I look in the studio mirror. I catch a glimpse of a willowy girl with shadowed blue eyes, pale skin, fair hair pinned in neat braids around her head. She is slender, childlike. You can see her ribs through the stretchy fabric of the leotard; her hip bones jut sharply and her stomach is concave, hollowed out. Then the image changes. The mirror seems to warp as I watch, buckling and rippling like the fairground Hall of Mirrors on the film set.
My heart sinks. The girl staring back at me is huge, loathsome, a fat blob in a leotard. Salty tears roll down my cheeks, one after another, and I don’t seem to be able to stop them.
‘Summer,’ Miss Elise is saying. ‘Can you hear me? You need to start eating. And I want you to stop practising too – I mean it. You’re pushing yourself too hard.’
Don’t listen, don’t listen, don’t listen! the voice inside my head screams.
‘You’ll make yourself ill,’ Miss Elise is saying. ‘I know what you’re doing, and trust me, it’s a very dangerous game.’
‘It’s not a game,’ I whisper.
She sighs. ‘No, it’s really not. But whatever it is, you need to stop it, right now. Do I have to call your mother and discuss all of this with her?’
‘Mum’s in Peru,’ I say flatly.
‘Of course – the honeymoon. Well … your grandma then? Should I be talking to her?’
I take a deep breath in and wipe the tears away. I square my shoulders, look Miss Elise in the eye.
‘I am not dieting,’ I lie. ‘And I’m not ill, I promise you. I’m just a bit stressed about the audition. Perhaps I’ve been exercising too much, cutting out too many treat foods, but only because I want this so much. I really, really do.’
‘I know,’ my teacher says softly. ‘But, Summer, this isn’t the right way to go about it.’
What does she know? the voice in my head rages. She’s trying to stop you, spoil it all …
But Miss Elise is my teacher. She has always supported me, pushed me, encouraged me. She has always told me that she believes in me. Why would she sabotage me now? My head aches with confusion.
‘Summer, you have a very real talent for dance,’ Miss Elise says gently. ‘That’s special. But this pressure … the worry of the audition … you’ve let the stress and worry of it all get to you.’
‘I haven’t!’ I protest. ‘I’m fine!’
The teacher shakes her head. ‘You are a gifted dancer, but I’m not sure that residential ballet school would be the best thing for you at the moment. It’s not right for everyone. It’s a high-stress career, and unless you’re strong …’
‘I am strong!’ I whisper. ‘I can handle it! The pressure, the worry – it’s fine, Miss Elise; it’s just spurring me on to work harder!’
Thoughts race through my head, disastrous, dreadful thoughts. Miss Elise and Sylvie Rochelle are friends. Suppose my dance teacher tells Sylvie Rochelle I am not cut out for a career in dance? Success or failure for me could hinge on her words, her views.
‘I want this scholarship place more than anything!’ I plead. ‘You have to understand! Please don’t tell me it’s not right for me! Don’t tell Sylvie Rochelle I’m not good enough!’
Miss Elise frowns. ‘Of course I’ll support you, and I would never tell Sylvie you weren’t good enough – you are, that’s not in doubt,’ she says. ‘I’m just asking you to think about it some more, that’s all. Is this really what you want? This level of pressure and anxiety, all through your life? Because ballet is not an easy career to follow, Summer.’
‘I know that!’
‘Few dancers are talented enough to make a living from it,’ Miss Elise says. ‘Those that do are signing up for a world of hard work, punishing schedules, rejection. It’s not all bouquets of flowers and feathered tutus, and it’s a very short career, even for the best dancers …’
‘I know all that!’ I repeat. ‘Are you saying I’m not good enough? Are you saying I don’t have what it takes?’
But I don’t hear any more because I am running by then, out of the dance studio, grabbing up my ballet bag, then out of the building. I don’t look back.
26
I turn up as usual the next day because I don’t want to let the little kids down, but I stay away from Miss Elise.
I used to trust her. I used to think she was the coolest person I knew. A few words of praise from her would put me on cloud nine, once upon a time, but now I know what she really thinks. That I am weak, lazy, liable to crack under the pressure of being at dance school. Oh, and fat too, because when she tried to comfort me yesterday there was no way on earth she could have thought I was really ‘skin and bone’. That must have been a cruel joke because I know I am as big as ever.
I blank out the thought and put all my energy into working with the kids. I am getting to know them now, to see their strengths and weaknesses, their personalities, even a little slice of their hopes and dreams. I take extra time with Fern, trying to boost her confidence, helping her with her steps and routines.
In musical theatre, the classes are working towards putting on a performance from Annie. Yesterday the group did drama exercises and warm-ups and today they are singing some of the songs. Fern surprises me by having a sweet, clear voice that grabs the teacher’s attention. ‘Good,’ he tells her. ‘Shoulders back, take a deep breath and let the singing come from deep inside you. Great stuff!’
Fern’s cheeks are pink and she glows with pride.
The next day the group starts to put together a routine around one of the songs, with some dancing and acting and lots of singing. It’s cool to see the routine come together, and encouraging to see that every girl has different strengths. Some are good at acting, some at dance, some at singing. Fern is shy, but when she sings, she shines, and at the end of the lesson the teacher tells her he’s picked her out of all the kids in the summer school groups to take the part of Annie.
Her eyes widen. ‘Really? Me? Are you sure?’
‘Certain,’ I tell her. ‘We need the best person for the job. And that’s you!’
‘I’ll do it then,’ she says, determined. ‘If you think I can.’
As the class file out afterwards, the teacher stops me. I am on my guard at once. Is he about to nag me about my weight too? Has Miss Elise told him to keep an eye on me?
Maybe not.
‘You’re very good with those kids,’ he says. ‘I’m teaching all the groups so I’ve seen the other student helpers, and you’re far and away the best of them. You put so much in. You care. You bring out the best in kids, build their confidence. That’s a talent in itself, you know. Thanks!’
‘Oh … no worries,’ I reply. ‘It’s fun.’ And I realize that it is.
This week really has given me something else to think about apart from the audition. It’s always there, of course, looming at the back of my mind, but just for a while, each day, I get to focus on the good stuff about dance, not the stressy stuff. I get to remember why I loved it so much.
Correction: why I still do love it so much.
Once I am back at Tanglewood, though, the panic starts. I don’t trust Miss Elise’s judgement any more, but still, I am afraid to disobey her. I can’t risk messing up my audition.
Forbidden from practising, I am going stir-crazy. I make a quiche laden with cheese and cream and two trays of chocolate brownies that smell like heaven. I do not take a single bite. I mop the hallway and kitchen, tidy the living room and generally bug Grandma Kate. ‘You’ll wear yourself out,’ she warns me. ‘That’s no good – Saturday’s your big day, remember?’
As if I could forget.
You’ll fail, the voice in my head tells me. You haven’t worked hard enough. You’re not good enough …
I push out of the kitchen and walk across the garden, down the cliff steps and on to the deserted beach. It is probably too late to swim, and I am scared to wade into the water because I am out of my depth already, even on dry land. If I started swimming, the temptation to head straight for the horizon would b
e too much.
Instead, I turn and run along the sand, each step helping to silence the nagging voice inside me. I run until my head is empty, my body weary, my muscles aching. The light is fading as I turn and run back again, pushing myself, punishing my body, trying to find some peace.
As I reach the cliff steps, I see a hunched figure sitting on a rock at the bottom, looking out at the ocean.
‘Alfie?’ I say, startled. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Just passing,’ he quips.
‘Yeah, right.’
‘OK,’ he shrugs. ‘I just thought I’d swing by. Wish you luck, or break a leg or whatever people say, for the audition on Saturday. And you weren’t home, so I thought I’d do some sunbathing. And now even the sun’s given up on me …’
I sink down on to the warm sand, glad to rest and gather my breath. ‘I went for a run,’ I tell Alfie. ‘Trying to take my mind off it. But … well, thanks for the thought.’
‘It’s not that I want you to actually break a leg obviously,’ he says. ‘I just hope … well, I hope it turns out the way you want it to. Even if it does mean you moving away. You’ll come home for holidays, right?’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Obviously I will.’
It’s strange, though. I have poured so much energy and effort into working for this audition, yet sometimes I can barely remember why I want it so badly. I try to picture the glossy wooden floors and shiny, mirrored studios of Rochelle Academy from the brochure, but they slide out of reach like distant memories, too vague to recall. It’s as if a whole part of my mind has been wiped clean, leaving me struggling to remember just what I am working for.
Which is kind of terrifying.
‘I’ll miss you,’ Alfie says into the darkness. ‘Who else could squash me flat with one glance when I try some dodgy practical joke at school? Who else would dare tell me not to wear eyeliner in public? Only you, Summer Tanberry!’ He laughs, but it’s a sad kind of laugh.
‘I haven’t always been very nice to you, have I?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Alfie says. ‘You’ve always been … well, lovely. Harsh sometimes, yes, but … well, I expect I deserved it!’
Lovely? I am not sure it’s even possible that Alfie Anderson could say such a thing about me, but somehow, in the dark, the words don’t seem so scary.
‘Maybe we just didn’t get each other,’ I shrug. ‘I thought you were loud and clueless and cheesy. Always trying to wind me up …’
‘I am all of those things,’ he admits. ‘I wasn’t trying to wind you up, though. I was only ever trying to get your attention.’
Even though I cannot see in the shadowy light, I know Alfie’s cheeks will be flushed with pink. This is what he was trying to tell me at the party – he has liked me all along. The endless pranks and teasing were just a way to make me notice him. And I never really did until now, when he dropped the jokes and grew up a little. Better late than never, I guess.
I know what it is like to try and try and try to capture someone’s attention. It’s what I used to do with Dad, when I was little. Growing up in a family of four sisters, it was hard to stand out, but dancing gave me a chance to do that.
‘Hey,’ Dad used to say, watching me skip round the living room in a pink net skirt at the age of five. ‘How’s my little ballerina?’
Keeping his attention was impossible, though, especially after he and Mum split. I can still feel the hurt of that in my chest, an ache, an emptiness.
‘I’m an idiot, right?’ Alfie says sadly.
‘No, you’re a mate,’ I tell him, hoping it doesn’t sound too cruel.
I am not looking for another boyfriend, but I realize that Alfie is a true friend. He is kind and loyal, and he has a knack of being around when I need him. That’s more than I can say for Tia or Millie lately, or even Skye … I have pushed them all away, made myself too busy with practice, and they have allowed it to happen. It’s only Alfie who has refused to be discouraged.
‘OK then,’ he sighs. ‘Speaking as a mate – I’m worried, Summer. This diet thing. Healthy eating, whatever. It stops once the audition is over, yeah?’
‘Definitely,’ I say, and then all my certainty drains away. ‘I think so anyway. I hope so. Maybe. I don’t know, Alfie … I just can’t seem to help it.’
‘Talk to somebody,’ he says. ‘Your mum, your gran, your dad, a doctor. It’s getting scary. It’s getting out of hand, and I don’t know what to do.’
I guess that makes two of us.
27
That night I am changing out of my T-shirt and joggers when Skye walks into the bedroom and catches me in my bra and knickers. The smile freezes on her face and although I try to cover up quickly, I know it’s too late. She has seen me, and she cannot hide her shock.
‘Summer!’ she whispers. ‘What’s going on? You’re like a skeleton!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say calmly. ‘I’m no different. Just a bit more … toned maybe. From all the extra dancing.’
‘I could see your ribs!’ Skye accuses. ‘Your shoulder blades looked like they were about to slice through your skin! I know you’re watching what you eat, but … this is scary, Summer! I had no idea!’
Because you’ve been so wrapped up with Finch, I think meanly. Too busy falling in love to notice how lost, how frightened I am.
‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘And I am eating, it’s just that we’re not sitting down to eat as a family any more. Everyone’s busy, doing different things. Besides, I made the tea! I ate about four brownies while I was making them, I swear … It’s just that I’m burning lots of energy from all that practice.’
Skye isn’t fooled. She drags the T-shirt out of my hands. My eyes flicker up to the mirror, and for a second I see my reflection as Skye sees it: a ladder of ribs, the long ridge of my spine, shoulder blades jutting sharply, wing-like. I look pale, wasted, worn out.
‘Stop it, Summer,’ she whispers. ‘Please? You have to stop this.’
Don’t listen, the voice wheedles. She doesn’t understand – none of them do. You still have a long way to go. Trust me … I’m on your side.
‘Back off,’ I tell my sister harshly. ‘I’m fine, Skye. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I cannot sleep. My head is a tangle of shadows and fears, my heart aches with sadness and a kaleidoscope of memories from long ago are whirling through my mind.
I didn’t think my own twin would turn against me, try to stop me from reaching my dream. Then I remember the look of shock on her face, and I wonder if I’ve got that wrong, if she’s honestly just concerned. Would she understand?
‘Skye?’ I whisper into the darkness, but my twin just sighs and turns in her sleep, lost in dreams of vintage dresses and a boy called Finch.
I check my mobile. There’s a message from Mum, telling me that she and Paddy are heading back to Lima, ready to fly home. She tells me to do my best on Saturday, that she is proud of me now and always, no matter what. My fingers hover over the call button for a long moment. If I could just talk to Mum right now …
But I can’t. What would I say? ‘Hey, Mum, my life is falling apart. I’m scared to eat and I can’t dance and my dreams are in pieces around my feet, so don’t be proud of me … I’m a mess.’
I don’t think so. And if not Mum, not Skye, then who?
I snap the mobile closed and slide out of bed, shivering a little, and pad downstairs. There is no sound in the kitchen except the slow ticking of the clock, the hum of the Aga and the sound of Fred the dog snuffling as he settles in his basket in the corner and chases imaginary rabbits in his head.
It is past two o’clock, but Dad’s bit of Australia is ten hours ahead of us. We Skype him every Christmas and birthday, but I have not actually called my dad since the year he left, when Skye and I went down to the call box in Kitnor to plead with him to come home because Coco was crying and Honey was raging and Mum’s smile was so brittle we thought she might shatter into a thousand pieces at any min
ute. Dad told us to stop worrying, that it was all for the best, that he still loved us even though he wasn’t living with us any more.
That was the day we knew we’d really lost him, the day we understood that he was never coming home again.
I find Mum’s address book in the dresser drawer and tap out the code and number for Dad in Australia. The line connects and Dad’s voice fills the silence, muffled, distant, slightly annoyed.
‘Hello? Charlotte, is that you? I’m at work, for God’s sake!’
‘It’s me,’ I whisper. ‘Summer. I wanted to talk to you!’
‘Summer!’ he says, as if trying to place me. ‘Summer? Is something wrong?’
No, Dad, nothing’s wrong. It’s two in the morning and I am scared because my life is falling to bits, but no, nothing’s wrong. I don’t say this, of course.
‘I just wanted to talk,’ I say lamely.
‘Well … that’s very nice, Summer, but I’m pretty busy right now. Was there something in particular?’
I swallow hard. It feels like there is a lump the size of a golf ball in my throat, stopping me from speaking, breathing.
‘No, no … I just wanted to tell you I have my audition on Saturday. For the dance school. And I’m a bit … um … nervous.’
Far away, on the other side of the world, I can hear Dad talking to someone else, giving orders, asking for a report to be on his desk within the hour.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘It’s chaos here. So you’re in a new dance show, is that it? Don’t worry, you’ll be brilliant as usual. My little ballerina.’
A tear rolls down my cheek, salty, silent. He couldn’t even be bothered to listen properly.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Right. Dad, I have to go now. Someone’s calling me.’
‘No worries, take care, do your best!’
‘I will,’ I promise.
The line goes dead.
Friday goes by in a blur. The morning is filled with rehearsals and the afternoon with the dance show itself, so I am kept busy running around making sure my team is OK. Kelsey forgets her tap shoes and Rowan’s leotard splits along one seam and Fern’s curly Annie wig keeps slipping down over one eye, but with the help of borrowed shoes and last-minute stitching and several heavy-duty hairgrips, everything is perfect for the performance.
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