by Sarah Webb
“Success,” Clover says as we walk back toward the car. “I think they’re suitably terrified. There’s no way Happo will touch steroids now.”
“You were amazing, Clover,” I say.
She grins. “I was rather good, wasn’t I? And Brains did a stellar job with the sample jars and the food coloring. Rather you than me, babes. Yuckster!”
“All in the line of duty,” Brains says. “But I sure am glad I was wearing two pairs of surgical gloves.”
“No kidding,” Clover says. “Now, where’s Amber? We need to skedaddle, tout de suite.”
Brains starts singing the “Toot Sweet” song from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and we all laugh. And this time it’s not the nerves.
We’re climbing back into the car when Amber reappears, smiling.
“Good interview?” Clover asks.
“Great! He was actually very interesting, for a rugby player.”
Clover looks at her, surprised. “You’re not into rugby players?”
“No way. They’re, like, the worst dancers. Besides, I like a man with brains.”
“Hey,” Brains says. “That’s me. And my moves are pretty genius too.” He gyrates his hips and we all go into fits of laughter again.
Clover throws her arms around him and gives him a kiss. “I know, babes. And sorry, Amber, he’s already taken. Now, let’s banana split!”
Dear Clover and Amy,
Happo came home today and told me about a drug test they’d had. He said it really freaked the lads out and everyone’s talking about it. The team captain has made them all swear they won’t go near steroids, ever, for the sake of the team and the school’s good name. “No glory if it’s illegal glory, lads,” he said, apparently. They’re right drama queens in Monkstown College sometimes. And the news is spreading like wildfire on Facebook. I hope it means all the rugby-playing schools will hear about it soon.
But here’s something odd — the coach rang someone at the IRFU about the test, and they didn’t know anything about it. They suggested it might be something to do with the department of health . . .
It was you guys behind that drug test, wasn’t it? I have no idea how you pulled it off, but it worked. I owe you so much, girls. I don’t know how to thank you. There are tears in my eyes as I type, I swear, I’m so grateful. I don’t want to sound totally over-the-top and stuff, but you may have saved Happo’s life.
Yours forever,
Dominique O’Loughlin
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx + a trillion!
That evening I’m sitting in my room. I’m supposed to be reading To Kill a Mockingbird for school, but instead I’m thinking about Dominique’s brother, Happo. I’m so happy we were able to help him and that my drug-testing idea worked. It was pretty inspired, if I do say so myself! Maybe I’m not such a bad person after all, despite what Mills thinks. After all, if Happo had listened to his teammates and taken steroids, he could have killed himself, and for what? A game! But I guess rugby is his passion, just like dancing is Claire’s passion.
Hang on! If there are drugs that can make you gain weight, there must be drugs that can make you lose weight. Maybe Claire’s taking something to help her slim down. Didn’t her ballet teacher — that scary-sounding Madame Irina — call her fat and flabby? Maybe that’s it! Maybe that’s what’s wrong with her. What if what she is taking is dangerous, like those steroid things? And what if I can help Claire, like I helped Happo? Would Mills forgive me then? It’s a long shot, but it’s got to be worth a chance. I know it’s wrong to keep reading Claire’s private thoughts, but if it saves her life . . . I just have to read more of her diary and find out if I’m right.
I open Claire’s diary and start to read some of the entries, looking for clues, but they’re all about how tough Madame Irina’s classes are and how much Claire thinks she’s improving, plus funny things Lana has said or done and how bad the food is at the academy. There’s also the odd mention of how homesick Claire is, how much she misses Ireland and Mills and her parents and the food — she’s obsessed with Irish butter, chocolate and crisps, and her mum’s monthly junk-food parcels. Aha — junk food! Maybe she put on a lot of weight, couldn’t lose it, and then resorted to some sort of drugs or diet pills and is now addicted. No wonder she’s such a skinny Minnie.
Then I discover this entry:
Dear Diary,
Today we started duet classes, which meant we got to dance with the boys for the very first time — yeah! They all marched into the studio behind Madame Irina like they owned the place, tossing their heads and nudging one another. They reminded me of stallions, lean and strong and full of restless, wiry energy. I half expected them to start whinnying.
Zsuzsanna made a big deal of waving at one of them, a boy in a black T-shirt and shorts, with wide shoulders and curly dark-blond hair.
“Péter!” she called.
The boy raised his hand and grinned at her easily. When he smiled, his face lit up and his brown eyes twinkled. And his cheekbones — heaven! I had to drag my eyes away in case somebody noticed me staring at him. I’d seen him before in the cafeteria and wondered who he was, but I’d never been this close to him before.
Some of the girls here hook up with the boys to have flings and relationships, but I don’t have time for that sort of thing. And I haven’t been all that interested in any of the Hungarian boys, to be honest, until now. . . . Some of them have tried talking to me, but they come across as very serious and intense. This boy seems different, though: lively and fun, and more like Irish boys. I can’t believe Zsuzsanna knows him. I dislike Zsuzsanna even more now!
She’s being increasingly nasty to me as the weeks go by. Last week she whispered to Nóra the whole way through my solo, and it was really off-putting. Madame snapped at her, and Zsuzsanna scowled at me, as if it was my fault! She hates the fact that people say I am better than she is. She thinks she’s the best in the class. As if!
Anyway, at the start of the duet class, Madame Irina gave us another massive lecture about weight, in front of the boys and everything. She said that the boys couldn’t be expected to lift any girl who is over 110 pounds. It would be too much of a strain on their bodies. She asked Lana to sit out. “We do not want any accidents,” she told her.
At five foot eleven, Lana is one of the tallest girls in the class, and she’s also the most muscular. I know she worries about her weight, but there isn’t a bit of fat on her. You can see every bone of her rib cage pressing through her skin, like a ladder.
Lana went bright red.
Péter stepped forward then and said that he was strong and could lift any of the girls.
Madame wasn’t impressed. She said that he could dance with Lana, but if he got injured, it was on his own head.
As there are twice as many girls as boys, the girls were broken into two groups and we took turns at being lifted. I was paired with a blond boy called Alexandr who’s a good dancer with a safe pair of hands, but he isn’t very exciting to watch or to dance with. He has no spirit. Not like Péter.
The boys have separate classes from ours normally, so I’d never seen Péter dance, but I’d heard about a guy called Péter who was amazing. As soon as I watched him dance, I understood immediately what all the fuss was about.
When Péter takes to the floor, everyone pays attention. It certainly isn’t his technique, which can be a little sloppy and lazy. It’s the sheer joy and passion he puts into every step. Every jump is higher, every leap wider. He’s mesmerizing. And even when he lifted the tall girls like Lana, he made them look as light as feathers and as graceful as swans. He doesn’t seem to realize how good he is either, which makes me like him even more.
At lunchtime, my head was still full of Péter, playing through his spectacular series of lifts in my mind. And, OK, I admit it, his beautiful face, his intense brown eyes, his strong, toned arms . . .
Lana got cross because I wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. I felt bad — she’d had a horrible morning. I noticed she wasn’t eating her goulash. “Madame said I have to drop seven pounds or I’m out of here,” she said when I asked why.
I told her not to be so silly, that she needed the energy to dance, and besides, Péter had had no problem lifting her and they’d looked amazing together.
She gave a pah, but I could tell she was upset underneath her hard shell.
I’m worried about her. She needs to eat; otherwise she’ll get sick. It’s really unfair — Madame shouldn’t put pressure on us to lose weight. No wonder some of the girls pick at their food.
Lana tried to change the subject by talking about the boys and saying how much fun it was to dance with them. I agreed, saying it was the best class ever. I told her I was jealous that she got to dance with Péter. And she said she thinks Péter likes me! Apparently he asked Lana about me after class. “You need to be careful,” she said “’cause Zsuzsanna has her eye on him, and she’ll be even nastier to you if Péter shows an interest.”
I told her he probably just wants to practice his English or something, but secretly I’m thrilled. The best male dancer in the school, interested in me. Me!
I’m off to dream about Péter now, Diary. Szia!
xxx
That’s more like it — romance a-go-go! Then I remember that from the look of things now, it has hardly ended in rainbows and lollipops for poor old Claire. Maybe Péter broke her heart? But there’s nothing about Madame telling Claire specifically to lose weight or take any sort of drugs or diet supplements. I’m baffled. What is wrong with Claire Starr?
“What are you doing in, Amy?” Dave asks on Friday evening. I’m flopped in front of the telly, watching some incredibly tall and giraffe-legged Irish and English girls parade up and down a catwalk. “I thought you were going to Seth’s house straight after school. Pizza and a movie — wasn’t that what you said? I seem to remember giving you a tenner toward it too.”
“Do you want it back?” I say, my eyes still glued to the screen. “Is that it?”
There’s silence for a moment. Then I feel Dave’s hand on my shoulder. I shrug it away.
“What’s wrong, Amy? Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
“Might make you feel better,” he says gently.
“I doubt it.”
“Have you fallen out with Seth?”
I shake my head again.
“Mills?”
I know he’s going to pick, pick, pick until it all comes out, or even worse, he’ll fetch Mum to join in the interrogation, so I give in.
“Mills isn’t speaking to me,” I explain. “And before you say anything, there’s nothing you or anyone else can do to fix it, OK? And no, I don’t want to talk about it. She’s over at Seth’s place with Bailey. Seth was really looking forward to having people over, and I didn’t want to cause any trouble, so I opted out. The end.”
“I see.” Dave blows out his breath in a whoosh. “Being a teenager sucks, doesn’t it?”
I look at him, trying to work out if he’s being sarcastic, but he seems sincere enough.
“I wouldn’t go back to being thirteen for a million quid,” he adds. “I’m sorry things are tough for you at the moment, Amy. But hang in there. It will get better, I promise.”
“Thanks, Dave. I thought you were working this evening.” Dave’s a nurse, and he works all kinds of strange hours.
“Swapped shifts. Sylvie wants to talk about the wedding.” He rolls his eyes at the word “talk,” making me smile a bit.
“Do you want this room?” I ask.
“No, you stay put. We can have our chat in the kitchen.” He leaves me to it and goes into the kitchen.
Bored with the program, I decide to follow him. Maybe wedding planning will improve my mood.
Dave and Mum are sitting at the kitchen table, dozens of magazine cuttings scattered in front of them. Mum’s head is covered in paper towel, and she’s giggling so hard that tears are running down her cheeks.
“What are you doing, Mum?” I ask her. “What’s with the weird hat?”
Mum is laughing too much to speak, so she just waves her hand in front of her face.
“Your mum wanted to show me some of Clover’s suggestions for her wedding dress,” Dave says.
I wrinkle my nose. “A paper-towel hat?”
“In the magazine, it’s Italian lace,” Mum says, pointing at one of the cuttings, a photograph of a glamorous bride wearing what looks like a white, lacy nightie, with a matching mop cap on her head. “But it’s so expensive, I thought I’d make my own.”
“Your mum finds some of Clover’s dress suggestions hilarious,” Dave explains.
“Not to mention ridiculously priced,” Mum adds. “Look at this one. Almost ten thousand quid for a piece of old knitting. Are they crazy?” She points at a 1920s-style beige-crochet flapper dress with fringing along the hem that costs 9,750 euros, and a strapless Empire-line dress that’s squashing the model’s small breasts into a weird-looking tube shape that costs 6,500 euros.
“I could make that second dress out of one of Gramps’s old tablecloths!” Mum says.
I smile at her. “It’s early days, Mum, I’m sure you’ll find something nice and not so expensive. Those are pretty.” I point at some pearl-and-diamanté hair clips in the shape of large stars that are twinkling in a blond model’s hair.
“You’re right, Amy. They’re beautiful,” Mum says. “You have a good eye. In fact, that model’s hair is perfect too, very natural.”
There’s a loud squawking noise from upstairs.
“Wanna play twains,” comes a voice from the top of the stairs. “No go bed.”
Alex.
Mum groans. “So much for our quiet evening in.”
“I’ll get him back to sleep,” I say. “You guys stay here.” It’s nice to see Mum and Dave getting on so well. At least someone’s having fun this evening.
After settling Alex (which takes three Thomas the Tank Engine stories and two rounds of “Hush-a-Bye, Baby”) and watching a bit more rubbish telly, I head upstairs to read in bed. I’m rereading an old copy of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants that used to belong to Clover. But I can’t concentrate on the words. I keep wondering what Seth and Bailey and Mills are up to.
If I only had someone to talk to right now, maybe then I wouldn’t feel so lonely. I don’t like to bother Clover on a Friday night — she’s bound to be out. Now, who can I ring? I think for a moment. Dad! He’ll probably be in with Shelly and Gracie. I get up and find my iPhone, which is plugged into the laptop on my desk, recharging.
Dad answers immediately. “How weird. I was just about to ring you, Amy.”
I feel a warm glow inside. At least someone’s thinking of me!
“I wanted to ask you something,” he says. “I caught Pauline checking out photos of some old dude in swimming trunks on Facebook earlier. And it’s not the first time either. I think she’s spying on him. Has Pauline ever said anything to you about having a boyfriend? I asked Shelly, but she said she didn’t think so.”
“Well, the dreaded Pauline was talking about some man in Portugal when you and Shelly were putting Gracie back to bed the last time I was over. He’s called Dean and he runs an Irish bar there.”
“Dean? Just Dean? No surname?”
“I’m doing pretty well remembering that much. And why are you so interested in Pauline’s love life? It’s gross!”
“I was thinking I could track the man down and bribe him into dragging Pauline back to Portugal.”
“Dad! That’s terrible.”
“I know, but I’m desperate, Amy. At this stage I’ll try anything. I’m determined to stick it out till Christmas, but after that, it’s either her or me.”
After he rushes off to watch golf on the telly, I put my iPhone down. So much for someone to talk to. Did I really think Dad would have time for a p
roper conversation with me and listen to my problems for a change? And even if he does find this Dean guy, is he really going to bribe him into taking Pauline back to Portugal? Trust Dad to try to buy himself out of his problems again.
I wish I could ring Mills right now and tell her about Dad and his crazy plan, but I know I can’t. And Seth wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t know Dad the way Mills does. Without my best friend to talk to, I feel so alone.
Dear Diary,
Well, it’s finally happened. Madame Irina has driven Lana out of the academy, and I’ve lost the only friend I have in this godforsaken place. How am I going to cope? Zsuzsanna is already on my case. Without Lana to talk to, I don’t know what I’ll do.
I begged Lana to stay, but she was having none of it. She said she had to face facts. She’s the wrong shape for ballet: too tall, too muscular. And she refuses to starve herself to lose weight, like some of the other girls. That is no life, she says. And she’s right. Some of the girls here are on permanent diets, and it makes them miserable and grumpy all the time, and I’m sure some of them will get eating disorders.
I asked Lana what she was going to do instead. She shrugged and sighed and then her eyes went blurry. I’ve never seen Lana cry before, and it scared me. Then she blinked her tears back and stiffened her shoulders. She told me about her friend Miriam who runs a contemporary dance company back in Slovakia. She’s offered her a place. “It’s still dance, right?” Lana said. “And maybe later on I can teach.” She gave me a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
I tried to be as enthusiastic as I could, but it was hard. Lana has always poked fun at modern dance and some of its jagged, angular movements. Then she told me not to worry about her. She’d be OK. “And do not let those Hungarian witches run you out, understand?” she said. “Swear to me?” I nodded, my stomach in knots at the thought of dealing with Zsuzsanna and Nóra alone.
