by Sarah Webb
After Lana left the academy, I cried my heart out. Afterward, I felt horribly guilty. I have no right to feel so sorry for myself. I’m still here, at one of the best ballet academies in the world. I still have the chance of being a prima ballerina, but Lana’s ballet dreams have been crushed.
The next entry is dated a week later.
Dear Diary,
Class was hard today. I had no one to wink at when Madame Irina went off on one of her “You are all lazy, good-for-nothing shoe-shop girls, not dancers” rants. There was no one to help me perfect my steps after class, no one to translate what the teachers and the other girls were saying when they spoke too fast for me to understand — my Hungarian is getting better, but it’s still not great. And no one to step in when Zsuzsanna gave me a hard time about dancing with “my partner,” Péter, in duet class.
Before the lesson, Madame swapped everyone around and asked Péter to dance with just me. Zsuzsanna and Nóra both had to dance with Alexandr. Zsuzsanna protested wildly, but Madame told her to be quiet. Zsuzsanna and Nóra spent the rest of the class glaring at me as if I’d made the decision, not Madame. I love dancing with Péter. I know it sounds crazy, but I think we were born to dance together. I just wish it didn’t cause so much aggro.
Yesterday Zsuzsanna kicked me several times during barre work. Her pointe shoe impacted so hard on my upper thigh that it left angry dark-purple marks. The first time she did it, I spun around and said, “Hey, watch your feet,” thinking it was an accident. But by the third kick, I realized it was no accident. She wouldn’t have dared to do that if Lana was still around. But now I have no one to stick up for me. And complaining to Madame Irina will only make things worse.
So here I am, bruised body, bruised heart. How will I survive without Lana? I have no friends here now, and I feel so vulnerable and so alone . . .
I stop reading to wipe my tears away. I know exactly how Claire feels. But at least I have my family and Seth to rely on, and I’m not being picked on by anyone in school. There’s Annabelle, I guess, but compared to Zsuzsanna, she’s a pussycat. Claire is utterly alone, and from the sound of things, she’s being horribly bullied, both physically and mentally, by this Zsuzsanna. If the bullying started in April of last year, when this diary entry was written, then Claire’s had to deal with it for nearly two years. No wonder she’s cracking up. And I have no idea how to help her.
Dear Diary,
I’m bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored . . .
I snap my diary shut and fling it down on my bed. It’s Saturday lunchtime and I’d usually be hanging out with Mills, checking out the shops in Dundrum, drinking megacreamy hot chocolates in Starbucks, or maybe catching a movie. Instead, I’m home alone. I flop down on my bed. I’m just perfecting a string of long, dramatic groans when Mum walks into my bedroom.
“Are you all right, Amy?” she asks. “You sound like you’re in pain.”
I feel my cheeks go pink. Why do mums always catch you doing embarrassing things, like practicing your groans?
“Just something for school. Shakespeare,” I say.
She nods. Luckily most mums will also swallow anything. “Your dad’s on the phone.” She passes the home phone over and then stands there, waiting.
I look at her. She doesn’t seem to have any intention of leaving. She’s so nosy. “Ahem. Can I have some privacy please, Mother darling?”
I wait until I hear her footsteps on the stairs and then say, “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”
He chuckles. “Sylvie trying to listen in again, eh?”
“She’s obsessed with other people’s business.”
“Always has been. It comes with being a writer, apparently.” Mum used to be a scriptwriter for an Irish soap opera called Fair City, but she gave it up when she had Evie. She still does some other bits of writing, but she’s not working on anything at the moment.
“You can be quite nosy yourself, Dad,” I point out. “Spying on Pauline and everything.”
“Never say a word about that to anyone. Amy, promise me, especially not to Shelly. It was a stupid idea. Anyway, enough about my poisonous mother-in-law. What are you doing right now?”
“Why?” It sounds like a loaded question.
“Shelly has taken the witch into town for the afternoon to stop her moping around the house. It’s a really nice day, and I was thinking I might be able to squeeze in a few holes.”
“So you want me to babysit?”
He laughs. “Got it in one. And to sweeten the deal, I have something for you. I’ve just replaced our home laptop. I thought you could use our old one for your homework.”
Homework? Facebook, more like! “Coola boola! Thanks, Dad. Of course I’ll babysit. Although I would have done it anyway, even without the promise of a new laptop. Will you collect me or will I get Mum to drop me over?”
“Ah, well, here’s the thing. Gracie’s still very young. And you are only thirteen. So I was hoping you’d mind her there and that Sylvie might be around this afternoon in case —”
“In case I do anything stupid?” Charming!
“No, in case you need a hand. Babies are hard work, Amy.”
“Dad, I know all about babies. I live with two of them, remember?”
“I know, pet, but it would make your old dad happy to know there was an adult on the premises.”
“Oh, fine, I’ll ask her. I’ll ring you back in a minute.”
“That’s my girl. Thanks, Amy.”
I click off the phone and walk out my door, nearly colliding with Mum, who has clearly been eavesdropping.
“Siúcra, Mum, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry, but I knew Art was after something. He had that wheeler-dealer voice on. And I was right. He wants you to take Gracie off his hands so he can play golf, doesn’t he? But only if I’m in the house so he doesn’t feel too guilty about leaving a tiny baby in the care of a mere child.”
God, she’s good. I’m actually very impressed. Sleuthing must run in the family. “Child? Mother dearest, I’m thirteen. And haven’t you watched any of those teen-mum programs on the telly?”
“What a terrifying thought, Amy,” she snaps. “Don’t even joke about things like that.”
“I was kidding, Mother, please! What has you in such a bad mood all of a sudden?”
“Your father! He’s always taking advantage of you, Amy, and it’s just not fair. Why should you ruin your Saturday just because he wants to hit stupid little balls around with his fat, middle-aged banker mates? Go on, ring him back and tell him you can’t do it. Or would you like me to have a word with the man? I’d be only too happy to give him a piece of my mind.”
“Mum, please let me babysit. It’s the first time I’ve been allowed to mind Gracie on my own. She’s my sister, and I want to help look after her. Give her a bottle, burp her, change her nappy, all that kind of stuff. Like I do with Alex and Evie.” It’s true, I really do want to get to know Gracie better. I’m going to be the best childminder and big sister ever.
Mum’s eyes soften and she sighs. “Oh, Amy. How can I say no to that? Go on, then. Tell Art he can drop her off.”
An hour later, Gracie is still asleep in her little baby chair and I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, staring down at her. I was hoping for lots of time playing together, singing her nursery rhymes and showing her some of Evie’s toys, but she hasn’t so much as opened her eyes yet. I rock her chair a little with my foot, but no, still nothing — just a funny-sounding hiccupy gurgle. Fabulous! Even my baby sister wants nothing to do with me.
Instead, I open the laptop Dad gave me. It’s a top-of-the-range silver Sony. Nothing but the best for Dad. Mum nearly went crazy when she realized it was now mine. “You can’t just give it to her, Art!” she’d said, almost apoplectic with rage. “How is Amy supposed to learn about the value of hard work when you hand over expensive gifts just like that? You should at least have waited till Christmas.”
&n
bsp; Dad had just shrugged. “What’s the world coming to if I can’t treat my daughter once in a while? Look, if it makes you happy, Sylvie, we’ll call it an early Christmas present, OK?”
It didn’t seem to make Mum any happier, but after more huffing and puffing, she eventually said I could keep it. And now it’s sitting proudly on my desk. My very own laptop. How cool is that? Dad even set up the Internet and everything for me. While Gracie dozes, I switch it on and click on to Internet Explorer. Then I log in to my Facebook account and check for messages and updates. There are none. Mills was the only person who sent me messages on a regular basis, and now my page is depressingly quiet. I click on Mills’s profile. Seeing her smiling head shot, complete with large heart-shaped sunglasses (her mum insisted on a Facebook “disguise”), makes me sad.
Out of curiosity, and to stop thinking about Mills, I load up Pauline’s page. She hasn’t set her privacy settings to “friends only,” so I am able to flip through her photographs. There are lots of Pauline, Shelly, and baby Gracie at Gracie’s christening and then some of Pauline playing cards with Dean. Pauline is beaming at the camera, her huge teeth glinting in the sunlight. She looks really happy. I realize with a start that I’ve rarely seen her smile. She must be really miserable in Ireland, away from the sun and away from Dean. She’s obviously still crazy about the man, but she’s too stubborn to tell him how she really feels.
And then I have a thought. What if there was a way of getting Pauline and Dean back together again and helping Dad out in the process? Surely a wee touch of undercover false-identity meddling wouldn’t be wrong if it made people happy? The edges of my lips start to curl. I think I can feel another plan coming on . . .
On Monday morning, I’m walking toward the art building with Seth when I spot Bailey standing in front of the school notice board, peering at the rugby news. Dominique was right: word of the “Monkstown drug bust,” as everyone’s calling it, is all over the school, and hopefully it will nip firmly in the bud any thoughts Bailey has of bulking up illegally.
“Hey, Bailey,” I say as we walk toward him.
“Hey, guys. How goes it, Greenster? Long time no see.”
“OK,” I say. It’s all a bit awkward. I haven’t talked to Bailey properly for days. I know he’s Mills’s boyfriend and everything, but we’re supposed to be friends too. But right now we’re just standing here, staring at each other, as if we’re strangers.
“Better get to class, kiddo,” Seth says gently and puts his hand on my arm. “Don’t want to be late for Olen. See you later, Bailey.” Mr. Olen’s our art teacher, and he can be as moody as the Irish weather, all sunny smiles one day, gray growls the next.
“You go on, Seth,” I say. “I just want to talk to Bailey for a second.”
Seth looks at me, his eyes soft, and then says, “Will do.” That’s what I love about Seth. He knows I’m having a rough time at the moment, what with Mills and everything, and he’s being so sweet. Seth’s thoughtful behavior makes falling out with Mills almost worth it. Only almost, though, ’cause, let’s face it, having a best friend, someone who truly understands and accepts you, warts and all, is what makes life bearable. Without Mills, I feel like someone’s lopped my right arm off.
But as Clover and Seth have both pointed out, it’s not forever; she’s bound to change her mind at some point. After all, we’ve fallen out before — like when I “forgot” to tell her about getting together with Seth last spring, and she got all pally with Sophie (who used to be friends with both of us before she turned D4) and dumped me — but we’ve always made up. And we will this time, I’m sure. At least I hope we will. She has to forgive me eventually, doesn’t she?
I look at Bailey, biting my lip nervously. He seems equally uneasy. I think he suspects what’s coming.
I take a deep breath. “Sorry, Bailey. I know you probably don’t want to get involved, but this whole thing with Mills is really getting to me. It’s been days now, and I miss her desperately. I just want things to go back to normal. I know I hurt her, and I’m really, really sorry. I’ll do anything to get her back. Will you tell her that? Tell her how sorry I am and how awful I feel about upsetting her. Please?”
Bailey takes a few seconds to answer. “I miss you too, Greenster. It wasn’t the same on Friday night without you.”
“Does Mills miss me?” I ask eagerly.
His face falls a little.
“You don’t have to answer that,” I say. “But surely she’s softening up a bit? She’s going to change her mind eventually, right? We’ve been best friends for years.”
“It’s not looking good,” Bailey says slowly. “She’s pretty —” He stops abruptly and sighs. “Look, it’s probably best just to let her be for the moment. She can be kinda stubborn.”
“Tell me about it. So you’re saying I just have to wait around and hope for the best?”
He shrugs. “I guess. I’m sorry. I’ve tried reasoning with her, but she’s still mega-upset. Seth tried talking to her about everything on Friday night and she yelled at him and then started crying.”
I wince. That doesn’t sound like Mills at all. The crying bit, yes; the yelling, no. She must still be seriously angry. “Thanks for trying, Bailey.”
He gives me a gentle smile. “‘S OK. I hope she does change her mind. She needs you just as much as you need her. Take care of yourself, you hear?”
I nod and walk away so that he doesn’t spot the tears that have started to spill down my cheeks.
That evening, I’m sitting at my desk, trying to do my homework, but my mind is racing. I can’t stop thinking about Bailey and how together he seemed today. A few months ago, he was in a pretty dark place, doing badly at school and lashing out at everyone who cared about him. He’s had a difficult past. His mum was bringing him up on her own, but she couldn’t cope, and she abandoned him when he was a toddler. When his father, Finn, finally found out what had happened and got in touch with him, Bailey was a teenager and didn’t want anything to do with him. Bailey felt that, as Finn hadn’t been around when he’d really needed a father, why should he talk to Finn now? But eventually Bailey realized that the more people you have in your life who care about you, the better, so he forgave Finn and now they live together.
Mills has been brilliant for Bailey. She’s always been his biggest fan, and I’m sure she’s part of the reason that he’s doing so well now. Soon after they got together for the first time, he pushed her and everyone else away. Mills was devastated, but they made it up and now they’re inseparable. She’s a brilliant girlfriend and a brilliant friend, and I should never have dissed her like that in my diary. What was I thinking? I keep going over and over it in my head, how one stupid action can have so many consequences. Writing about Mills was like throwing a stone in the sea and not realizing the ripples it would cause.
And like Bailey, I need Mills too. I need her horribly. But maybe this time it’s different. Maybe Mills really has moved on. How will I cope with school? How will I cope with life?
“How’s the homework going, Amy?” Mum asks, walking into my room.
“I think I’m sick,” I lie. “I feel all hot and feverish. Maybe I’ve got one of those virus things. I don’t think I should go to school tomorrow.”
“Your cheeks are a little flushed,” Mum says, putting a hand against my forehead. “And you are quite hot. I’ll get Dave to take a look at you. He’ll be home soon.”
I blush. I know Dave will find nothing wrong with me. Luckily Mum doesn’t seem to notice my red face, although she does sit down on my bed with a funny look in her eyes. Oh, no, not a serious chat. Please not that, not right now! I start to feel as prickly as a hedgehog.
“Is there something else bothering you, Amy?” she asks. “Is it Mills? I bumped into Sue this morning in the supermarket, and she said you two still weren’t talking.”
“As Sue Big-mouth Starr seems to have filled you in, I don’t need to answer that, do I?”
“There’s no need t
o snap, Amy. I’m only trying to help.”
“Well, don’t. There’s nothing you can do. Mills hates me.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. ‘Hate’ is a very strong word. Friendships are difficult sometimes. And you have to work at them.”
“You’re not helping, Mum.”
“Sorry. But I’m sure she’ll come around. And I have something that might cheer you up. I was going to give it to you after your homework, but you can have it now.” And she hands over a magazine.
I instantly recognize the face smiling out from the front cover. It’s Claire Starr, her dark hair scraped back in a high ballerina bun, the sides plaited with thin white ribbon. She’s wearing a simple white-chiffon dress, and she looks stunning.
“Clover dropped this off earlier,” Mum says. “It’s a great piece. She’s a clever writer, that sister of mine, I’ll give her that.”
Mum’s only trying to be nice, and I shouldn’t be taking my feelings out on her, so to make up for it, I say, “You’re a great writer too, Mum. It must run in the family.”
She smiles. “Thank you, Amy. That’s a nice thing to say. You can have a break to read Clover’s article. Then, when you’re feeling a little better, it’s back to your homework. Deal?”
“Deal.” I flip open the magazine before Mum has a chance to change her mind.
“Try to stay positive, Amy,” she says. “Time is a great healer.”
“Mum! I’m trying to read.”
“OK, OK, I’m going, I’m going. I’m glad you seem to have perked up a bit. Oh, and Clover said to ring her once you’ve finished reading the article. You know my sis, a total praise monkey.”
“Will do.” Any excuse to ring Clover.
I find Clover’s interview near the front of the Goss. A whole three pages of it too! I start to read:
Claire Starr is a name you’d better start getting used to hearing. This megatalented Irish seventeen-year-old is about to set the stage of the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre alight with her stirring rendition of Juliet. Watch out, world, there’s a new Starr on the horizon. But where did Claire get her amazing talent, and what drives her? The Goss sent its own rising star, Clover M. Wildgust, behind the scenes to find out . . .
