Abigail: Through the Looking Glass

by Rachel Elliot

  This is silly – he is not hauling me in front of a doctor just for controlling what I put into my body.

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘What I need is to get through tomorrow’s exam. After that I’ll rest all holidays.’

  ‘No, this isn’t right–’

  I have a sudden vision of Dr Wicks shaking her head, and fear floods through me.

  ‘They won’t let me dance and then there’s no way I’ll win the scholarship,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking. ‘You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.’

  I see his expression change; he’s caving.

  ‘On one condition,’ he says.

  He reaches into his bag and pulls out some homemade pastries. ‘Mum sent me these for luck,’ he says, handing them to me.

  They’re not exactly what I’d call appetising, but I take them and smile at him. This is not the moment to tell him what I’m really thinking.

  The pas de deux exam is about to begin. At the front of the studio, the panel is waiting, their eyes sharp and alert. I feel as if I’m not really here. I didn’t get much sleep last night.

  I dance through our routine but I know I’m not at my best. Sammy is moving well, but I feel as if I’m dancing in fog, unable to see the floor or the room around me or even my partner. My legs are shaking, and now it’s time for the shoulder lift. We did it last night – I know we can do it again. But at the last moment I misjudge it – I’m slipping through Sammy’s hands.

  Sammy manages to cover the mistake by turning it into a different move. But there’s no way that’s going to get past Miss Raine. Sure enough, she stops the music and walks over to us.

  ‘Abigail, this isn’t like you,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Go back and start again please. And this time, for your sake, put some life into it.’

  I think I nod, but my body is slipping out of my control, and my ears are filled with a strange, buzzing sound.

  ‘Bees,’ I say aloud.

  ‘What?’ Sammy asks.

  ‘I remembered what happens when I get nervous,’ I say, and my voice isn’t my own. ‘I hear bees.’

  The music begins again, but I can barely hear a note over the buzzing. It’s getting louder and louder, and it’s so hot in here … and now the world is telescoping down into a single, black pinprick, and my legs won’t hold me up any longer.

  CHAPTER 7

  I never thought I’d say this, but Sammy is actually kind of cool.

  To collapse in front of the exam panel and all the other students is bad enough, but then to be sent home early to face my mum makes me feel like an amoeba. Sometimes I catch Mum looking at me out of the corner of her eye and I know I’ve let her down.

  At first I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to leave my room again. But Sammy is totally nonjudgmental. He makes it easier to go out and face the world again.

  I shouldn’t have stopped eating, but I hate that I have to see a therapist because of it. His name’s Adam, and he gets me to talk about pointless things like ‘when I was happiest’. What does any of that matter? What’s important is how I get back on track. I’m keeping the perfect diary and eating the perfect diet, and the sooner they realise I’m fine, the better. Maybe then they’ll decide I can dance again.

  I’ve never had this much time on my hands. I’m waiting for Adam to realise that I’m fit to dance. He says I can go dancing with a friend ‘for the love of it’, but I can’t do ballet, attend classes or even practise in the studio. He wants me to find other interests, but that shows me how little he understands. I miss it every waking moment. I miss it every sleeping moment! I woke myself up last night by trying to do a grand jete in my sleep.

  Sammy shows up after every therapy session. At first I thought I didn’t want him there – I wanted to be alone. But Sammy’s not the sort of person to make fun of me, and he’s actually quite good company. He makes me laugh, too. Of course, it’s not as if Sammy has turned into the perfect friend overnight. He can still be annoying – for instance when he’s pestering me to go to the salsa class he teaches. As if I could be remotely interested in salsa.

  Another day, another pointless therapy session. Adam keeps wittering on about the future, but there’s only one question I want him to answer.

  ‘Are you going to let me dance or not?’

  ‘We all want to feel you’re strong enough to cope with–’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’ I demand.

  ‘You’re not ready yet,’ he replies, and I feel my body tighten. ‘I can see you have a reaction to that. Tell me how you feel when I say you can’t go back to ballet.’

  He’s not going to let me dance whatever I say.

  ‘I feel like I eat and eat, exactly what I’m told to,’ I tell him, trying to hold my anger in. ‘And I write my stupid diary. And imagine my stupid coping strategies and you won’t let me dance.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘I want you to be honest.’

  Ugh, he’s so smug.

  ‘You want honest?’ I ask. ‘I’ll give you honest, Adam. It’s unfair. I will fall behind. There are performances at the end of the year. Someone else will get my role.’

  ‘Everyone wants you to dance again. We just want you to be healthy, too.’

  I’m shaking. I can’t stop.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ I say. ‘You are just like ballet.’

  ‘How am I like ballet?’

  ‘I give it everything and I never get anything back,’ I say. ‘I love ballet. Ballet just doesn’t love me.’

  ‘Ballet doesn’t have feelings, Abigail. It can’t love you or not love you.’

  I stand up. He cannot possibly understand.

  ‘Are we done?’ I ask, putting up my walls again.

  ‘All your teachers say you are a wonderful dancer,’ Adam says. ‘If you choose you can have a professional career.’

  I stop. Do my teachers really say that?

  ‘Or you can follow an unhealthy path that will make it impossible for you to dance,’ he goes on.

  I can’t move. What is he saying?

  ‘Today you have choices,’ Adam says in a soft voice. ‘If you don’t deal with this you’ll lose that power.’

  Fine, I have choices, and I choose to do the one thing that makes me feel as if I belong somewhere. It feels so good to be in the rehearsal studio again, and Adam never needs to know that I’m practising.

  This is the longest I’ve been away from a rehearsal studio since I was a little girl. As I walk in and drop my bag, it’s as if I’m looking at it for the first time. It suddenly seems very big and very demanding.

  I move over to the barre, moving slowly, almost feeling my way. I need the old Abigail – the brave, determined Abigail that I was – that I am! No one tells me I can’t do ballet.

  I rest my hand on the barre and my fingers tingle at the feel of the wood. I take a deep breath and rise to my toes … my grip on the barre tightens. I actually need it to keep me steady.

  Suddenly I catch a strain of muffled music from the main studio across the corridor. I pause and listen. It’s salsa music; Sammy must be holding his class here.

  The moment has come – my time to dance. All I have to do is start. But my feet don’t seem to want to obey me. A burst of laughter comes from the main studio. Sammy’s voice rises over the top of it.

  ‘Take your partners,’ he instructs. ‘Ladies’ choice.’

  My hand drops from the barre of its own accord. I have all evening to practise. I’ll just take a look at Sammy’s class, and I’ll come back and dance after that.

  Half a dozen older ladies and men are dancing in pairs. They’re all smiling and laughing – everyone looks happy. I step a little closer. There’s such a contrast between this and the silent rehearsal studio. The elderly lady Sammy’s dancing with gives his bum a squeeze! I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘Greta Rothstein, keep your hands off my grandson’s buttocks!’ exclaims another old lady.

  She’s Sammy’s grandma! She
seems like fun. Her eyes are sparkling as she salsas around the room. Sammy’s eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t stop instructing the class.

  ‘Step on two,’ he calls out. ‘Left forward marks one. Gentlemen step forward, ladies step back. Two, three, six, seven.’

  His grandma dances over towards me and says, ‘You must be Abigail.’

  ‘I was just leaving,’ I say.

  Just then, an elegant old man pauses in front of me.

  ‘May I have this dance?’ he asks.

  ‘Go on, Abigail,’ says Sammy’s grandma. ‘Make his day.’

  The look in her eyes is so kind and friendly, I don’t want to say no. I let the man, whose name is Joe, take me in his arms and we start to dance. He’s leading me around the studio and I feel awkward and ungraceful compared to all these swaying bodies. It’s like being the new girl again. I try to focus on the steps.

  ‘The gentleman is supposed to lead,’ Joe says gently. ‘Just go with me.’

  I suppose I might as well. I let my limbs relax a little, and Joe smiles at me.

  ‘Lovely,’ he says.

  And suddenly I’m part of it. I’m one of the swaying dancers, and it is lovely. Sammy swings past and catches my eye.

  ‘You came,’ he says.

  ‘Shut up,’ I reply with a smile. ‘I’m dancing!’

  CHAPTER 8

  I can’t sleep, but for once it’s not because I’m thinking about ballet. It’s because Tara took the wrong pillow and I can’t get comfortable on her lumpy old thing.

  Tara and Kat are both back early – before the start of the new semester. They’re sharing a room, which means that I’m on my own. It’s so quiet in here. Weird how peaceful the sound of someone else’s breathing can be. I never thought I’d miss her.

  I try turning the pillow over again and thump my head down on it in frustration. It’s no use; she’s going to have to swap. I grab the pillow and head for Kat’s room – but halfway there I bump into Tara carrying my pillow.

  ‘That’s mine,’ Tara says, pointing at the pillow in my arms.

  I guess she couldn’t sleep either.

  ‘You’re the one who moved things,’ I reply. ‘If there’s a pillow thief it’s you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she says, to my surprise. ‘I’m sorry.’

  We swap pillows and Tara catches my eye.

  ‘Can’t sleep,’ she says. ‘Kat’s not home.’

  ‘Four students didn’t make the half-year cut,’ I say. ‘You’d think it was time to get serious.’

  Tara nods, and I glance away. I can’t look into her eyes when I say this, but I also can’t let this chance pass by without trying.

  ‘Your bed’s still empty,’ I say. ‘If you don’t want to be trampled by Kat climbing through the window …’

  ‘Isn’t the room tidier without me?’ Tara asks, her voice soft.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  It just isn’t the same.

  We don’t say anything else, but Tara follows me up the stairs to our room.

  Adam still looks at me as if he’s trying to read my thoughts, but it doesn’t annoy me so much any more. The therapy sessions are actually not as bad as they used to be.

  ‘You understand that we support you?’ Adam says. ‘Your parents, your teachers, your friends.’

  I think about Sammy’s face grinning hopefully at me after every session. I think about Joe leading me into the dance and Tara coming back to share my room again. I’m not saying I was wrong about everyone being competitive, but I guess I’ve been finding out that some people do kind things for no ulterior motive too, sometimes.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  And this time I’m not just saying what he wants to hear.

  ‘Recovery isn’t always smooth,’ he says. ‘If you need me, I’m here.’

  The session is over. I stand up, but he looks as if he’s expecting something more.

  ‘So … when were you going to ask to go back to dancing?’ he says.

  I look at him. Maybe he’s not so bad after all.

  ‘I guess you’ll tell me when I’m ready,’ I reply.

  The new semester has started and I can feel my stress levels rising already. It’s one thing to forget about competition during the holidays – it’s another when I’m only allowed to dance at the barre and not en pointe, and a new girl is Miss Raine’s star pupil.

  Petra Hoffman is here on exchange from the Berlin Ballet School, and it’s true that she is a good, lyrical dancer … but it’s driving me a bit crazy that I can’t dance and show her what I’m capable of. Thankfully there is a distraction tonight – it’s Kat’s birthday, and she’s having a party. Needless to say, I wasn’t invited, but Sammy talked me into coming along as his guest.

  Kat’s living room is heaving with people and Sean is working his DJ decks. Sammy and I are messing around with dancing – a weird mix of salsa, hiphop and freestyle. None of the other dancers have any technique to speak of, and I’ve definitely heard better music, but the party is actually kind of fun.

  Petra’s using her camera phone to take photos of couples for what she calls her ‘Public Display of Affection’ collection. She grabs a handful of jelly shots that are going past. I don’t think she realises they’re alcoholic.

  ‘I’ve never tasted jelly like this before,’ she says, putting her arm through Sammy’s. ‘Can you take a photo of us, Abigail?’

  She’s now swaying so much that it’s hard to get a snap that’s not blurry. While I’m trying to delete the failures, I find a photo that Petra must have taken in the last few days. It’s Tara kissing someone down by the harbour, but the ‘someone’ isn’t Ethan, her boyfriend. It’s Christian.

  I can’t believe it. Tara spent ages crushing on Ethan, and now she’s got him she’s turning her attention to the moodiest boy at the Academy? I seriously don’t get that girl – how could anyone prefer Christian to Ethan? Whatever the reason, Petra has just handed me an absolute gift. I feel a sense of satisfaction as I hit the ‘Send’ button. Tara’s cheating is about to go viral.

  CHAPTER 9

  The world has officially gone crazy.

  Patrick has decided that what we all need for inspiration is a camping trip to the mountains. We’re going to be dancing in the open air – workshopping variations on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Sure, it’s beautiful up there – but it would look even more beautiful from the inside of a plane that was flying over it. I don’t do camping.

  As if that weren’t bad enough, Ms Histead, the English teacher, has decided that she’s had enough of what she calls my ‘excuses’ for not handing in assignments. She asks to see Sammy and I after class.

  ‘You’re failing English,’ she tells me, ‘and if that continues I’ll keep you down next year no matter how well you dance.’

  I can hardly believe my ears. The Academy is a dancing school – we’re not supposed to worry about the ordinary subjects.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ I say.

  ‘Before you go on camp you will submit a new essay on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, she says. ‘Sammy will be your tutor.’

  Sammy tries to protest, but she isn’t even listening. She hands me the assignment and dismisses us.

  This is a nightmare. Apart from the fact that I have no idea how to start writing this essay, Sammy’s furious with me. Since I sent that message, someone has been taping up copies of it all over the Academy. Everyone’s either laughing at Tara or refusing to speak to her, and that includes Kat.

  ‘You didn’t need to send that photo,’ Sammy says for the millionth time. ‘And if you’re now harassing Tara with them–’

  ‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘Like I could be bothered with the melodrama. So where’s my assignment?’

  ‘I’m not going to do it for you,’ Sammy says, looking astonished.

  He doesn’t honestly expect me to sit down and write an essay for real? I wouldn’t know where to start.

  ‘Look, I’ll sit here with you and watch you do it, I’ll give you s
ome pointers,’ he says. ‘But if you’re failing–’

  I do not need another lecture.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, reaching for his laptop and turning my voice to ice.

  He’s punishing me, and it’s not fair. If he’s not my friend any more, then I’m not going to let him see how much it hurts.

  ‘If you’re not going to help me I’d rather you didn’t watch,’ I say. ‘It’s creepy. Run along. I’ll be fine by myself.’

  He leaves the common room and I stare at the screen. I have no idea what to write. The thing is, I understand the ballet version, but on paper I can’t make sense of it. There’s only one option if Sammy won’t help me. There are hundreds of essays on the internet. I’m going to have to copy one of them.

  I hand in the essay, and Sammy guesses what I did. He’s really angry, and he’s sure Ms Histead will work it out, too.

  ‘I tried and I couldn’t do it,’ I try to explain. ‘Look, I know my strengths and I know my weaknesses. And I’m fine with them. I put my energy into what I’m good at.’

  ‘That’s such a cop out,’ he replies.

  I stare at him. He can’t see that he has proved himself wrong. He doesn’t even want to try to understand.

  ‘Not really,’ I say quietly. ‘You obviously think I’m stupid, otherwise you wouldn’t have checked to see if I cheated.’

  He has no answer for that, so I know I’m right. I’m not exactly enjoying fighting with Sammy, but he’s being so unreasonable. Tara and Kat still aren’t speaking, and Christian is glowering at everyone. And now we’re all heading off on a camping trip together. I am completely dreading it.

  So maybe camping isn’t the nightmare I thought it would be.

  Somehow, being outside and away from the city makes me feel different – more free, I guess. I’m starting to see why Patrick brought us here. There’s something about being outdoors that makes me dance A Midsummer Night’s Dream in a way I never have before.

  We’re practising the fight scene in a little glade. Kat and Tara are playing Helena and Hermia, and I’m waiting for my cue. I’m playing Puck, which is a fantastic role. Sammy says it’s typecasting, because Puck makes things worse before they get better. Puck is joyful and fun and cheeky, and I’m starting to use my body to portray the comedy and wit of the character – suddenly I get it.