by Sarah Webb
“I did try to talk her out of it,” I say. “But it was hopeless. Her heart’s set on wearing one of those tiny blue-and-white skater skirts.”
“They are kinda cute,” Clover admits.
“Clover! That’s what Mills said. They are not!”
“But still, it’s a sad state of affairs when your best friend takes up with the pom-pom poodles.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Maybe it’s her way of stealing a bit of Claire’s limelight,” Clover says thoughtfully. “Can’t be easy having a superstar sister. Maybe Mills is feeling a bit left out and wants to strut her own dance moves.” Clover wiggles her chest backward and forward, making me giggle.
“Cheerleading is hardly ballet, Clover. And it’s not about Claire, it’s about Bailey. He’s just joined the rugby team, and Mills wants them to be the Perfect Couple.”
“It’s still all a performance. Speaking of which, Claire Starr is one tough cookie.”
“Of course, the interview. How did it go?”
“Nail-file rough at first. She seemed very wary of me. The PR woman sat in for most of it, but she had to leave toward the end to take a call, and Claire started to loosen up a bit after that. Unfortunately, I can’t publish much from that part of the interview, as I promised Claire. She was in tears by the end of it. I think I might have asked her one question too many. I certainly didn’t mean to upset her.” Clover bites her lip.
“I’m sure it wasn’t you, Clover. She’s terrified about dancing her first big solo part.”
“It’s more than that, Beanie. You were right. Something is seriously upsetting Claire. I just don’t know what. She was even talking about leaving the company and giving up ballet for good.”
I gasp. “She can’t! She loves dancing. It’s all she’s ever wanted to do.”
“I know, and I wish we could fix things for her, but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. Have you got any idea how we can find out, Beanie? Has Mills said anything?”
I can feel my face heating up because, yes, I do have an idea, but I can’t possibly tell Clover about having Claire’s diary. I’m too ashamed. I should never have made a copy of it in the first place, let alone read it.
“You OK, Beanie?”
“Yes, sorry, just thinking. . . . Writing the best interview ever and making Claire sound ultra-amazing might help. At least it would give her a confidence boost.”
Clover grins at me. “It certainly can’t do any harm. Glad you haven’t lost your people smarts, babes. Now, my perfectly crafted piece has to be on Saffy’s desk by first thing tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.”
“Merde, Clover.”
She gives a laugh. “Claire told me about that one. Merde, I like it. Better limber up.” She knits her fingers together, twists her wrists out, and stretches her arms away from her chest. Then she rolls her shoulders, making an alarming bone-on-bone click. “Ah, that’s better. Have to be writing fit to tackle this one, Bean Machine. I have a long night ahead of me. And let’s hope Claire gets some of that old dancing diva-ness back before she has to charm her Romeo. Love you, babes. Kiss, kiss.” She kisses the tips of her fingers and blows them at me. “‘Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!’ Oops, I think that’s Hamlet, not Romeo and Juliet. Note to self: must brush up on my Shakespeare.” And with that, she’s gone.
I’m sitting on my bed, feeling down. Poor Claire. A bruised body will heal, but a bruised heart? Dancing is Claire’s one great passion in life. If she has to give it up, she might never heal. I have to do something. I have to help her. I know it’s wrong, but I have to read her diary! I’ll start with Claire’s very first entry.
Dear Diary,
Ta-da! I’m finally in Budapest. It’s a bit of a dump, but I kind of like the rough edges. Makes it more interesting.
I’ve been here a week now and I’ve finally grabbed a few minutes to write up what’s been happening. So — in a nutshell — I arrived last Saturday at Ferenc Liszt airport in Budapest and got a taxi to the academy.
Arriving at the academy was an eye-opener. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but, boy, is this place old, and, boy, are the rooms basic.
The building itself must have been spectacular in, oh, 1800, or whenever it was built, but I don’t think it’s been fixed up since. The whole place smells old and musty, of ancient crumbling plaster, bleach, and damp washing. More on the washing in a mo’!
When you walk through the big wooden door, there’s this humongous entrance hall, with a smooth stone floor and a huge marble staircase marching up the back wall.
So there I was on Saturday morning, exhausted after getting up at four a.m. to catch the mad-early flight, struggling through the door with all my luggage, and inside there were masses of girls and guys milling around the hallway with bags. Theirs were much smaller than my whoppers, of course — you’d swear I was going to Outer Mongolia. Mum and Dad even made me bring toilet paper, just in case.
Anyway, the others all seemed to know one another. They were chatting in groups of three or four. I was feeling a bit lost and out of place until a blond girl started talking to me.
“You’re the Irish girl everyone’s been talking about, yes?” she said. “Lucky for you, I like Ireland. U2, yes? Bono rocks for an old man. OK, Irish, you and I will share a room, yes? Stay there and mind my bag.” Before I could answer, she’d dumped a long black-canvas bag at my feet and run over to talk to a tiny old woman with white hair in a bun and small dark eyes like a bird’s.
Then the girl shoved her way back through the crowd that was now clamoring noisily around the woman and sprinted up the stairs. She was followed several seconds later by a stream of boys and girls, all elbowing one another and shouting. I hadn’t a clue what was happening, so I just stood in the hallway, minding her bag and hoping she’d come back.
And she did — half an hour later.
After grabbing her bag, she told me to follow her. When I asked where to, she said, “To our room, of course. The best room in the whole academy. If someone realizes I’ve gone, they’ll steal it. Move!”
So now I have a Slovakian roomie — Lana — and the best room in the academy. It’s a tiny space with two squeaky metal beds and no outside window. The only light comes through the glass door, which opens onto a long conservatory. At first, it seemed an odd place to pick — it’s just beside the washroom and we have to walk through all the damp leotards and tights drying on racks to get to our door — but Lana says it’s the warmest room in the whole place. The windows of the other rooms freeze up in winter. And as long as you don’t mind getting slapped in the face by wet tights now and then, it’s heaven.
Washing is a BIG DEAL in the academy. We all have to do our own by hand, and there’s no tumble dryer, so everything takes ages to dry. Honestly, it’s like living on the set of Annie or something. I asked Lana if there was a launderette nearby, but she just laughed and said, “You think you will have time to waste outside class? Ha! Get used to it, Irish.”
Lana showed me around the academy on our first full day and also made me do some exercises in one of the ballet classrooms. There are six in total: three on this floor and three more on the first floor. Each one has large windows, an upright piano, and a stool or bench for the teacher to sit on, and, of course, huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
“This will be our classroom,” Lana said, waving her hand around one of the classrooms on the first floor. “It is a big honor to be in Madame Irina’s class. I hope you do not mess it up, Irish.”
Madame Irina János is the principal and artistic director of the academy. She used to be a prima ballerina here and is almost as famous in Hungary as Olga Varga.
Lana told me to begin the exercises with some tendus, so after some warm-up pliés at the barre, I started doing them, stretching my leg out and brushing my toes over the worn wooden floorboards.
Lana stood watching me, her hands on her hips. When I had finished, she said my tendus were poor.
I was shocked. No one has ever called them poor before. I’ve always been the best in the class at everything. But Lana told me to do them again, faster.
I tried once more, and she still shook her head. “But Irina must have seen something in you, Irish,” she said.
I wasn’t taking it. I’ve worked hard to get here, and I’m not going to let anyone discourage me. I asked her to show me how they should be done.
Standing in front of me at the barre, she whipped her foot out and in again like lightning. I couldn’t believe it — her movements were so sharp, so strong. And she was right, my tendus were poor in comparison. I was determined to make them better.
I tried again and again. Each time she said, “Faster. More power.” Finally, I was just too exhausted to do any more. She shook her head. “They’re going to eat you up here, Irish, and spit you out.”
“I don’t taste very nice,” I said, and then I steeled myself. I flicked my foot out and in again, as hard and as fast as I could.
Lana looked only mildly impressed. I was determined to get my tendus perfect by the following morning’s class, so I asked Lana how long we could stay in the classroom. She smiled and said, “As long as you like, Irish. There may be hope for you yet.”
Later, Lana gave me another piece of advice. She told me never to smile, talk back, or cry in class. Ever. I told her I understood, even though it all sounded weird. Miss Smitten had warned me about Hungarian dance classes and how tough they were, but come on, what teacher would make you cry? Besides, I never cry, it’s just not me. (I hadn’t been in one of Madame Irina’s classes at that stage — and boy was that another eye-opener!)
Oops, better stop. I can hear Lana slapping her way back through the wet tights. I’ll write soon, Diary, promise. And I’ll tell you all about my very first class with the Miss Terrifying herself, Madame Irina!
Szia! That means “See you soon” in Hungarian. I’m picking up a little bit every day, but don’t talk to me about the Hungarian language classes — yuck!
Claire Starr, future prima ballerina xxxxx
I stop reading and sit back in my chair, still lost in Claire’s world of damp tights and tendus. I’d forgotten how strong and self-assured Claire used to be, certain that she could be one of the best dancers in the world and determined to get to the top. From what Clover said, unless Claire can tap into that old confident self again, her whole ballet career could be at stake. And so far, Claire’s diary hasn’t given me any clues as to what’s troubling her or how we might be able to help her.
Claire’s diary reminds me to write in my own, and I have to get something off my chest.
Sunday, December 2
Dear Diary,
Ten Reasons Why Mills Starr Drives Me Crazy!
Number 1:
I hate the fact that Mills always chooses Bailey over me. Take today, for example. Mills rang me this morning to say that she couldn’t come over until this evening, as she was still tired after the tryouts yesterday. And then she let it slip that Bailey was coming over. “I thought you were too tired to see anyone,” I said.
After the call, I was fuming. I know Bailey’s great and everything, and yes, OK, übercute, but the way Mills goes on about him, you’d think he was some sort of reincarnated Greek god. Which he’s not! He’s a normal mortal. He belches and farts just as much as the next guy. Mills is just too blind to see it.
Number 2:
I hate the way she’s always flicking her hair around like a D4. I know she doesn’t mean to do it, and she has fantastic hair — all glossy and perfect — but it’s still annoying. And if she becomes a cheerleader, she’s bound to hair-flick even more. It’ll be like hanging around with My Little Pony.
Which brings me to Number 3:
The whole perfect thing. Why does she have to be so perfect all the time? Perfect hair. Perfect teeth. Perfect skin. Perfect neat, ironed uniform. Perfect grades. Perfect family . . . which all combine to make her the Perfect Cheerleading Girlfriend for the newly crowned Rugby God. All hail, Bailey Otis!
And this brings me to another gripe . . .
Number 4:
This whole All Saints thing. Mills hasn’t stopped going on about the tryouts, telling me every little detail of her All Saints experience and how amazing Nora-May is at cheering and how in Boston, where Nora‑May’s from, cheerleading is recognized as a proper sport and how difficult some of the moves are to remember, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . Not one word about what happened in Dundrum, with Dad and everything. No “How are YOU, Amy? How was YOUR day yesterday, Amy? Sorry for abandoning you for the All Saints and my boyfriend, Amy.” Nothing!
I’m convinced that, despite all her Nora-May talk, Mills is only taking up cheerleading so that she and Bailey can be the “Perfect Couple.” It is further evidence of the Starr Perfection Curse. Which poor Claire also seems to suffer from, by the way.
My clearly deluded friend has been watching too many old American teen movies. You know the ones: where the Quarterback dates the Head Cheerleader. Doesn’t Mills realize that the Quarterback and Cheerleader never end up together? The Quarterback always finds love with the Geek Girl, and the Cheerleader always runs off with the Bad Boy.
Mills may be in for a fall.
I sit back and think for a moment, but I can’t come up with any more “reasons,” so I cross out the number ten at the top and replace it with a four. Looking back over the list, I start to feel bad. Here I am, moaning on about Mills in my diary when Claire is finding it so hard to cope back in Budapest. I need to get my priorities in order. My life is pretty rosy compared to Claire’s at the moment. So I add:
OK, now I’ve got all that off my chest, Diary, I feel a whole heap better. Mills may be annoying sometimes, but I love her anyway, and let’s face it, I’m hardly perfect either. Despite everything, she is the best friend a girl could wish for, and that’s a fact!
I drop my pen, sit back in my chair, and smile to myself, Mills’s aggravating flaws almost forgotten. This diary thing really is great! Talk about cheap therapy!
Later that evening, I’m keeping an eye on Alex in the bath while Mum settles Evie to sleep (which can take a while) and wondering if Mills will visit, like she promised. I feel bad for ranting about her in my diary. It wasn’t fair, and I didn’t really mean it. I was just feeling ratty. I vow to rip out the page as soon as Mum relieves me from Alex duty. I can hear her singing to Evie, so she won’t be long.
Evie’s starting to talk now and can even say my name — sort of. She calls me “Mee-mee,” copying Alex, who still calls me this, even though he can say Amy perfectly well now if he wants to. I don’t mind. It’s kind of cute. Alex is “Ahhhh-ex,” but Clover’s name is the funniest. She’s “Oooo-vaaaa,” to which Clover adds, “and out,” making herself laugh like a hyena. “Get it, Beanie? Over and out?” I just roll my eyes at her.
Alex is more troll than toddler, stomping around the house, destroying things. His train obsession is getting worse too. He will only wear Thomas the Tank Engine underpants now. (Mum’s trying to potty-train him at the moment, and there are tiny “Thomas” underpants drying on every heater. Let’s not go there!) But he is megacute, with a puffball of superblond hair, big gooey blue eyes and a funny round potbelly. At the moment, he’s standing up in the bath, covered in bubbles from head to toe, giggling away to himself. He bends down and scoops up some water in his hand, clearly about to chuck it at me.
“Don’t even think about it, Alex,” I tell him, tipping the water out of his hand. “No! And sit down before you slip, OK?”
“O-K, Mee-mee.”
The doorbell rings downstairs.
“Can you get it, Amy?” Mum calls from Evie’s room. “I’ve nearly gotten her to sleep.”
“No problem.” I look at Alex sternly. “Stay here, buster, and no funny business, understand?”
He nods. “I good boy, Mee-mee.”
I dash down the stairs and swing the door open. It’s Mills, stepping from foot to foot and looking
a little awkward.
“Hiya, Mills.”
“Look, Amy, I’m sorry. I was going on and on about tryouts earlier, and I completely forgot to ask you about your dad’s house and to say sorry for not coming to meet you in Dundrum yesterday.”
“It’s OK. I understand,” I say, feeling even worse about my diary rant. “Dundrum wasn’t so bad in the end. Dad got me a top at Harvey Nicks. Sonia Rykiel, no less.”
Mills looks at me blankly.
“She’s a French designer. It’s the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned.”
“Cool! Can I see it?”
“Sure, come on up. Alex is in the bath, and I’m supposed to be supervising him. Why don’t you wait in my room while I pull him out? It won’t take long. The top is hanging on the back of my door if you want to have a look.”
Mills goes to my bedroom while I deal with Alex. I walk back into the bathroom and gasp. “Pógarooney, goblin boy, what have you done?”
He’s lying tummy down on the floor tiles, completely naked, one hand on the back of his head.
“I shark,” he says. “I eat you.” He grabs my leg and chomps it with his surprisingly sharp baby teeth. Luckily, I’m wearing jeans or he might have broken the skin.
“Ow! Alex, stop that. And stand up. There’s water all over the floor.”
“Sea,” he explains. “Shark like sea.”
“What’s wrong with being a shark in the bath?” I ask him, losing patience.
“Too small,” he says. “I big shark.”
