Dancing Daze

by Sarah Webb

  “Modesty’s for losers,” she says. “I’m going to smash it. Péter thinks so too. He’s such a sweet guy. I’ve told him about Zsuzsanna and what has been going on. He wanted to kill her, of course, but he knows that getting angry is not the answer. So everything’s good, Amy, thanks to you and Clover.”

  I grin to myself. Maybe reading back over her old diary entries helped, or maybe meeting Ethel and realizing that she wasn’t alone — that even the great Olga Varga was bullied once — gave Claire the confidence boost she needed, or maybe she would have bounced back anyway. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. All I care about is that the old Claire Starr is totally and absolutely back!

  “Anyway, I know Mills still isn’t speaking to you,” she continues. “She can be pretty stubborn, that sister of mine. I figured I owe you one, so I had a word with her, told her not to throw away everything you guys have because of a silly fight. She told me what happened, about reading your diary.”

  I can feel myself blushing.

  “I didn’t mean any of it. Not really,” I explain.

  Claire smiles gently. “I know. I keep a diary too, remember? You never expect anyone else to read it, do you?”

  “No,” I murmur. Even though I’ve deleted Claire’s diary from my memory stick and will take her secrets to the grave, I still feel guilty. I’ll just have to live with it, I guess. And I’ll never, ever, read anyone’s diary again, that’s for certain.

  “When Mills realized what it was, she should have stopped reading immediately,” Claire adds strongly. “It was wrong, and she sees that now. We had a bit of a chat about boys too. The problem is, that thing you wrote about her wanting to be a cheerleader just because of Bailey was the truth, and she doesn’t want to admit it to herself, let alone to anyone else. I hope you guys can work things out. You’re very lucky to have each other.”

  “Thanks,” I say, a faint glimmer of hope starting to dance in my stomach. “For talking to Mills, I mean.”

  “No, thank you, Amy. I’m not sure I would have made it this far without you and Clover. Meeting Ethel has changed my life. And she was right about Madame Pongor. She is a sweetheart under that gruff exterior.”

  “How are things with Zsuzsanna?” I ask.

  “OK. I told her I’d report her if she didn’t stop picking on me. She didn’t like that one little bit, but she’s just ignoring me now, which is a big improvement.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Thanks. I was proud of myself, all right.” She pauses for a second and looks a little worried. “Amy, you won’t say anything to Mills or my folks about the bullying, will you? It would only upset them, and it’s under control now.”

  “Of course not. I’m good at keeping secrets.” If only she knew how good!

  On Thursday morning, I wait at the letter box for Mills. It’s where we usually meet to travel to school together, and I’m hoping that Mills’s mood has thawed. But she doesn’t show up.

  On Friday morning, I try again, but again, no joy. Mills must still be leaving early to avoid me. She’s supposed to be coming to the ballet tonight with Clover, Mum, and me. I’ve texted her loads of times to ask if she’s still coming, but she hasn’t replied. I guess I know what that means. She still hates me.

  I trudge off toward the train station, feeling dark and alone. And then I sit in a train carriage, alone. I’ve waited so long for Mills that I’ve missed the train Seth and Bailey always get. I can’t stop thinking about Mills and how much I miss her. I’ve tried not to think about it too much, as it’s so upsetting, but today it’s like a scab I just have to pick, pick, pick. For some reason, I want to make myself feel even worse. I remember all the fun we used to have, the sleepovers when we stayed up all night, laughing until our stomachs hurt, writing lists of the famous boys we’d like to marry, drawing our fantasy wedding dresses (that was Mills’s idea!), making up our faces like Lady Gaga and dancing around the bedroom, singing into hairbrushes, or playing Just Dance on the Wii until our bodies ached. My eyes start to fill with tears, and I blink them away and take a few deep breaths to steady myself.

  As I’m walking up the road toward Saint John’s, I get a text from Seth: FORGOT TO TELL YOU. OFF TO HOSPITAL WITH POLLY TODAY. WON’T BE IN SCHOOL. SEE YOU ON SAT XXX SETH

  My heart sinks into my scuffed school shoes. Seth often goes to the hospital with Polly when she’s having her regular tests done, but did it have to be today? Oh, this day is just getting better and better.

  At break, I spot Mills pulling books out of her locker and walk toward her, my stomach tense. “Mills?”

  She turns to look at me, and we stand there for a few long seconds, staring at each other. Her cheeks go a little pink, and I can feel mine heating up too.

  “Are you still coming to the ballet with Mum and Clover and me tonight?” I ask her. “Dad got us all tickets, remember? It’ll be fun.” I smile at her hopefully.

  “Fun?” She gives a very un-Mills-like snort and slams her locker door shut. “As if I’d want to be anywhere near you, Amy Green. Get a life. And you’re in my way. Move!”

  She pushes past me, her books clutched against her chest.

  “Mills!” I walk after her.

  “Stop following me, Amy. I don’t want to talk to you — not now, not ever. Get it?”

  “I’m sorry, OK? I’m really, really sorry. I miss you. Please —” My voice cracks, and tears start to spill down my cheeks. Mills doesn’t stop walking.

  “Oh, Mills!” I hear a voice behind me. It’s Annabelle. Nina and Sophie are with her. Annabelle’s mouth is twisted into a nasty scowl. “Mills, don’t do this to me,” she says in a high-pitched baby voice. “I’m all alonio and I have no fwends. Boo-hoo-hoo.” She pretends to cry into her hands.

  “You’re completely heartless, Annabelle Hamilton,” I say, my stomach churning with upset and anger. “You’re nothing but a big bully.”

  “At least I have friends, Amy Green,” she says, sneering.

  “You don’t. People hang out with you only ’cause they’re scared of you. One day you’ll realize that.”

  “Well, even Mills Starr doesn’t want anything to do with you, and she’s, like, a total loser. Which makes you an even bigger loser.”

  “Don’t talk about Mills like that. She’s amazing and smart and funny — and loyal. And speaking of loyalty, shouldn’t you be sticking up for her? She is a fellow cheerleader.”

  Annabelle laughs and tosses her hair, sending a waft of disgustingly sweet perfume into the air. “We are, like, so not friends. We only tolerate her ’cause we, like, need her so we can ace the nationals. After that, she’s so off the squad. She so doesn’t fit in. She’s, like, a complete square. You know something? You two deserve each other. You’re as pathetic as each other. Now, it’s been, like, awesome talking to you, but we have to split.”

  “What makes you think I want to talk to you anyway, Annabelle Hamilton?” I say. But she’s right. I have no friends, so nobody hears me.

  That evening, I’m standing in front of my mirror, staring at the girl in the black jeans and plain black T-shirt, the girl with the dead eyes and the slumped shoulders, when I spot something sparkly out of the corner of my eye. It’s the snow globe I bought Mills in Budapest. I must have knocked against it as I walked past my desk, because the tiny glittering “snow” particles are swirling around the tiny dancer inside it, like she’s caught in a blizzard.

  I pick it up and hold it in my hands, running my finger over its smooth glass surface. I know Mills would have loved it. Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I sit down on my bed and stare into space. I guess it’s time to face facts. I’m going to have to learn to live without Mills, my best friend in the whole entire world.

  Clover bounds through the door while I’m sitting there thinking and says, “Ta-da! You likey?” She drops the dark-pink shopping bag she’s holding onto the floor and spreads out her arms, like she’s tap dancing. She’s wearing a black dress with a soft velvet top and a
full, ballerina skirt made of layers and layers of tulle. “It’s my homage to Swan Lake.”

  “I thought we were seeing Romeo and Juliet.”

  “It’s all ballet smallet. So? Do I look super-duper or what?”

  “You look beautiful, Clover,” I say, my voice coming out a little flat.

  “You don’t seem very excited about the show, Beanie. What’s up, jelly tot?”

  “Mills,” I admit. “She’s not coming tonight. I’ve lost her, Clover. I’ve lost my best friend.”

  Clover sits down beside me and puts her arm around my shoulders. “Have you tried talking to her, babes?”

  “Yes. But she won’t listen to me. It’s no use. She doesn’t want anything to do with me, ever again.”

  Clover spots the snow globe that is still nestled in my hands. “That was for her, wasn’t it?” she asks gently.

  I nod. “Claire even tried talking to her for me, but it still didn’t work.”

  “Give her the globe anyway. As a kind of farewell gift. Write her a note to go with it, saying how sorry you are. It will make you feel better about things later on. It might even give you some closure, as the Americanos say. I’ll ask your mum for a padded envelope and I’ll drop it over there while you get dressed, hon, OK?”

  “I am dressed.”

  Clover leans forward and picks the shopping bag up off the floor. “For you, babes. I thought you could do with a little pick-me-up.”

  I pull out a black-silk puff-sleeved dress with tiny ballerinas all over it in white. It’s adorable.

  “Thanks, Clover.”

  “You’re welcome, Beanie. Now I have to help Sylvie with her makeup, so write that notearooney, chop-chop.” She tosses her head back, scowls at me, and taps her foot on the floor.

  “Yes, Monsieur Elfman.”

  “Got it in one, Beanie.” She laughs and then trips out of the room. As soon as she’s gone, I rip a page out of my notebook, grab a pen, and start to write.

  Dear Mills,

  I saw this snow globe in the Christmas market in Budapest, and I thought of you. We’re off to see Claire tonight without you, and it feels all wrong. We should be watching your sister together, squealing and getting completely overexcited, until Mum shushes us and we squeeze each other’s hands and try to stop giggling.

  I’ll be thinking of you when Claire comes onstage. You must be so proud of her. I’m sure you’ll be going to see her over the weekend with your mum and dad. You might be going every night, for all I know. It’s quite something, having a star like Claire in the Starr family. I know she’s going to be stellar. (Get it?)

  Mills, I’m so sorry about what happened. I wake up every day feeling sick, knowing I have to spend another day without my best friend by my side. I’ll never have another friend like you as long as I live. You’re one in a million: smart, funny, loyal, sweet, kind . . . all the things that I’m not.

  I miss you so much, Mills. I’ll always have a special place for you in my heart, no matter what. I’ll put your ballet ticket in the envelope — you’re such a scrapbook fiend that you might like it for your new Claire Starr scrapbook, ’cause, boy, are you going to need one!

  Love you forever,

  Amy xxx

  “Everything all right, Amy?” Mum asks. We’re sitting in our red-velvet seats in the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre and I’m concentrating on the stage, trying to stop thinking about how much Mills would love this place. It’s truly breathtaking, with its soaring ceilings, made up of geometrical layers of wood, and mesmerizing lights in the shape of stars.

  “Great.” I smile across at her, trying to forget about the empty aisle seat to my right. We are only six rows from the stage, at the end of the middle row, and we have an amazing view. Clover’s sitting to my left, and she squeezes my hand.

  “Here we go, Ballet Bean, Claire’s big moment,” she says. “I don’t know about you, but my stomach’s turning pirouettes for her.”

  “Mine too.”

  There’s an excited hum as the last few people take their seats and the lights begin to slowly dim. Then I hear a voice from the aisle. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

  I look up. And standing there, looking nervous, is Mills. Mills!

  I shake my head, unable to say anything and not daring to think about what this means.

  She sits down beside me. “Thanks for the snow globe,” she says. “It’s beautiful. And your note meant a lot. I heard you sticking up for me today too, telling Annabelle I was funny and smart. Thanks. And I hate to admit it, but you were right all along. I did join the All Saints only ’cause of Bailey. But I really like cheering, Ames, and I’m good at it! I want to keep doing it — if Annabelle doesn’t drive me out, or murder me or something. The thing is I should never have read your diary in the first place.” She shrugs. “So I guess we’re back to normal. If that’s OK with you?”

  For a second, I can’t say anything. I’m so relieved and happy that I’m speechless. Then I finally find my voice. “OK?” I squeal. “It’s brilliant.” I fling my arms around Mills and hug her tight, my heart soaring. “And I’ll always stick up for you, Mills. Always!”

  “Claire told me about Budapest,” she says after our hug. “And how you and Clover tracked down Olga Varga and everything. She said talking to Olga about her dance worries made all the difference. Thanks to you, Claire’s back to her old annoying, bossy, confident self.”

  I laugh. “But you wouldn’t have her any other way.”

  “Correct!” She laughs too.

  “Girls,” Mum hisses. “Keep it down now. It’s about to start. But I’m glad you could make it, Mills. Good to see you.”

  “Me too,” Clover says, giving me a big I’m-really-happy-for-you smile.

  As the orchestra starts to play, Mills and I both giggle and squirm in our seats like little kids, trying to contain our excitement, just as I predicted.

  “I’ve really missed you, Ames,” Mills whispers. “Best friends.”

  “Forever,” I add.

  She grins, takes my hand in hers and holds it firmly, her palm warm against mine. I hope she never lets it go.

  Last night, at the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre, a new ballet star was born. Dubliner Claire Starr danced her way into the headlines with her remarkable performance of Juliet in Budapest Ballet’s delightfully fresh and vibrant production of Romeo and Juliet.

  Starr’s technique was near perfect, and she danced with such energy and confidence that it was impossible not to be swept away by her beautifully tender and emotional portrayal of one of Shakespeare’s famous star-crossed lovers.

  The packed auditorium quite clearly adored her, reflected by the ten-minute standing ovation. When Starr and her Romeo, the powerful young Hungarian dancer Péter Bako, embraced and kissed during the curtain call, three high-spirited teenagers in seats near the front started to chant, “Olé, olé, olé, olé, Claire Starr, Claire Starr.”

  It’s not hard to see why Starr inspires such devoted outbursts. Her dancing is world class, and this reviewer, for one, can’t wait to see what she does next. Watch this space . . .

  This book would not have been possible without a LOT of people’s help (my very own corps de ballet!). First up my light-footed family: Mum, Dad, Kate, Emma, and Richard. I love you all to bits. I wouldn’t be able to write without all the emergency school runs and babysitting.

  My own family, Ben, Sam, Amy, and Jago, are also trip-the-light fantastic. Ben never complains when I take off to festivals or on tours (or drag him to the ballet); Sam is my teen guru; and Amy and Jago let me waltz them around the kitchen on a daily basis, which always makes me smile.

  I am deeply indebted to three wonderful women from the Irish ballet world who all helped to make Claire’s story come alive — Harriet Parsons, Rachel Goode, and Monica Loughman, the original “Irish Ballerina.” Harriet told me about her ballet journey a long time ago, and I’ve held it in my head and in my heart all this time. Rachel and Monica gave up some of their very preci
ous time to answer lots of dance-related questions. Thank you all so much for your valuable help. Any ballet-related mistakes are entirely my own!

  There is no company called the Budapest Ballet, and Claire’s Budapest Dance Academy is also fictional, but the dancers from the real Hungarian Ballet and their talent, passion, and dedication were a huge inspiration. I was lucky enough to see them perform in the wonderful Budapest Opera House, and thanks to all at Brody House in Budapest, especially Will, for a magical visit. For photos of this very special research trip, see www.askamygreen.com.

  As always, I have to thank my dear friends Tanya, Andrew, and Nicky, who have seen their fair share of my (real) dancing over the years, God love them; and of course my fabulous writer friend Martina “Zuma” Devlin; and quick-stepping friends in children’s books: Judi Curtin, Oisin McGann, Marita Conlon-McKenna, David Maybury, David O’Callaghan, and Tom Donegan. And finally, Kim Harte and all the fab children’s booksellers in Dubray Books. Booksellers rock!

  My agents, Philippa Milnes-Smith and Peta Nightingale, are always in step beside me; and Mags and crew at Children’s Books Ireland (CBI) choreograph fantastic book events on a daily basis.

  When the Walker gang danced into my life, I was one lucky girl. Huge thanks to Gill Evans and Annalie Grainger for sculpting my every step into shape. Annalie was so dedicated to the cause that she traveled all the way to Budapest to check out the city for herself. She’s a true Amy Greenster and knows Amy and Clover almost as well as I do at this stage. Thanks also to the lovely Jo Humphreys-Davies and Jane Harris for supporting the lifts; Sean, Hanna, Molly, Heidi, and the sales and marketing gang for making sweet music (about the book); and Katie, Nicola, and Sarah Coleman, who were in charge of the cover. And a lovely job they did too — I adore my new look. And finally, Conor Hackett is my leading man in Ireland, a great friend in books and a true gentleman.

  I must mention my forever-young editor and fount of all knowledge Kate Gordon. Kate has been part of the Amy Green team right from the start. And a big thanks to the Young Editors who worked on this book with me and gave me such fantastic feedback, Yazmin de Barra and Anna Aldridge. It’s a better book because of you, girls. I hope my next Young Editors do half as good a job as you did! (Look out for the next Young Editor Competition on the Amy Green website.)