‘I’m staying here, stupid,’ she says. ‘The party’s just starting! I’ll sleep on the sofa. Anthony won’t mind …’
Just like he doesn’t mind her using his house as party central while she flirts with every cute boy in a five-mile radius, I think, but I daren’t say the words out loud. Sometimes I think my sister has a cruel streak.
‘Honey,’ I plead. ‘Grandma Kate will worry …’
‘Not if you tell her I’m staying at a friend’s,’ Honey says crisply. ‘Coco’s sleeping at a mate’s house, why not me? Just don’t tell her it’s a boy-mate!’
I bite my lip. ‘Please don’t make me lie for you!’
‘Don’t think of it as lying,’ she says smoothly. ‘More as doing me a favour. And in return … well, I won’t mention how you’re on some kind of starvation diet. Seriously, Summer, did you think nobody would notice? What are you playing at?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
‘I bet you don’t,’ Honey says, grabbing on to my wrist to stop me walking away. ‘Well, fine. We’ll talk about it with Grandma Kate instead …’
‘Don’t tell her,’ I beg. ‘Honey, please … it’s just for another week, until the audition.’
‘It had better be,’ my sister says. ‘Or I’ll be ringing Mum in Peru to tell her what you’re doing. You’re crazy, Summer! You don’t need to lose weight – you’re a twig already. You’ll make yourself ill!’
‘You don’t understand!’
Honey’s face is cold. ‘No, I don’t,’ she says. ‘Summer, I’m not going to stay quiet about this for long, so get your act together. I won’t mention your stupid diet and you’ll tell Grandma Kate I’m staying with a friend. Deal?’
Her fingers dig into my wrist, but I break away and run through the darkened garden towards Skye and Finch.
‘Is she coming?’ my twin asks.
I shake my head, and Skye bites her lip. Honey is skidding off the rails again, and there’s nothing we can do about it. My big sister has led me into a trap, one I can’t wriggle out of.
I can’t quite shake off the feeling of betrayal.
23
The next day I make strawberry cupcakes while Grandma Kate works alongside me, making steak pie. Baking is a kind of self-torture, a punishment. I know I cannot allow myself to eat the cupcakes, but there is a strange pleasure to be had from measuring out the ingredients for the sponge, spooning the batter into pretty cupcake cases, breathing in the warm, sweet aroma as they bake. I beat butter and sugar and vanilla essence together to make the frosting and pipe it carefully on, topping each one with a strawberry half.
My belly growls and my mouth waters, but I do not weaken. Last night I lied for Honey, and Grandma Kate didn’t question me. I wish it hadn’t been so easy.
My big sister slopes home at two in the afternoon with a bunch of hedgerow flowers she’s picked along the lane, charming Grandma Kate in a heartbeat.
‘Thank you, Honey!’ she says, taking the flowers. ‘You girls … it’s such a treat to have this time with you, it really is! And you’ve been no trouble. Although it would be lovely if you could let me know first if you’re planning to stay over with a friend, Honey, just so I know exactly where you are …’
‘I’m so sorry, Grandma Kate,’ Honey says, wide-eyed. ‘I didn’t think …’
‘Well. No harm done …’
Honey shoots me a smug look and scoops up a cupcake, biting into warm yellow sponge and thick pink buttercream. I shudder. The cake is beautiful, perfect, deadly. I realize I am actually afraid of it.
‘Want some?’ she challenges me, waving the cake in front of my face. ‘You made them, aren’t you going to eat one?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I was going to take a book out to the hammock … and a cake.’
Honey laughs. ‘But will you eat it?’ she asks slyly. ‘Or will you just feed it to Fred? He’s been getting a little bit chubby lately, don’t you think, Grandma Kate? As if someone’s been giving him extras?’
If I had the courage, I’d reach out and slap Honey. Maybe I am feeding my food to Fred the dog, but that’s my business, nobody else’s.
‘He looks just the same as always,’ I say through gritted teeth.
‘If you say so,’ Honey shrugs, taking a second cupcake.
‘Don’t spoil your appetite,’ I snap. ‘We’ve got steak pie for tea, and there’ll be chips …’
‘Is Grandma Kate feeding you up?’ Honey asks, fixing me with a dark look. ‘About time. All that gorgeous flaky pastry and juicy steak. If you actually eat it, that is!’
‘Of course she’ll eat it!’ Grandma Kate says. ‘She’s been helping me, haven’t you, Summer? It’ll be a real feast!’
Honey just raises one eyebrow, and I glare at her.
‘We had a deal, remember?’ I hiss when Grandma Kate’s back is turned.
Honey laughs. ‘My lips are sealed!’
Hurt twists inside me, raw and ugly. I love my big sister, but lately, I do not understand her. She is beautiful and funny and kind and clever, but she has a darker side too, a side that is mean and crazy and cruel. Right now, I don’t know how to handle that. It feels far worse than anything Aaron could say to me, worse than any criticisms Miss Elise could offer. It cuts me to the bone.
I know Honey’s still hurting about Mum and Dad’s split – she’s made that clear, right from the start. But she acts like she’s the only one who cares, and that’s not fair. It’s just that some of us keep the feelings hidden.
With Mum away, Honey is out of control again. She is pushing at the boundaries, pushing her luck. And this time, instead of Cherry or Paddy, or Mum – she’s got it in for me.
By teatime, I am in my room, running through my barre exercises with one hand on the window sill. I told Grandma Kate that I wasn’t hungry, that my head was hurting, my stomach aching, and both are actually true. My head hurts with the stress of trying to hide my food choices from people who won’t understand; from pleasing Miss Elise, being ready for the audition; from trying to look as though life is good when actually it’s crumbling away beneath my feet. My stomach aches because I am hungry, and because fear and anxiety churn around inside me endlessly.
I’d like to curl up under the duvet and sleep and sleep until the whole mess goes away, but I can’t give up now.
Just a little more, the voice in my head cajoles. You can do it, I know you can.
The voice is encouraging for once, even though it is encouraging me to do something that hurts, exhausts. Still, I can’t help trying to gain its approval. I go on dancing until the light fades, until I am too exhausted to stand.
24
At dance class on Sunday, Jodie watches me warily, like I have a terminal illness or something. She arrives early, like me, to practise before our lesson with Miss Elise, and catches me pulling on my leotard.
Her eyes register shock, concern, but I’m not fooled. Jodie is jealous. She can see I have lost weight, and it’s a threat to her. She’d do anything to stop me losing more because it makes her look bad … and because she knows that if Sylvie Rochelle has to make a choice between a curvy girl and a slim one, she would have to choose the slim one.
Wouldn’t she?
The trouble is I haven’t quite lost enough. My thighs still seem huge in the regulation white tights and my hips and bum are as big as ever. Too big.
I pull on the big T-shirt I wear to practise, over the top of my leotard. Miss Elise is strict about us sticking to the regulation leotard and tights during class, but for the extra lessons she is more relaxed. It’s what we are doing, not how neatly we are dressed, that matters here.
‘Summer?’ Jodie says, but I turn my face away.
I never imagined the two of us would fall out, especially not over something like this. Sacrifices … I didn’t think that would include my friends.
I walk through to the studio and start on my barre work, and by the time I’ve moved on to the dance itself I’m so absorbed I b
arely notice that Jodie hasn’t come through. Well, good. I hope she feels bad about the way she’s acting. She should.
Today I will tell Miss Elise that I have changed my mind about helping at the summer dance sessions next week. I feel bad about it, but I will need every single minute of practice before the audition if I am going to be good enough. Surely Miss Elise will understand?
Jodie and Sushila finally come in, and then Miss Elise is there, taking us through our paces. She watches me carefully, through narrowed eyes. She doesn’t comment, but I know I am dancing better than last time. I put every scrap of energy and feeling into it, and the stress and confusion of the last few weeks retreat. This is why I dance, why it matters so much to me. I need it the way I need air to breathe.
‘Good girl, Summer,’ Miss Elise says. ‘Your expressive dance is getting there. Better. Much better.’ After class, she calls me over.
‘How are you coping?’ she asks. ‘All set for the audition?’
I grin. ‘I can’t wait,’ I tell her. ‘I am working hard, Miss Elise, I promise you. I won’t let you down.’
The teacher frowns. ‘I misjudged things a little last time,’ she says. ‘I suggested you weren’t taking things seriously, working hard enough. I can see that you are. I’m wondering now if perhaps you’re pushing yourself a little too hard?’
‘Too hard?’ I echo, as if I don’t quite understand the concept. I am not sure I do. The harder you work, the better you are, surely?
‘You’re using the studio here a lot more than usual, I know,’ she says. ‘We’re very close to that audition now, Summer. You’re step-perfect, and I want to make sure you keep the freshness, the energy I know you’re capable of.’
‘Right …’
‘So I want you to ease up on the practice,’ Miss Elise says. ‘Next week, the younger pupils are in for the summer sessions, and you said you’d help. You’re so good with the little ones, Summer. I’d need you here all day, nine till four, looking after one of the groups …’
I panic. All of that time I could be practising, wasted … does Miss Elise want me to fail?
‘Saturday’s audition day!’ I protest. ‘Shouldn’t I be focusing on that? I don’t mind helping for a couple of hours a day, but …’
Miss Elise sighs. ‘It would do you good to concentrate on something else for a while,’ she says. ‘Step back a little – get things into perspective.’
Perspective?
‘Please?’ Miss Elise persists. ‘I was relying on you. And Jodie’s helping …’
Well, Jodie would. How can I refuse, after all the time Miss Elise has spent on extra lessons? I fix on a smile. ‘Fine, I’ll do it. No problem.’
‘One more thing,’ Miss Elise says quietly. ‘Some of your classmates seem to be worried about you, and now that I’m aware of it I’m concerned too. Your energy levels are very up and down lately. Have you been dieting?’
Anger bubbles up inside me. Jodie. Jealous, spiteful Jodie has been talking to Miss Elise – that’s why she didn’t come into the studio straight away. I tilt my chin, defiant.
‘I’m eating well,’ I tell her. ‘I’m being careful – making healthy choices – that’s all! What’s wrong with that?’
Miss Elise sighs. ‘You’ve lost weight, Summer; anyone can see that.’
Pride swells inside me, and a smile pulls at my lips. If Miss Elise can see it, Sylvie Rochelle will see it too.
‘Promise me you’ll stop this nonsense,’ she says. ‘Don’t let me down.’
‘I won’t,’ I promise.
Lately, though, I am finding that promises slip through my fingers like shards of melting ice, breaking into little pieces at my feet.
As it turns out, helping out at the summer school is not as bad as I imagined. My job is to take ten small girls in pink leotards from class to class, sampling jazz, ballet, tap and musical theatre. By the end of the week they will have learnt three new dances and an extract from a musical, complete with song.
On the first day, the kids swarm round me asking questions, begging for help with their hair or their shoes. I envy them their innocence. Back when I was seven or eight, I was just as bright-eyed. I had confidence and security, I knew where I belonged. My twin sister knew everything there was to know about me, and Mum was still married to Dad. I knew I was going to be a ballerina one day, up there on stage at the Royal Opera House, and I didn’t even question it or think about how hard it might be to make it happen.
It’s funny how things change. Confidence seeps away, families fall apart, twin sisters fall in love and don’t have time for you any more. A dream can turn into a nightmare.
I don’t say this to the kids, of course.
‘Dance is a little bit of magic,’ I tell them instead. ‘It’s as old as the human race. It’s a way of saying things without words, of expressing ourselves, responding to the music. You need to work hard, though, to make the magic happen!’
‘We will!’ the kids promise.
One girl curls her hand round mine, peering up at me with wide green eyes. ‘My name is Fern,’ she says solemnly. ‘When I’m grown up, I want to be just like you …’
No, you don’t, I think. You really, really don’t.
At breaktime I take them down to the dance school cafe for juice and biscuits and fruit; I pick at strawberries while they crunch on chocolate-chip cookies, and I remember the days when I had never heard of calories. I wish I could go back to that time.
At lunchtime the little ones sit down to sandwiches and crisps and ice cream. I have my own lunch: lettuce and tomatoes and tuna, a few segments of orange, a glass of water.
‘Don’t you want ice cream?’ Fern asks, eyes wide. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No … it’s just … I’m trying to stay slim,’ I explain awkwardly. ‘I have a big audition on Saturday, for a really brilliant ballet school.’
Fern frowns. ‘And … you can’t eat ice cream any more?’ she asks. ‘I don’t understand. Because you’re thin already, ever so thin, Summer. You’re just like a real ballerina!’
‘Thank you,’ I say, my cheeks flushing with pleasure. I hope the teachers on Saturday agree.
Fern pushes her ice cream away, unfinished. ‘I’d like to be thin too,’ she says, looking down at her round little-girl tummy in the tight pink leotard, and I feel sick with shame.
‘You’re perfect just the way you are!’ I argue. ‘I promise. All of you are perfect! Eat up that ice cream!’
I push the dish back towards her, and she caves in instantly and scoops up a huge spoonful, laughing with her friends. What kind of a person am I, making a little girl feel like she can’t eat ice cream? I would never want her to feel like she wasn’t as good as anyone else. I would never want her to feel the way I feel inside, heavy, hopeless, hungry for something I can never have.
Across the dance school cafe, I watch Jodie sitting with her team, laughing as she decorates her ice cream with squiggles of sauce and sugar sprinkles. I shudder, but a part of me envies Jodie. She is chatting and smiling and eating ice cream, and I cannot honestly say that she looks big at all, just slim and pretty and happy. She looks at me and smiles, but I freeze out her grin with a frosty glare.
You don’t need her, the voice in my head insists. Look at her, stuffing her face! It’s disgusting!
I push my Tupperware box of salad away.
25
At four o’clock, when the workshops end and the kids are collected by mums, dads and grannies, I head for the senior ballet studio to put in some practice on my expressive dance.
Every step is perfect, every move smooth and streamlined. I dance and stretch and whirl and leap, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot lose myself in the music. I feel as though I am going through the motions, following a formula I know off by heart. I could do this dance in my sleep, yet I cannot bring it to life. The harder I try, the further away the magic seems to be.
Will the judges notice at my audition on Saturday? They are looking
for perfection, technical excellence, and I think I can deliver that. They are also looking for something extra – potential, expression, emotion, life. I used to be able to do that too, but lately, those qualities have deserted me.
No wonder I am afraid. My dream of becoming a dancer is turning into a nightmare.
By the time I come out of the final spin in my last dance, I am exhausted, shaking with the effort of trying to push past ‘perfect’ and find my spark.
‘Summer?’
Miss Elise’s voice cuts into my thoughts, and I turn to see my teacher standing in the studio doorway. She doesn’t look impressed. ‘This just isn’t you,’ she says. ‘Like I said last week, you’re working too hard. I can’t fault you technically, but … something’s been lost.’
My heart feels as if it is breaking in two. Miss Elise sees the look on my face and sighs. ‘I’m sorry, Summer.’ She moves towards me and slips an arm round my shoulders, comforting, kind, but abruptly I feel her recoil. I see shock run through her, and something like revulsion.
‘Oh, Summer,’ she says. ‘You’re skin and bone! Would you take off the T-shirt? You’ve been hiding away under that thing for weeks now.’
I bite my lip. I really don’t want to take off the T-shirt because then Miss Elise will see that even if I have lost some weight, I still have a lot more to go. I cross my arms around my body, awkward, defensive.
‘The T-shirt?’ she prompts.
Turning away, I peel it off and stand huddled in my leotard. I feel like a beached whale, exposed, heavy, hopeless.
‘Good grief,’ Miss Elise says. ‘You’re wasting away …’
I see the shock in her eyes, hear the words, but all I can feel is a tidal wave of elation. I am in control. I’ve spent the last few weeks starving, my belly aching with hunger, mouth watering as my sisters tucked into strawberry cupcakes and pizza and cheesecake, without tasting so much as a mouthful myself. I have proved that I am strong, determined. I have changed the way I look, and it shows.
3: Chocolate Box Girls: Summer's Dream Page 11
