by Ann Bryant
Nicole must have sensed my dejection. “Oh, Izzy, it’s a compliment, you know,” she said. “You’re just so graceful.”
Sasha grinned at me. “Except when you deliberately don’t stand up straight, like right now.”
“I’d love to have great posture, like you,” Nicole added.
I tried to smile while my mind searched around for a quick way of getting off this terrible subject, and the voice in my head grew louder. I don’t want to talk about being graceful and standing up straight. I don’t even want to think about it. I know where it leads.
“You’d make a great dancer, Izzy,” said Sasha.
I didn’t reply because I couldn’t think of what to say. We’d had this kind of conversation lots of times since I’d started at Silver Spires and no one knew how much I hated it. Well, actually that’s not true. I thought Sasha was starting to notice how uncomfortable I got whenever anyone mentioned me in the same breath as dancing or ballet, and how I always tried to quickly change the conversation. The trouble is, Sasha’s such a good listener that I’m afraid one of these days I might be tempted to tell her about my past. But it’s a secret. If I told her about the other me, she’d think I was completely mad.
And just when I was thinking about my past an annoying voice popped into my head. Is it that she’ll think you’re mad, or just that you can’t ever let yourself talk about it?
Suddenly I felt shaky. The truth had finally hit me.
It’s not that I won’t talk about it, it’s that I can’t.
As soon as afternoon school was finished, we six went back to our boarding house, Forest Ash, to drop our stuff off in our dorm. Forest Ash is quite a modern house, not like Hazeldean and Willowhaven, but it’s the best because we’ve got the nicest staff. The other three houses are called Oakley, Beech House and Elmhurst. On the days we don’t do an after-school club we get to have free time before supper, and it’s always a great part of the day because you can stop concentrating after all the lessons, and do anything you want. I was looking forward to having some time on my own, but Nicole and Antonia were trying to persuade me and Sasha to go to debating club with them.
“Eet ees such good fun!” said Antonia, her Italian accent coming through strongly. It often does when she’s excited.
“We can’t just turn up, can we?” said Sasha.
Nicole nodded hard. “Yes, you can. No one would mind, I’m sure.” She sounded so bright and breezy. “Go on, give it a try. I bet you’d really like it.”
“Shall we?” asked Sasha, turning to me, eyes dancing.
“I’m not sure…” I began, wondering how to explain that I’d really rather just be on my own with my thoughts for a while. “Why don’t you go, Sasha?”
A cloud seemed to cross her sunny face. “Are you sure? I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”
I smiled and spoke quickly. “No, it’s fine, honestly. I don’t feel like sitting still, that’s all.”
Antonia grinned. “I theenk you are going to walk and get the energy out of your legs, yes?”
I nodded and smiled back. My friends all know I’m not very good at sitting still for long periods of time, and it’s almost become a joke amongst us. At the end of lessons Emily and I are always the first out, and if we go anywhere on the school minibus or the coach, the others let us get off before them so we can feel free. With Em, it’s more that she wants to be out in the fresh air as she feels stifled indoors. But with me it’s because I want to move around. “Izzy whizzy makes me dizzy!” Sasha once said, and the whizzy soon got shortened to Whizz and kind of stuck as a nickname for me that my friends all use occasionally.
As soon as they’d left the dorm I took the pile of ballet photos and programmes and cuttings and other souvenirs from my bottom drawer and climbed up the ladder to sit on my bed. I love the way we’ve all got our own little space in this dorm. In fact I love the dorm, full stop. Every Year Seven dorm is named after a precious stone and ours is called Emerald. We’re lucky because it’s quite a big dorm and each of us has a cabin bed with a desk area underneath where we keep our bits and pieces, plus there are some drawers and a wardrobe. We’ve also all got a little light built into our headboards so we can read in bed, as well as a pinboard each that we can decorate how we want. Mine’s covered with photos of my mum and dad and my big brother, Max, with his girlfriend, Claire, and my little sister, Holly. They’re mainly photos of our last summer holiday together. It feels like Claire’s one of the family now. She and Max have been going out for over a year and I really like her because she treats me like a friend and not like Max’s little sister.
From where I was sitting on my bed I could see Emily’s pinboard right opposite, every single centimetre taken up with pictures of her beloved horse and all sorts of plants and shrubs and trees in her farm garden back home in Ireland. I think Emily loves to see things growing as much as I secretly love ballet. Only it’s a different kind of love. Hers seems so straightforward, and mine is so…complicated.
I looked at the picture on the top of the pile I was holding. It was a signed photo of the famous ballerina from The Royal Ballet, Alina Cojocaru. She was in the costume of the title role in Ondine. That’s one of my favourite ballets. I spent ages staring at the picture while my mind flooded with muddled thoughts about how much I used to adore every single thing to do with ballet, including actually dancing myself. Especially dancing myself. But the sadness always hits me when I remind myself that I’m not as good at ballet as I thought. And that’s why I’m trying to get all thoughts about it out of my system, to stop the hurt that overwhelms me every time I remember what a failure I am.
I turned to the next picture, which was of my old ballet teacher, Miss Amelia. She wasn’t in any particular ballet pose, but you could still tell she was a dancer just from the way she was standing. I swallowed and bit my lip as I looked at her smiling at me from the photo. I must have disappointed her so much when she put me in for the audition at the very best ballet school in Great Britain, The Royal Ballet School, and I didn’t get in. She pretended not to be upset, for my sake, but I knew she was really.
After I’d had the terrible news that I’d failed the entrance exam, I couldn’t stop crying. Mum couldn’t comfort me and in the end she took me to see Miss Amelia at her house. I remember how Miss Amelia kept on patting me on the back and saying soothing words that didn’t actually soothe me at all: “I know it’s a terrible blow, but you’ll get over it, Izzy.” And I just sat there staring blankly ahead, all my crying leaving me so tired and small. “Just try to relax and enjoy your Easter holiday now,” she went on in the same gentle voice. “By next term you’ll be back to your usual self, you’ll see!”
But I wasn’t. In fact I don’t know how I got through the summer term at all. Well, that’s not quite true. I got through it because of Silver Spires. Mum and Dad had said I should apply here too – “just in case” – and after The Royal Ballet School news, I was so glad I’d been accepted. Knowing that I would be coming to this amazing boarding school made up for some of my failure, and I put all my energy into thinking about coming here instead of where I thought I’d be going. I spent ages making plans about what I’d bring, and imagining how my new life would be.
I loved this school right from the introductory day at the end of the summer term. That day feels like a bit of a dream now, and I know I didn’t take everything in. But it filled up my mind, and when I got home I drew a big line under my other life. I decided to give up going to ballet classes with Miss Amelia and made the decision that ballet would be in my past, belonging to the other me. I wouldn’t talk about it – ever. The door to The Royal Ballet School might have shut in my face, but the Silver Spires door had opened, and when I walked through it at the beginning of this term, I shut the door to my old life firmly behind me to keep it out.
The trouble is, however firmly I thought I’d closed the door on my past, it kept on opening of its own accord and letting bits of my secret life come in, con
fusing and upsetting me. And all these ballet keepsakes don’t help. I should never have brought them with me. This was the third time I’d taken my little pile of photos and things out to have a look at, and each time I’d felt upset. I decided to put it all away and go for a walk round Silver Spires. That always makes me feel better.
But I didn’t get very far, because there’s something about the banister that runs along the landing outside our dorm that pulls me like a magnet back into the world of ballet whenever I see it. It reminds me so strongly of a barre, the wooden handrail that goes round the walls of every single ballet studio. If I’m with Sasha and the others I make sure I don’t look at it, but sometimes, on my own, I simply can’t resist it, and right now was one of those times.
I looked around, then leaned over the banister to check there was no one on their way upstairs. Then I placed my hand slowly and lightly on the rail and stood as I’ve stood so often at the beginning of my ballet class, tall and straight, ribs pulled up, shoulders down, feet and legs turned right out in first position. I felt as though I’d hear Miss Amelia’s voice at any second. Imagine the invisible string, girls, pulling right through from the bottom of your spine to the top of your head and drawing you closer to the ceiling. And when you can’t grow any taller, then you are ready to begin your steps.
I carefully started to bend my knees in a plié, which is always the first exercise we do at the barre, but there was a noise behind me, and I had to pull clumsily out of my shape and grope around on the floor pretending I’d dropped something. Then I quickly stood up and looked around. It must have been one of those creaks that all silent buildings seem to have, because there was no one about.
The spell of my imaginary ballet class had been broken though, so I started to walk downstairs with heavy footsteps. But the frustration of not even finishing that plié got worse and worse, so when I was halfway down I made the mistake of looking back up, and of course my eye caught the banister again, and a moment later I found myself leaping back up to it, two steps at a time. It wasn’t just that I hadn’t finished the plié, it was because I could have done it better. My insteps had definitely rolled slightly and that should never happen.
Holding the banister lightly, I got into first position even more carefully than the last time, and once I’d imagined Miss Amelia counting the pianist in, I was ready to start again. All my attention was on my left instep. And so was Miss Amelia’s. Her voice seemed so clear now. No rolling the feet, girls. Pull back. But the moment I did that, my arms and back felt stiff. And when I relaxed them, my feet went wrong again. What was the matter with me?
I snapped my legs straight and walked downstairs and out of Forest Ash without looking back. It was no wonder I’d failed to get into The Royal Ballet School, and no wonder I’d never be a professional ballerina. I was nowhere near the right standard if I couldn’t even do a proper plié.
It’s horrible when I have these feelings and I knew I had to shake them away before Sasha and the others got back from their clubs and we all went to supper. Otherwise everyone would want to know what was the matter with me, and there was no way I’d ever be able to explain how unbearable it is to fail at the very thing you want to do best, and to know that your dreams can never ever come true because of that failure. Maybe I should have gone to debating club after all. That would have made me focus on something completely different and got rid of the turmoil in my head. But it was too late now. I’d probably be interrupting them right in the middle of an important discussion. Perhaps I’d go to the big main library instead. There’s a lovely peaceful atmosphere in there and everyone is quiet and in their own little world. Yes, that’s what I’d do.
But even as I was having these thoughts, my feet were taking me of their own accord towards the sports complex, and when I got there I walked straight past the big sports hall, and then past the small hall, to the room at the end. The dance studio. I just wanted to remind myself what it looked like, because I hadn’t seen it since my introductory day when my parents and I had been shown round.
The Deputy Head, Mrs. Andrews, had taken us into the sports hall, and we’d stayed there for ages while she’d talked about all the many different sports and PE activities at Silver Spires. Then she’d said, “And now for the dance studio…” She’d turned to me. “I don’t know if you’re into dance, Izzy, but we have all sorts of clubs you can join – tap, ballet, jazz…lots.” I’d given her the tiniest shake of the head and hoped like mad that Mum wouldn’t say anything, and she didn’t, thank goodness. But she’d exchanged a look with Dad and sighed as though I was a hopeless case. So Mrs. Andrews had suggested we just had a quick look. She’d pointed out the sprung floor and the double barres around three of the four walls. She didn’t need to. I’d already noticed absolutely everything about that studio in one glance and it had brought all my past flooding back and made me feel trapped. It was such a relief when we finally left the sports centre and my heartbeat had slowed down to normal.
And now here I was again, peering into the gloom of the empty room, because it was late afternoon and practically dark outside, which meant I could only see it by the light from the corridor. I pressed down on the door handle and felt relieved that it was locked as I’d thought it would be. But even without going in, the sight of the studio made my heart bump. I wasn’t sure if I was nervous or scared or anxious or excited or a mixture of all those things. All I knew was that the feeling was too much and I had to get away quickly, so I rushed out of the sports complex and headed back to the common room at Forest Ash.
I’d watch TV until six thirty when it was supper time. Yes, that’s what I’d do.
I’d never been in the common room without at least one of my friends with me, and I felt a bit funny being there on my own. It’s a very large room with a TV and a DVD player, and plenty of sofas and comfy chairs and beanbags. Surprisingly there were only two Year Ten girls in there, called Olivia and Maria, sitting at the table round the corner from the TV area. To tell the truth, I was a bit scared of them, because they always seemed so aloof. I switched on the telly, then flopped down on one of the lovely squishy beanbags, only to hear Maria say, “The choreography’s going to be so amazing!”
I nearly got up and went straight out again at the sound of that word, but I didn’t because the girls might have thought I was weird. So instead I tried with all my might to block out what I’d just heard and to concentrate on the TV programme. I couldn’t do it, though. The other me was sitting up straight, filled with curiosity.
Choreography is like a composition, but of a dance rather than a piece of music. And the other me was desperate to know if the choreography they were talking about was for a ballet, or for a different kind of dance.
“We’ll need to get in as much practice and as many rehearsals as we can, you know,” said Maria.
There was a pause and I imagined Olivia nodding.
Then after a moment Maria spoke again. “Abi’s really good, isn’t she? I wish I could dance as well as her.”
“Abi’s not that much better than…us two, actually,” Olivia answered quickly, and I heard big irritation in her voice.
“No,” said Maria lightly, “but I mean us three are way better than the other four in the group anyway, aren’t we?”
“Obviously.”
I didn’t like the sound of that obviously. It was hard and boastful.
When neither of them spoke for a while, I presumed that was the end of the conversation and I sank lower into the beanbag, beginning to relax again. But then I nearly shot out of it altogether at the sound of Maria’s voice.
“Miss Morgan’s right, isn’t she? I mean it’s much harder to make ballet look good onstage, compared to any other type of dance, isn’t it? Unless you’re a professional ballet dancer, I guess.”
My heart began to thud. They were talking about a ballet performance. Miss Morgan? Yes, I’d heard of her. She was the Silver Spires dance mistress.
What? A ballet performance?
Here? At school? said the other me, forgetting, as usual, that the new me didn’t want to know these things.
And a few seconds later Olivia gave me the answer. She sounded half nervous, half sulky. “It’s going to be so scary on that stage when just about everyone in this place thinks ballet is the least cool thing ever. They just don’t get it, do they? I mean, they’ve got no clue how hard it is.”
I didn’t stay to hear any more. I just got up, switched off the TV and left the room. I wished I’d never found out about this ballet performance. The very thought of it made waves of tension zap through me. I knew it had nothing to do with me. It wasn’t as if I’d be dancing myself. But it was still ballet, and that wasn’t supposed to be a part of my new life here at Silver Spires. I’d done everything I could to avoid it, yet it had crept up on me again.
I raced up to the dorm and sat on my bed, trying to calm down, telling myself that I didn’t have to watch the performance if I didn’t want to. Surely it wouldn’t be compulsory to attend. In fact, I didn’t even know if Year Sevens would be invited. No, I’d just keep right away from it and everything would be fine.
But the other me wouldn’t leave the subject alone.
It sounds like Abi’s really good. I’d like to see her dance.
Then the new me slammed the door shut. Well, you’re not going to. It would only upset you. Ballet’s in your past.
To find out what happens next, read
About the Author
Ann Bryant’s School Days
Who was your favourite teacher?
At primary it was Mr. Perks – we called him Perksy. I was in his class in Year Six, and most days he let me work on a play I was writing! At secondary, my fave teacher was Mrs. Rowe, simply because I loved her subject (French) and she was so young and pretty and slim and chic and it was great seeing what new clothes she’d be wearing.
What were your best and worst lessons?
My brain doesn’t process history, geography or science and I hated cookery, so those were my least favourite subjects. But I was good at English, music, French and PE, so I loved those. I also enjoyed art, although I was completely rubbish at it!
