Everyone’s laughing and whooping, but in that split second, all the feelings I’ve had and all the things Jai said crystallise into a decision, and I know that I was wrong.
Sure, ballet is always going to come first. But there is life outside of ballet too, and right now, wrapped in Sammy’s arms, I feel happier than I ever have. So I kiss him right back, and the people around us disappear, because all I can think about is him.
CHAPTER 12
Tara has dislocated her kneecap, and she’s using the time she can’t dance to organise a formal. Miss Raine is furious but I think it’s a good idea – I went half crazy those weeks when I wasn’t allowed to dance. Tara needs something to take her mind off it.
It’s not as if I’m usually good at empathising with people – or interested for that matter – but I can imagine how terrified she must be feeling. Her whole future depends on her body being in peak form. An injury like this could be a total disaster. You can lose all your dreams so fast. And if dreams are all you have, what’s left when they shatter?
I can’t believe that I was worried that being with Sammy might stop me focusing on ballet. Our relationship seems to make our dancing richer and more lyrical than ever before. I feel a connection with him that I have never had with any other friend.
I know he feels the same way, and things are so intimate between us that I’m not surprised when he asks me if I’ve thought about taking things to the next level. Part of me wants to say yes. It feels so right that Sammy would be the one who … But the whole thought scares me.
‘We’re not ready,’ I say, as softly as I can.
‘Right,’ says Sammy at once. ‘No. I didn’t think so either.’
But the next day, as I watch him practising a port de bras, I start to wonder if I made the right decision. He is just right for me. We are a perfect couple. Are we really not ready? In lots of ways I feel ready. And for it to happen with Sammy, my best friend – there’s something wonderful about that.
This relationship is outside ballet – it doesn’t depend on me doing well at the Academy. It’s about us being friends and caring about each other. It’s something that I can have whether I’m a dancer or not. I want it to get better and better – stronger and stronger.
‘What?’ he asks, catching me staring at him.
‘Nothing.’
He leans towards me.
‘About yesterday,’ he says, sounding awkward. ‘I feel bad it might’ve seemed like I was … you know … like I was pressuring you. And I don’t want you to think that because I respect the fact that you’re not–’
‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind,’ I say. My palms are sweating, but I keep my voice cool. ‘I think we’re ready.’
‘You do?’ Sammy says with a little gasp.
We head to the centre to perform our pas de deux again.
‘Sorry, stroked out there for a moment,’ Sammy says in a whisper. ‘Ready as in …?’
‘Ready,’ I say, feeling more confident now. ‘But if you don’t agree, we can wait …’
‘No, I’m a guy,’ he says. ‘I’m hard-wired to think I’m ready.’
Miss Raine’s getting annoyed with us – ballet dancers should only speak with their bodies.
‘Okay then,’ I reply softly. ‘Let’s embrace the cliché at the formal. It’ll be … special.’
The formal is a huge success. Fairylights twinkle everywhere you look, and the walls are dusted with silver snowflakes. It’s like being in a Hollywood movie. But all I can think about is what’s about to happen. Sammy opens the door to his room and walks in. I follow him, tingling all over – is he feeling the same?
I’ve never seen his room so clean. There’s a bunch of flowers in a vase and Sammy’s lighting some candles. He fumbles with the matches.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I got fixated on music and then went down this creepy rose-petal path before I realised – trying too hard.’
He burns his finger trying to light the last candle and looks crestfallen.
‘It’s probably not what you meant by special,’ he mumbles. ‘We should raincheck.’
‘No,’ I say, wanting him to relax. ‘It’s perfect.’
He walks slowly towards me, still looking a bit ill at ease. I feel a rush of affection for him. He’s tried so hard to make his ordinary little room special.
‘What made you change your mind?’ he asks.
‘I get these glimpses where I want to be about more than just dancing,’ I say. ‘Why did you?’
Sammy stares at me for a long, long time. Then he kisses me. I close my eyes and feel his hand brush my arm. We sit on the bed, drawing closer. I feel dizzy and excited and scared all at the same time. I can’t believe we’re actually going to do this.
But Sammy pulls away, breaking the spell.
‘Can we just stop for a second?’ he says.
His voice sounds different – cold. I look at him, and there’s doubt in his eyes. A glimpse flashes in my brain – for a moment it’s as if I can read his thoughts. He doesn’t want me.
Does he find me repulsive? Aren’t I pretty enough? Did I do something wrong? A wave of shame rolls over me like water – I want to run – I want to be anywhere except here. I’ve never felt so embarrassed and awkward.
‘It doesn’t feel right,’ he says. ‘And it should. You deserve that.’
His voice is distant, and my ears are buzzing. I can hardly hear myself speak.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s … good decision.’
I have to get out of here as fast as I can.
CHAPTER 13
The thought of Sammy makes me feel frozen inside. And that hurts. Being with Sammy used to be something happy – something that made me feel good. Now I just feel … stupid. And he’s obviously avoiding me. I don’t get it, and I don’t even have anyone to ask about it, because Sammy’s my only friend.
I guess I should just talk to him about it. There has to be a reason. It would help if I could just understand. I ask Sammy to meet me for a picnic. I just want to clear the air and get our relationship back on track.
And then he forgets about the picnic. He forgets.
I’ve been sitting on his bed all afternoon, waiting for him to come back, and now he’s here, I’m not even angry. It just hurts. I don’t understand what I did wrong. Sammy’s suddenly a stranger to me, and I don’t even know why.
‘Tell me one thing,’ I say. ‘At any point today did you remember that you were supposed to be with me?’
He doesn’t say anything, but his silence speaks volumes.
‘Sammy, this isn’t working, and I don’t know how to fix it.’
‘I know,’ he replies. ‘Me either.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this?’ I say.
I want him to plead and beg with me – I want him to say he’ll do anything to fix it. But he just looks at me with sad eyes.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t,’ he says in a soft voice. ‘I mean, if that’s what you want.’
It’s clearly what he wants.
‘Yeah, it’s what I want,’ I tell him. ‘You can keep the picnic.’
I close the door behind me as I leave.
True friendships last forever, don’t they?
Sammy and I were best friends. We shared everything. And now it’s as if all those times we had, all the secrets we shared and all the silly, funny little things we did were nothing more than a fantasy. Our private world was a place where I felt safe and loved and happy – and it was a lie. Every time I see Sammy I feel my insides crunching up in pain, and yet he’s just the same – laughing and joking with Tara and Kat and Christian.
I have no idea if it was something I did or said, or if he’s interested in someone else, or if he’s changed for some unknown reason. I remember that day in the common room last semester, when Mia saw Sammy and I together, and realised that he had lied to her. A shiver runs down my back. How could I have forgotten about that? It’s frightening to think that the boy I thought he was is
just a figment of my imagination.
‘I don’t care about school politics, or what year you’re in, or how good your attendance is,’ Sebastian is saying. ‘I’m a choreographer looking for dancers. All that matters is how well you perform. How focused you are, how–’
Tara hurtles through the door, late and flustered.
‘So … incredibly … sorry,’ she wheezes, gasping for breath.
‘–professional you prove to be,’ Sebastian finishes.
It’s the auditions for the end-of-year show, and I am throwing myself into them as hard as I can. The harder I work, the less time there will be to think about Sammy.
We’re doing The Nutcracker and Kat’s dad Sebastian is directing it, with Ethan as assistant. Sebastian’s an incredible choreographer, and I ache for a solo role in the show. First years usually fill the corps de ballet, but occasionally one is given a solo role. This year, it’ll be me.
‘Let’s get started,’ says Sebastian.
I walk into the audition room, pushing all thoughts of real life out of my mind. I cradle The Nutcracker doll and begin the variation we’ve learned. I’m focused. I’m thinking about my goal. I’m not going to care about Sammy, or teamwork, or any of the things I’ve been wasting my time with these past few weeks. I am going back to the real Abigail – the girl in the mirror – the girl I know. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that my performance is faultless.
The cast has been decided, and I got the snowflake solo. I knew they would have to give me a part after my audition, but there’s even better news to come. Sebastian beckons me towards him.
‘You’ll be understudying Clara,’ he says, smiling at me.
A huge swell of happiness rises up inside me. I feel like flinging my arms around him.
‘Thank you,’ I say, as soon as I’ve found my voice again.
‘You should be proud of that audition,’ he says. ‘It was technically very competent.’
He turns aside and I look around at the others. Tara is here and I ask her who she’s understudying.
‘No one,’ she says.
She’s wearing a strange expression. I suppose she’s upset, and I know I’m not very good at sympathy, but I try.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I assumed they must have given you something.’
She doesn’t say a word, and at that moment Sebastian starts to speak.
‘Starting with the Act Two snowflakes,’ he says. ‘Clara, can you come into the centre?’
My brain sort of refuses to process the information for a few seconds, and then I realise that people are murmuring Tara’s name, and that she is walking towards the centre of the room.
Tara got Clara.
Tara, who turned up late for auditions.
And I’m her understudy.
This is complete favouritism. Ethan must have manoeuvred her into the role. I have no idea how he got it past Sebastian, but seriously, a first-year taking the lead? They have got to be kidding. Tara is in way over her head.
After what feels like weeks of working in the studio, we start rehearsing in the Opera House today. I think that Sebastian is seriously regretting giving Tara the lead. There isn’t a single rehearsal where she doesn’t make dozens of mistakes. She loses concentration, she misses her cues and she’s putting the whole show in danger. Everyone’s thinking the same thing – she’s simply not good enough.
Every time I look at Tara I feel angry. I know I can dance the part better than her. I don’t make silly mistakes or fall out of solos. I worked as hard as I could at my audition, and I feel as if she didn’t even have to try.
When Tara and I go to choose our Clara costumes, I pick out the newest nightgown, but she chooses the plainest, most faded one on the rack. It fits as if it was made for her.
Kat takes the card that’s tied to the costume and reads the names that are written there. I guess every costume has some history.
‘It is ancient,’ she says. ‘My mum wore it. And Olga Boranski. Dame Josie Doran.’
‘Yes,’ says Miss Raine. ‘It came over with the Ballet Russes – 1936. Superstition says it’s never had so much as a broken thread.’
Tara is gazing at her image in the mirror. She looks suddenly radiant – as if a light has come on inside her.
‘Take good care of it,’ says Miss Raine.
But it doesn’t matter who wore Tara’s costume in the past if she can’t make it through the dress rehearsal. The lights dim and she runs out onto the stage in her costume. From the wings, I can see that she looks ghostly. She knows – we all know – that if she can’t perform now, she won’t play Clara. I stand and watch, wearing my snowflake costume. Will I soon be wearing my nightgown instead?
As she begins her first dance, something happens to Tara’s pale face. The same radiance that I saw when she put on the gown brightens it, and she looks suddenly ethereal. I am reminded of the first time I saw her dance at her best. That day in Miss Raine’s class in audition week seems like many years ago, but there is the same look on her face now – the look of someone who has slipped into another world.
When she reaches the arabesque, she holds it as if she could stand there forever. She has found a way of slowing time and infusing the dance with light, lyrical grace. And I know, long before Sebastian makes it official, that my hopes are finished. If Tara dances like this at the show, the audience won’t be able to take their eyes off her.
CHAPTER 14
Sometimes I feel as if there are two Abigails. There’s the real me – the one who has worked and developed and learned about friendship and love and teamwork. And then there’s the other me – the girl in the mirror. The one who pulls a face when someone else does well. The one who’s always got a quick comeback, but never seems to understand how other people are feeling.
It’s the day of the performance and The Nutcracker posters have gone up, showing Tara in the nightgown. I don’t want to be mean or have jealous feelings, but every poster I pass makes it worse … and worse … and worse. It’s as if there’s something writhing inside my chest, something dark and spiteful, like a disease, and the only way to get it out of me is to say the things it makes me think.
No matter what I do or how hard I try, Tara always comes out ahead. How does she manage it? What does she have that I don’t? I remember what Jai said about it being enough that he has done his best, and I want to feel like that too, but those posters just remind me that I can’t match up to her. The writing underneath Tara’s picture might as well say, ‘Abigail isn’t quite good enough’.
When I walk into the dressing room there’s a production runner looking confused.
‘Can I help you?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, I’m doing work experience,’ he says. ‘I have to take costumes?’
I point at the two costume racks.
‘That rack’s for side-stage changes,’ I tell him. ‘These are fine to go into storage.’
The runner starts to wheel the two racks out of the dressing room, and then he spots Tara’s nightgown hanging behind the door.
‘And that one?’ he asks.
Time stops dead. I stare at Tara’s costume. I’ve heard her say that she thinks it’s the nightgown that makes her able to dance Clara so well. Superstition of course – but she believes it.
It’s not often that you’re given a clear choice, but sometimes you find yourself standing at a crossroads, and that’s where I am now. I open my mouth.
‘Storage,’ I say.
The show has begun, with Tara in her Act One costume. The corridors are full of dancers and stage crew, everyone buzzing with excitement and rushing to complete their jobs on time. I move through the crowds slowly, feeling like I’m swimming against a tide.
I find Sebastian and Ethan standing near the stage manager’s box.
‘I was just hanging my Clara costume side-stage,’ I say.
My voice sounds abnormal – loud and echoing, but they don’t seem to notice.
‘Obviously nothing
’s going to happen to Tara,’ I go on, ‘but it’s good to be prepared. Anyway, I noticed her nightgown doesn’t seem to be there. I’m sure it’s fine but I thought it was best to say something … ‘
Ethan’s eyes are accusing, but he can’t prove anything. As he goes to check, I wait for a swell of triumph, but nothing happens. Even the dark, writhing feeling in my chest has gone, and I don’t feel anything.
The curtain comes down at the end of Act One and the applause is deafening as Tara runs into the wings.
‘Okay, that was fun!’ she says, smiling and alight.
But her smile fades when she sees the expressions on the faces around her.
The dressing room’s in chaos – everyone’s hunting for the nightgown and Tara’s at the centre of it all, her face pale and pinched. Ethan is looking at me as if he’d like to kill me.
‘What did you do with it?’ Ethan demands.
To my surprise, Sammy leaps to my defence.
‘Back off. It’s just been misplaced.’
He glances over at me, and in that glance I can see the old Sammy again – my friend. That should make me feel happy, but I can see his shining belief in my innocence. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to keep this up in the face of that look.
Christian rushes into the dressing room, clutching two nightgowns.
‘Wardrobe gave me these!’ he exclaims.
Tara’s face shows a glimmer of hope, but drops again when she looks at the costumes.
‘You’re going to have to wear one of those,’ Ethan tells her. ‘Or Abigail’s.’
‘I can’t,’ says Tara, very quietly.
‘It’s just a costume,’ Ethan exclaims.
‘No it’s not,’ Tara says. ‘It’ll be like in rehearsal. I have never made it through this act without the costume. Abigail will have to go on.’
‘We can’t have a different Clara halfway through,’ Ethan cries.
Christian crouches down beside Tara.
Abigail: Through the Looking Glass Page 6
