in me at all!’

  Summer rolls her eyes. ‘Silly,’ she pronounces. ‘He sees a sweet, clever, kind girl who doesn’t have a clue how beautiful she is, or how talented. I’m so happy for you. Don’t you see, Jodie? You were meant to go to Rochelle Academy so you’d meet Sebastien; and I was meant to stay here, so I could be with Alfie …’

  ‘Alfie Anderson?’ I check. ‘You’re still together?’

  ‘Sure we are,’ she says. ‘He keeps me sane. Well, sane-ish. I am glad for you, Jodie, hon
estly; you deserve to meet a nice boy, and you deserve to be at Rochelle Academy.’

  I pick at my reindeer-face cupcake, unable to meet her eye.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘You’re not still feeling guilty, are you? Because I’m happy for you, I truly am …’

  I should just smile and nod and pretend it’s all OK, but the truth seeps out in spite of my good intentions. ‘You don’t understand,’ I whisper. ‘It’s hard, really hard. You don’t know what it’s like to be second best the whole time, to know you’re not anybody’s first choice …’

  ‘No, no, you mustn’t think that way!’ Summer argues. ‘It’s fate, a chance to grab your dream, Jodie. Give it all you’ve got!’

  I shake my head. ‘Madame Rochelle thinks I am holding back,’ I tell her. ‘Keeping something back from my dancing. Sebastien thinks so too, and maybe I am, I don’t know. I’m scared, Summer. What if I do put everything I have into this and it’s still not enough?’

  Summer shrugs. ‘What if it IS enough? What are you actually scared of, Jodie? Failing? Or … well, maybe the opposite?’

  I frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  She sips her diet Coke. ‘It’s just that … well, ever since I’ve known you, you’ve held back a little. You always let me take the lead, have the limelight, even if it meant stepping back a little yourself. I used to wonder if you just quite liked being on the sidelines. You’ve always been so sensible, so relaxed about it all, like you didn’t really mind one way or another whether you got a leading role or a place at Rochelle Academy. I didn’t really question it, but … well, it was self-defence, wasn’t it? If you didn’t put yourself on the line, you couldn’t feel too bad if things didn’t work out.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I’m just the cautious type, right?’

  ‘Or maybe you just take the easy way out,’ Summer says, and I flinch at her words because there’s truth in them, whether I want to admit it or not. ‘Thing is, Jodie, if you mess up and waste this opportunity I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. It’s what we’ve both dreamt of for as long as I can remember. I’ve blown it, but you haven’t – you still have everything to play for. Don’t wimp out, OK? Give it all you’ve got. Heart and soul.’

  Relief floods through me, hope taking hold again after the longest time. I can’t stop smiling. It will be New Year’s Eve in just over a week, and I know already what my resolution will be.

  Heart and soul – that simple, that life-changing.

  And, just as simply, my friendship with Summer patches itself up, good as new. All the awkwardness and tension that crowded in when she began to get ill, the guilt that swamped me when I was given a place at the academy, the polite, one-way letters – all of that is wiped away.

  Outside, fat white flakes of snow are beginning to fall … a white Christmas.

  We exchange prezzies; a glittery pink scarf for Summer, a silver heart charm bracelet for me. It’s getting late by now, the waitress quietly stacking chairs and wiping tabletops. Outside, I see the glow of headlights as Dad’s car draws up to the kerb.

  We stand, pulling on our coats, paying our bill, and head for the door. Outside in the snowy street we cling together in a lingering hug, and even through her coat I can feel how thin Summer is, just skin and bone, a wisp of a girl who might blow away in the blizzard.

  I no longer feel like I’ve stolen her dreams, her future. Instead, I promise myself I will do everything I can to make the most of the chance I’ve been given. I’ll do it for both of us.

  ‘I’m glad we got to catch up,’ I whisper. ‘You’re amazing, Summer. Get well, OK?’

  ‘I’m trying,’ Summer promises. ‘I’ll write. And remember – heart and soul.’

  I watch her walk along the street, alone in the streetlights, slender, bird-like, picking her way carefully through the freshly fallen snow. We are on different paths these days, Summer and I, but I think our friendship will survive whatever lies ahead.

  5th March

  Dear Summer,

  Thanks for your last letter. I was so glad to hear that Honey’s home, and that you’re starting to feel better. Your Valentine’s Day surprise with Alfie sounded amazing! Sebastien and I had a candlelit picnic in this derelict summer house we know; not quite as cool as your day out, but still pretty awesome.

  Anyway, you asked how things were going and the answer is that, finally, things are going great.

  Heart and soul … that’s my new mantra these days. Madame Rochelle says it’s like having a different person in class, and my contemporary dance tutor, Joe Nash, says I have a rare quality, an intuitive, instinctive talent. Me, Jodie Rivers … who knew? All this time I’ve been pushing and pushing with the classical ballet, but I honestly think contemporary dance might be my thing. I am loving it so, so much!

  It’s all been kind of crazy here and I never seem to have a minute to myself. I don’t mind, though – it’s brilliant. I’m starting to feel like I actually fit in. And last week something really exciting happened … We’re putting on a contemporary dance production called ‘Spring Awakening’ that we’ve created and choreographed ourselves with lots of improvised scenes and dances, and Sebastien and I have the leading roles. I am having to pinch myself every five minutes to remind myself it’s true!

  Me, finally, centre stage!

  Love you lots,

  Jodie

  xxx

  6

  How do you open up and let your feelings show when you’ve spent a whole lifetime hiding them away? It doesn’t happen overnight. It’s about learning to trust, learning to let go of the fear that people will laugh or frown or turn away if they see what lies behind the mask of friendly politeness.

  Love, fear, anger, sorrow … they’re not so scary any more, not now I have stopped burying them and begun to dance them free.

  Music is the key, of course. It connects with a place much deeper than my mind – heart and soul, I guess.

  And now I am listening to the music properly, I dance with everything I have. Even Grace has started to look at me with a new kind of respect.

  In contemporary dance class, I finally understand what I am supposed to be doing; it’s all about feeling the music, reacting, responding, expressing, interpreting. It makes sense now, and I wonder how I ever managed all these years without making the connection. It’s like I have been dancing in my sleep, just going through the motions.

  ‘Excellent, excellent,’ Sylvie Rochelle says, a few weeks into the new term. ‘You have woken up at last! I knew you could do it, Jodie!’

  Joe Nash is even happier. ‘Yes!’ he yells as I partner Sebastien in an improvised dance about waking up from a long winter sleep. ‘Let your body tell the story … it’s your musical instrument, your paint and canvas! Forget about traditional dance moves, forget what they’ve taught you in classical ballet; feel it, live it … Fantastic, Jodie!’

  It’s easy enough to dance a story about waking up from a long sleep, of course, because it’s exactly how I feel. As I dance, I can feel the wonder of it all right down to my fingertips. It’s there in every heartbeat, in every breath I take, and that knowledge is exhilarating.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I ask Sebastien, after class. ‘Why didn’t you say I was doing it all wrong? I’ve wasted years hiding in the shadows, going through the motions, thinking that was enough. Why didn’t somebody TELL me?’

  ‘You weren’t ready to hear,’ Sebastien says.

  Of course, Sebastien had told me, and Sylvie, and even Summer; and in the end I understood. It’s not just true for dance, either. Wha
tever you care about in life, you have to give it everything – heart and soul.

  Joe Nash is working with our class to create a whole story around the theme of coming back to life, and so our Spring Awakening performance is born, with Sebastien and me taking the main roles. Joe is steering the storyline, choosing the music and helping us to create responses that work well, but much of the work is down to us. The result is far less structured than any classical ballet might be; it’s like creating an expressive, abstract painting as opposed to painting by numbers.

  It’s all about freedom, letting go, but instead of making me feel weaker, more vulnerable, it makes me feel stronger than before. It makes me feel like me.

  On the afternoon of the performance, I sit in the communal dressing room at the theatre in Plymouth, dressed in a green tutu with a skirt of layered chiffon, green footless tights and a ragged white velvet cloak hung with ribbons of icy blue satin. Tasha is dabbing my face and arms with a base of soft spring green, then painting on curving tendrils of emerald that spiral round my arms and snake up round my neck to flower on my cheeks.

  ‘You’re a work of art,’ Tasha says. ‘Awesome!’

  I look in the mirror, shaking my hair free from its ponytail. There will be no tightly wound ballerina bun for this production. Naomi backcombs my hair to make it bigger, wilder, and Niamh threads it with green ribbons and tiny flowers.

  It feels strange to be the focus of so much attention; for years I have been a shadow girl, waiting in the wings, keeping out of the limelight. Today, that will change. Today, I will be centre stage.

  The thought pours icy water over my confidence, makes my belly curdle with fear. Is this why I held back for so long? Did I know that fear would unravel me at the last minute? Even my hands are shaking.