Christian stares at me for a long moment, his eyes soft. Then he quickly looks away.
CHAPTER 10
I sit at my dressing-room mirror in the Opera House, trying to work out the best make-up to use to hide the dark circles under my eyes. I was too excited to get much sleep last night.
I’m just applying some blusher to my cheekbones when Steven Heathcote appears at the door.
‘Tara? Can I have a word?’
‘Sure,’ I say, hitting ‘Ignore’ on my phone as it rings. From the screen display I can see it’s only Sammy. He won’t mind waiting for a few minutes.
‘After what you told me, I’ve been making some enquiries,’ Steven tells me. ‘The Royal Ballet School spoke to Josie’s parents. They confirmed that she was in hospital.’
I nod, relieved. I’ve done the right thing.
‘With appendicitis,’ Steven continues. ‘Grace Whitney auditioned for Josie’s spot like any other candidate.’
‘I honestly thought –’ I stammer, my gut twisting.
‘You thought that you would try to undermine your competition, which is not only unsportsmanlike, it’s deceitful.’
As he walks away an announcement rings out over the loudspeaker. ‘Competitors for the Girls’ Class section, this is your fifteen minute call.’
I quickly change into my leotard and practice skirt then stumble down the maze of corridors and onto the stage, where the rest of the girls are warming up.
I look around for Sammy, but can’t see him anywhere. Michael Slade wanders past and I wave him over. ‘Have you seen Sammy?’
He shakes his head. ‘Boys aren’t on until eleven thirty.’
Grace, limbering up at the next barre, throws me a knowing look. Swallowing nervously, I turn back to Michael. ‘Could you call him and tell him I don’t want to mess with his prep but … I’d really like him here?’
‘Sure,’ Michael tells me, heading off into the wings.
I breathe out slowly. Sammy will be here soon. He’ll help me get through this. He always does.
The music for our class exercise ends. I bow to the judges, then scoot over to the wings to get a drink. Christian’s waiting there.
‘I can’t believe I got through that,’ I chirp, taking a long swig from my water bottle. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I have to tell you something,’ Christian tells me, his voice barely a whisper.
‘Do you know where Sammy is?’ I prattle on. ‘I called him before but he didn’t get back to me. He’s on, like, now.’
Christian holds my gaze, his face white and drawn. My stomach turns to ice. Something’s wrong.
Christian swallows. ‘He was in an accident.’
‘What?’ I gasp.
‘He was hit by a car.’
‘Did he break something?’ I blurt, my mind reeling. ‘Is he going to be able to dance?’
Christian’s shoulders slump. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, he’s not. The ambulance came but it didn’t –’
I stare at him, afraid of what he’s going to say next. When the words finally come, they hit me like hammers.
‘Sammy died on the way to hospital.’
I walk into the boarding house common room, my whole body numb. All around me, Sammy’s friends are slumped on couches and chairs, their faces twisted and tear-stained.
Kat’s pulling at Miss Raine, hysterical with grief. ‘We need to go to the hospital!’
Miss Raine holds Kat’s arms, trying to keep her calm. ‘I know how hard this is, but the Liebermans have asked to be left alone.’
‘But we’re his family,’ Kat wails.
Ben moves towards me but I push past him to Kat, pulling her into a hug. Beside us, Ollie howls, his head in his hands.
The only person not crying in the room is me. Why can’t I cry?
Then I suddenly remember Abigail, and quickly scan the room. She’s not here. I grab Kat’s hand and drag her through the boarding house, searching every room until we finally find Abigail, bunched up on a shower floor with water streaming over her face and body. Sobbing inconsolably.
Kat and I lift her gently up and out of the shower, then the three of us stand there together, hugging, united by our grief.
We all sleep on the floor in Christian and Sammy’s room that night, cuddled up together, afraid to let each other go. Sammy’s tracksuit and practice bag are still laid out neatly where he left them this morning, ready for his big day. I can’t bear to look at them.
I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling, wishing I could fall asleep like the others. But it’s hopeless, my mind won’t stop thinking about the day’s events. In the end I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.
1 message, the display tells me.
I hit play, then hold the phone to my ear.
‘Miss Webster,’ Sammy’s voice chirps, bright and clear. ‘Can you believe that this momentous day has finally arrived?’
Shaking, I snap the phone shut. Then, treading carefully so I don’t wake any of the others, I make my way out of the room and out into the night.
It’s quiet up here on Observatory Hill. Below me, the lights of the harbour twinkle, echoing the stars in the sky.
I sit on the grass next to the rotunda, and press play.
‘Just me and you,’ Sammy’s voice continues, ‘in the Prix de Fonteyn, baby. Look, I think Christian might be on his way to see you but ignore him. This is your day, T, don’t get distracted.’
There’s more.
‘I was just thinking, remember last year when we were at the bottom? Now we are here, conquering the world. I’ll see you out there!’
The message ends and I turn off the phone. Then, hugging my knees, I stare out over the city. But I still can’t cry.
CHAPTER 11
They say the second before you die your life flashes before your eyes. I hope so much that’s true, and that you get a photo album of every moment, even the ordinary ones. That way you’ll know that you were here, and that you were loved. You’ll have proof that you existed.
You must need that second to prepare because you don’t think – at least my friend Sammy didn’t think – that he was going to die. So that one second, between life and death, was all the time he got to say goodbye.
Sammy’s funeral was quiet and dignified. We stood around the grave in our best black clothes, and listened as the rabbi recited prayers in a language we didn’t understand. Then we left, not wanting to intrude on the family’s grief.
Back at the Academy, Miss Raine called a meeting of the whole student body. She told us that, out of respect for Sammy’s death, the Prix de Fonteyn Committee has decided to postpone the remaining sections of the competition for a week, and that our production of Peter Pan has been cancelled. There’s a grief counsellor standing by if we need one.
But instead we find our own way to deal with our pain. One by one, led by Abigail, we move over to the practice barres, take off our suit jackets and high heels, and begin warming up, together. It’s as though, while we’re dancing, Sammy’s still with us.
Kat and I are cuddled up together in her single bed, speaking quietly so we don’t wake Abigail.
‘I’m not a funeral expert,’ Kat says, ‘but a couple of prayers, and a few bad sandwiches – how can anyone expect that to give you closure?’
‘I think today just felt formal,’ I try to explain. ‘It wasn’t like he was the Sammy we knew.’
Kat sits bolt upright, switching on the bedlight. ‘So why don’t we hold our own,’ she announces. ‘A proper Sammy Lieberman tribute!’ She grabs a pen and some paper from her bedside table. ‘Any ideas about what he would have wanted?’
Kat’s phone trills. She snatches it up, rolling her eyes as a grumpy Abigail stalks out of the room, wrapped in her doona. ‘Hi, Ethan,’ Kat answers, struggling to keep her voice light, ‘you don’t have to call every hour. I promise, I’m fine.’
But she’s not. None of us are fine.
Kat’s decided we need
to give Sammy a proper memorial. She sets up a whiteboard in the common room, then makes us help her fill it with ideas for how we would should run it. We’re going to need someone to write the eulogy, organise the soundtrack and the catering, and most importantly, come up with a venue. A place, Kat assures us, that will perfectly embody who Sammy is.
Was. It’s something I have to keep reminding myself, because I still can’t believe he’s gone.
I’m in the studio rehearsing my Aurora variation, Miss Raine watching me critically from the sidelines. Dancing is the last thing I feel like doing right now. I lose my timing and stop.
‘Sorry,’ I tell Miss Raine. ‘I’m not in the right headspace.’
Miss Raine flicks off the CD player. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘But if you don’t dance between now and the finals, you won’t –’
‘I won’t win?’ I interrupt her. ‘I don’t care if I come last! I got so caught up in it, this whole year, and now –’
Miss Raine moves closer, squeezing my shoulder. ‘But it’s not about the competition,’ she tells me, her eyes misty. She’s grieving as well, I realise.
‘It’s about being a dancer, which means you dance when you’re in pain, you dance when your heart’s breaking. You put what you’re feeling into the performance. That’s when you’ll become the artist I know you’re capable of being.’
She flicks the CD player back on, then leaves me to it. I move back into position on the floor and resume my solo. But my heart’s not in it and I stumble, then stop completely, lost in my sadness.
I know me competing in the Prix finals is what Sammy would have wanted – and how proud he would have been of me if I won. But dancing isn’t making me feel any better. The only thing that makes any sense right now is being with my friends.
I come to a decision. I’m going to go back to Miss Raine and tell her how I feel. That I know that I’ll be letting both her and Sammy down, but that I can’t put what I’m feeling into my dancing. And that I want to withdraw from the Prix.
In the end, we decide to keep things simple and hold Sammy’s memorial down at the beach. We connect up his beloved laptop to a set of speakers so we can play his favourite music, and prop a giant poster of a smiling Sammy against a rock. We’ve got homemade poppy seed cupcakes, a campfire, rugs and picnic blankets. And a perfect moonlit night.
We’re just settling down to hear Christian’s eulogy when Kat suddenly tells us to wait. She scoots off into the distance, returning with a travel-weary Ethan. He was Sammy’s friend, too. We trade kisses and hugs, then sit quietly, staring into the flames.
Christian picks up Sammy’s laptop.
‘How do you sum up Samuel Isadore Lieberman?’ he begins, his voice ragged. ‘This is a list he wrote before first year. It’s fifty things he wanted to accomplish in his life.’
He opens the laptop and begins reading from the screen.
‘Number fifty: Disprove the validity of jock straps.’
Everyone laughs, remembering his shopping expedition with Christian in first year.
‘Number forty-nine: Lobby to make ballet an Olympic sport.’
The list continues, every item bringing back a reminder of the kind of guy Sammy was. Win an international air hockey tournament. Get a tattoo. Dance on top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
As the numbers get smaller, the items grow in importance and meaning, and we’re all soon weeping openly. Number four: Stand up to my dad. Number three: Fall in love so my heart takes over from my head. Number two: Get into the National Academy of Dance.
‘Number one,’ Christian begins shakily. ‘Make a group of friends I’ll know for the rest of my life.’ He stops for a moment, wiping away tears. ‘He didn’t complete all of these, obviously, but he definitely did the last one.’
We nod in agreement, sharing teary smiles.
Kat jumps up. ‘And now it’s time for his favourite song.’ She hits play on the laptop and a cheesy pop tune blares out, making us all crack up.
‘Wow,’ says Ethan, ‘that’s –’
‘Hideous,’ Kat giggles.
‘It definitely was his favourite,’ Ollie laughs.
‘Yep,’ says Kat, reading the stats on his laptop. ‘It was played 386 times! Okay, we’re skipping to the ninth favourite.’
We sit there in the flickering firelight, hugging and crying and swapping memories until the sun comes up.
‘Right,’ Kat announces, ‘we’re dancing.’
She runs into the surf, shrieking as the cold waves break over her legs. The guys follow her, lifting her up and twirling her around.
Only Abigail and I are left on the beach.
‘I haven’t cried since it happened,’ I confess to her. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
Abigail smiles. ‘Trust me. It’ll happen.’
She pulls me to my feet, leading me down to join our friends. I dance and splash with them for a while, then pull away, duckdiving deep under the water.
I don’t know how to breathe properly now my friend has gone. I want to kick and scream. I’d give anything for this awful emptiness to go away. But more than anything, I don’t want to say goodbye, so I won’t. I’ll just say thank you, that I knew him.
There’s no need to say goodbye to someone when you’ll remember them forever.
CHAPTER 12
My dream is back, only this time it’s a nightmare. This time, when I walk out on stage to begin my solo, there are two of us. Two Victorias wearing floaty white dresses and red pointe shoes, pirouetting across the dance floor. The other one is Grace. She dances in front of me, blocking me from the audience.
Every time I try to get through, she stops me, over and over again. Now there are three of her, more. I turn my head, desperate to escape, and see Sammy standing in the wings.
‘Help me, Sammy,’ I call.
‘Help yourself, T,’ Sammy’s voice booms back.
I reach out to him but he fades into the background, growing smaller and smaller …
And then I wake up.
‘Red shoes?’ Abigail asks from the bed beside me.
I nod. I’ve dreamt about this every night since Sammy died.
Ben pulls me away from the birthday celebration we’re holding for Christian. I listen in horror as he tells me the Prix committee has asked him to take Sammy’s place in the finals.
‘Sammy earned that place,’ I tell him. ‘How could you even be thinking about it?’
Ben’s face twists. ‘I can’t not. Competing in the Prix is a once in a lifetime opportunity. It affects my whole career.’
I stare at him, horrified. ‘An opportunity? You’d be dancing on his grave.’
‘Ignore her, Ben,’ Abigail says, handing us both drinks. ‘You’d be moronic not to compete. She’s just feeling guilty because she’s using Sammy as an excuse.’
‘Am I?’ I ask, puzzled.
‘Sure,’ Abigail says. ‘Grace declared war, but now you can claim the grief card and avoid standing up to her.’
‘That’s not fair!’
Abigail shrugs. ‘Sorry, none of it’s fair and nothing is going to make us feel better. But extinguishing Grace, like the pterodactyl she is – that’ll help you sleep at night.’
I nod. Abigail’s right. And there’s only one way to do it.
I walk up the stairs to the Opera House with Abigail and Ben, every nerve on edge. A few hours from now, I’m going to be dancing in the Prix de Fonteyn, a competition that decides the two best ballet students in the world.
We push our way through the milling crowds and make our way to the dressing rooms. Ben tries to tell me something, but I block him out, distracted. I’m not even sure that I want to be here.
‘This is your revenge plot,’ I tell Abigail as we reach the girls’ dressing room. ‘I was happy with my decision. Maybe I should just pull out again while there’s still –’
Abigail grabs my arm. ‘You beat her in the Nationals. You can beat her here again.’
‘She
let me win at the Nationals,’ I point out.
Abigail grins. ‘So she said. And you didn’t have me then. Tara, I’ve been watching you for two years. I know your every strength and weakness. You just need to get your edge back.’
Inside the dressing room, we discover Grace holding court with the other dancers.
‘Sammy was one of those truly beautiful souls,’ she’s telling her adoring fans. ‘I rang his parents and told them I was dedicating my solo to him.’
‘How noble,’ Abigail quips.
Grace spins around, shocked to see us there.
‘I thought you weren’t up to competing,’ she fires at me.
‘I wasn’t,’ I tell her, my confidence growing with each word. ‘But I am now.’
I’m warming up in the corridor for my contemporary dance routine when Christian appears. ‘Hey, you didn’t have to come,’ I tell him, surprised – but secretly pleased – to see him.
‘Well, it was either this or punch a hole through my wall,’ he mutters.
I nod, remembering I’m not the only one missing Sammy.
‘You should come to the farm for Christmas,’ I suggest, trying to sound upbeat. ‘You know how Dad loves free labour.’
And I would like it, too, I realise, though I keep that to myself.
‘What about Ben?’ Christian says slowly. ‘Wouldn’t that be awkward?’
‘Everything with Ben is awkward,’ I say, then wince. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Technically we’re together, sure. It just doesn’t feel right to be around him right now.’
‘And with me, it would be –?’
An announcement blares out over the loudspeakers.
‘Tara Webster to the stage. This is your one minute call.’
‘Tara!’ I spin round to see Abigail storming towards me.
‘My entire life, I will never understand you,’ she spits as she drags me away.
I run off stage, breathing hard. Thanks to the little wave Grace sent me from the wings, I’ve just stuffed up my contemporary solo. It was only a tiny stumble – a few seconds of missteps – but the judges will mark me down for it.
Tara: Catch Me if I Fall Page 6
