Abigail: Nice Girls Finish Last (5 page)

All my life I've liked routine. One egg, one banana, one tub low-fat yoghurt for breakfast. Followed by forty minutes cardio and fifty minutes Pilates, warm up, lengthen quads and strengthen feet. It's all part of the plan. The plan I made with my mother when I was seven. ‘To be the best'. I like the plan, only now a tiny voice in my head is asking ‘to be the best … what?'

I can't believe that I, Abigail Armstrong, am cutting ballet classes to rehearse a musical, and loving it. I'm probably the only student that can get away with saying I've got a dentist appointment several days in a row. Perfect Abigail wouldn't skip class.

But even I can't get away with it indefinitely. I make it clear to Finn I can't do any more daytime rehearsal. This can't interfere with ballet. Nothing
has ever been allowed to do that. But I like acting. I enjoy the sensation of singing while I dance. I love how naturally it comes, like suddenly, I'm myself.

When I get back to the Academy after my rehearsal, I'm afraid the secret might be out. It's taken six dental appointments for anyone to notice, but now they have. In the corridor, Kat claims she can ‘smell a boy'. Then Miss Raine tells me to go and wait in her office to ‘discuss' my recent attendance.

I wait for her, surrounded by all the ballet trophies and memorabilia, wondering what I'm going to say. I think it's an ‘apologise and promise it won't happen again situation'. That's what Kat would do isn't it? Miss Raine takes her time so I wander round her office, look at the photo of her with Grace on the shelf behind her desk. As I turn round I see Miss Raine's laptop on her desk. There's an email open and I catch my name on a list. At the Academy we live by lists. Where we placed in class, who made it through an audition, who made the cast. We spend our entire lives waiting to see where we are
on lists. This is a list of how the teachers think we'll place in the Prix de Fonteyn. You're either a ‘tick' for definitely getting through, a ‘question mark' for doubtful and a ‘cross' for definitely not. There's a cross by my name. Abigail Armstrong, a cross.

After all the years of dedication, hard work, relentless routine and complete obedience to ballet, I'm down as ‘definitely not'. Judged, before I've even walked out in front of the Prix judges. This is so not fair. Everyone deserves to know exactly what the Academy staff think of them so I forward the email to the entire second year.

The next day at the start of Prix de Fonteyn class, Miss Raine has joined Zach.

‘It is reprehensible that a student would violate a teacher's personal property,' she says. Half the class is standing in T-shirts that Ben's made up for us with a tick, question mark or cross. I am not wearing a cross, I refuse to accept that status.

Zach and Miss Raine are trying to defend their pre-judging, embarrassed at being caught out. It's pathetic and I really don't have time for them. I've caught the stinking cold that's going round the Academy. My nose is blocked, I've got a headache and now I have to listen to their pompous outrage and pathetic justifications.

‘A lot can change between now and the Nationals,' Zach says. I've heard enough. All I've had at the Academy recently is criticism and complaint. I want to be somewhere I'm appreciated.

‘Abigail. You have class in five minutes,' Miss Raine snaps at me.

‘What's the point?' I snap back. ‘You've written me off already.'

I head out of the Academy and leave Finn a message saying that I can make rehearsal today after all. ‘I'm on my way now,' I manage to get out before sneezing again.

‘Abigail Elizabeth. You're not sick again are you sweetheart?' I turn round. That voice, the cheap suit that's a size too small, that big embarrassing handbag. They all mean one thing. My mother.

‘What are you doing here?' I ask.

‘I'm here, standing by, to do whatever you need between now and the Nationals. Where are you going?'

‘Nowhere. Just the chemist,' I stammer. There's no way I can go to rehearsal now. Mum puts her arm through mine and wants an update on the competition.

‘How's Tara? And her back?'

‘Fully recovered.'

‘Could she be any more annoying?' That's Mum, fiercely supportive.

After the inevitable checks that I'm eating properly, ‘not too much' of course, she starts taking over my preparation for the Prix de Fonteyn. I have to show her the new solo that Zach's approved for me. She isn't impressed.

‘This solo isn't doing you justice, unlike …' She reaches into her bag and I know exactly what's coming out. ‘… Helen Keller. People still stop me in the street about your interpretation. Blind, deaf, mute. That poor, poor girl.'

Mum still lives for the days when I was the star pupil in her ballet school on the Sunshine Coast. To her, the Prix de Fonteyn is no different than a regional Eisteddfod. How do I tell her I've moved on from Helen Keller, moved on from her teaching and that I'm a cross on the Prix de Fonteyn prospects list?

The next day I have to enlist Kat's help in distracting Mum while I get to rehearsal. ‘Mum's had me doing Helen Keller since six a.m.'

‘That solo gives me nightmares, not to mention your mother,' Kat agrees to help, thinking I'm sneaking off to see some boy.

 

At rehearsal, my voice isn't up to singing thanks to this stupid cold. Finn makes me talk through the lines instead. As I'm speaking the words, my mother appears at the door. I pause, but perhaps if she hears me she'll understand that right now this is where I want to be. I'm not burning my tutu but, for now, I want to do this, not be told my solos are deficient and certainly not do a deaf, dumb and blind interpretation for Sunshine Coast ballet mums. I speak the lines.

When I finish Finn is amazed. I'm hoping Mum will get the message, but she doesn't. She just looks betrayed and drags me out of there, like I've been caught playing with the naughty kids.

She has me back rehearsing Helen Keller, criticising me.

‘Your
arabesques en tournant
in
en dehors
are too low. Get it up higher.'

‘It's
dehor
, no s. And I'm pretty sure it's meant to be at forty-five degrees,' I correct her. I'm tired, I'm sick and I really don't want to be here.

‘I've been teaching ballet since before you were born,' she starts on me.

‘You've been teaching it wrong. No one notices in your studio in the garage but I'm at the National Academy. And the Prix isn't some regional Eisteddfod. I'm not dancing this.'

‘You're tired and run down from wasting time on that ridiculous musical.'

‘It's not ridiculous, Mum. It makes me happy. Look, thanks for coming but I don't need you here. Go home. I'll call you in a few days.'

Then she tells me the real reason she's here. Dad's selling our home. Their ‘giving it another go' hasn't worked. And now, my sister wants to live with Dad instead of Mum. No one told me. My family's breaking up and nobody thought to fill me in.

‘You have your training, and the Nationals to focus on,' Mum says defensively.

I've got no choice, now. Mum's sacrificed too much for me to let her down. Who am I fooling? The plan was always to be the best ballet dancer,
nothing else. I call Finn and let him know he needs to find a replacement.

 

When the Nationals begin, all the ticks, crosses and question marks count for nothing. In the first round, the judges are marking the dancers from the Academy down. No one scores as high as an 8, not Tara, not me, not even Grace. I'm trying to help Finn and Mistii as much as I can via text. Mistii's taken over my role. She's a good actor. I know, I fell for her performance, but playing the two main roles herself is a real stretch. Mum doesn't care. She's got her eye firmly on the Prix. Even my score of 7.4 doesn't put her off talking about which ballet school I'll go to ‘when' I win. The winner of the Prix can attend the ballet school of their choice, anywhere in the world.

When Sammy comes to me to ask for a favour, it's a welcome distraction. In true Sammy style it's a complex knot of lies, fudges and emotional issues. He's told his father he has a girlfriend and committed to introducing this imaginary girlfriend to him.

‘All you have to do is shoot me adoring looks. And when I say something witty be like –
Sammy, you're such a character
.'

‘As my entire life has become about pleasing other people. Why not.' Anything would be better than another dose of my mother's cheery steel-like support.

We meet Sammy's father and his young brother, Ari, for lunch at Darling Harbour. It's a sunny day, an outdoor setting and more enjoyable than the Prix de Fonteyn massacre taking place at the Opera House. I know Sammy's father has been tough on him, trying to force him out of the Academy and into becoming a doctor, but he's making an effort now. He's going to watch Sammy compete in the Prix, the first time he'll see his son dance.

Sammy's not eating his food. He must be anxious, he's never off his food.

‘Don't be nervous about your performance on my account,' Mr Lieberman tries some reassurance. ‘I'm not expecting anything today. Just seeing how my money is spent.' It's a joke, but Sammy doesn't get it.

‘Make sure you're not wasting it … So how bad do you think I'm going to be, exactly?'

‘Honey. Tone warning.' I drop him a hint but there's no stopping his ‘we're basically strangers' rant and then he storms off.

Like any dutiful fake girlfriend would, I go after him and catch up by the fountains, long pools of water set low in the ground with jets of water in neat rows of arcs.

‘Did you hear that? It doesn't matter how I do. I'll be a disappointment regardless. That's it, I'm out. I can't get up there and prove him right.'

Total histrionics. He needs to cool down fast, so I choose the easy option. One push and he's sprawling in the fountain.

‘What was that for?' he splutters, as he climbs out.

‘Stop complaining about your dad's low expectations. Do you know what I'd give for low expectations? And why does it matter if he thinks you're good? You're not dancing in this competition because of him.'

Now it's my turn to storm off. I swear he is the single most irritating person on the planet.

‘Right … So why am I dancing again?' he calls after me, drawing me back.

‘Because this is where you want to be more than anywhere else. You want to be on that stage, doing what makes you happy.'

 

That evening at the Prix de Fonteyn there's a bouquet of flowers in the dressing room for me from Mistii and Finn. I've let them down completely and they still wish me the best. Mum snatches the enclosed card and tuts when she sees who it's from. The click from her mouth goes off in my head like a switch. I'm in the wrong dressing room, this isn't the stage I want to perform on tonight. I'm not turning my back on ballet, not for good, but right now I have to do something else. Something for me.

‘Mum, I have to go. I know how much you want this and you could be right. I might win the Prix. And I might not. The thing is, I don't care either way.'

I gather my things. If I leave now I can get to the theatre in time for the start of the musical and play my role.

‘I can't breathe.' My mother panics. ‘I physically can't breathe.'

‘Mum, I can't be responsible for making you breathe.' I walk out leaving the Opera House, the Prix and living to please other people. I'm going to use my voice.

Ballet is like having a moody possessive boyfriend. He treats you like dirt and demands all your attention. You think you can't leave because he's the only love you've ever known. Then you meet someone else. Someone that's easier to get on with. Someone that doesn't hurt you so much or demand so much. So you try seeing him. You're happy, appreciated, free but just when you think you've found a new love, your old boyfriend calls up again. Your stomach jumps and you don't know if it's dread or excitement … or both.

The musical went brilliantly, I got rave reviews. I loved performing and without the pressure of the Prix de Fonteyn I kept up with dance classes and still performed in the evening. Now, as we're nearing the end of semester, the year end production has
been announced. It's
Peter Pan
. Normally the third years get all the lead roles, but most of them are away touring. This is a big opportunity, I should be nervously hoping for a lead. Actually I should be quietly confident. My main competition has been removed.

Grace left for Britain without a word to anyone. She was a definite tick when it came to performing in the Prix but she suddenly vanished. I tried to find out why, but Miss Raine only mumbled something about a ‘personal issue' and shut her door on me. I think Tara knows something but she's saying nothing. Somehow Grace has been exposed for the snake she is and I will find out.

With Grace gone and my withdrawal, Tara had a clear run at representing Australia in the international competition. The boys results were an even bigger upset. Some pimply upstart from Tasmania who actually thinks referring to himself as ‘The Slade' is cool is representing our country, along with Sammy. Obviously his time in the fountain did him some good. That, along with a sympathy vote when his music cut out, mean that my former partner, the boy who's dropped me in more ways than I thought humanely possibly, has been judged as our nation's best.

Tara and Sammy have to focus one hundred per cent on the international competition and so can't take part in
Peter Pan
. So I'm the only viable choice for female lead. But as Zach calls out the parts, I'm not really interested – Finn's just texted me, they're bumping out the production, do I want to come and ‘say goodbye' to my musical. Zach announces Christian will be the male lead of
Peter Pan
. Kat is playing Tinkerbell and the female lead, Wendy Darling goes to … me. Great, the wimpiest lead role in ballet.

 

I talk to Finn about my new casting as we bump out the musical, boxing up props, packing the dreams away. ‘Who was ever known for performing Wendy Darling? It's not like Sylvie Guillem doing
Forsythe
, or Makarova's
port de bras
in
Swan Lake
.' It may be a lead but it's such a wet one.

Finn asks me what else I'm interested in apart from ballet. I must be being boring. I thought he was so dumb when I first entered this theatre, but he's not. He's smart, funny and knows so much about so many things. And he's cute, not that I'm looking for anything like that.

‘You know, Pilates, kilojoule management.' I'm sounding like a complete ballet bore. I need to find something else. I see the fish design on his T-shirt.

‘And our oceans … I'm very into fish preservation.'

‘Do you mean fish conservation? Or do you actually pickle fish?' he looks puzzled. I've blown it, idiot ballet girl getting her big words wrong.

‘Both,' I say quickly to cover myself. He turns away to pack another box. Is he smirking?

‘Maybe you could take me to Sydney Aquarium then? I haven't been since I was a kid,' he says, as he turns back, trying to act casual.

‘That sort of sounded like you were asking me out?'

‘Maybe,' he says with a smile.

A date, I've got a date. With a normal person, from the real world, someone whose feet aren't covered in blisters and doesn't even know what a
port de bras
is. I seriously wasn't looking for a date, but now I have one, I've got a serious problem. I need to find out about fish. Fast. There's only one person to turn to for nerd knowledge. I grab him in the common room.

‘Sammy. I have a date. At the aquarium. And I need to become a marine expert in twenty-four hours.'

‘You have a date?' he asks.

‘Why wouldn't I?'

‘You would, I'm just confused why you would need to lie about maritime knowledge.'

I didn't come to him, of all people, for a lecture on not getting into awkward situations. ‘Would you like a list of ways you owe me?'

 

The next day on the ferry to the aquarium I'm gripped by panic.

‘I'm skipping rehearsal without permission, to test practise a date. I've lost it.'

‘Say “No” to Ballet Guilt,' Sammy tries to calm me.

‘Wendy is a lead role. It's a sappy, wimpy lead but it's a lead. If I'm not there, Zach will downsize my solos.'

‘Zach will have so much to worry about, he won't even notice. And someone will fill in for you.'

I didn't think of that. Tara might be doing the Prix but she's still in class. And if anyone is a natural for playing a sappy lead it's her. What have I done?

At the aquarium I focus on skilling up on marine life. I will dazzle Finn with my knowledge of the lifeforms that inhabit ninety-seven per cent of the
hydrosphere. Sammy doesn't think fish facts are good date conversation topics and tries to confiscate my notebook as we go round the tanks.

‘If you're not going to help, I don't know what you're doing here,' I say. He claims to have problems that need discussing too. When doesn't he?

‘Recent heartbreak, though admittedly I was the dumper. And which international school I'm going to pick if I win the Prix,' he recites his current issues.

‘My problems are real,' I tell him.

‘Why is it so important that you impress this guy? He should be impressed enough going out with you.' I like the compliment.

‘Okay,' says Sammy, ‘let's simulate the date.'

We sit down in front of a fish tank. A shark, of which there are 350 species worldwide, swims by ignoring us.

‘After you've wowed him with your cuttlefish convo, he sidles closer. Puts his arm around you.' Sammy acts out my date, I feel his arm around me.

‘And then what? We just sit here. With no apparent purpose.'

‘This is why normal people visit aquariums. To meditate on the wonder of nature.' We sit there, watching marine species drift by like useless facts.

‘Am I doing it right?' I ask.

Enough of the date practice. We move on. Who knew there could be so many fish to learn? It's easier to help Sammy with his problem – which dance school he should attend if he wins the Prix. We go through Berlin, Beijing, Malmö. Sammy pours out all these facts about the cities. How does he know so much information?

‘I'm actually the cliché of a stupid ballerina.'

‘No you're Abigail Armstrong. You don't care what anyone thinks of you.'

‘I care what I think of me,' I admit. ‘Doing this musical I got this glimpse. There's a whole world that has nothing to do with ballet.'

As we get the ferry back, I look out at all the buildings on the harbour shore. Apartments, houses, offices, all full of people who aren't dancers, who probably have never even been to the ballet. People leading exciting lives, having interesting conversations on different topics. People not obsessed with only one thing. Even the ferry is full of people leading interesting varied lives: ferry captains, stock traders.

‘I could be a ruthless stock trader,' I say.

‘You could be anything,' says Sammy.

 

At the Academy, I go to see Miss Raine in her office. I don't want to play Wendy. ‘I'm not quitting the Academy. I just don't have time for a lead role right now.'

‘Why not?' she asks.

‘I think I just need some space to pursue other interests. I feel like you're preparing me for a life if I get into the Company, but not for life if I don't.'

Miss Raine is not passing round the sympathy today. ‘Abigail, occasionally students with uncommon natural ability can afford to give less than one hundred per cent. You are not one of them. You either have to give ballet everything. Every day. Or you give it up completely.'

She's right. I've been kidding myself. Ballet is all or nothing. I text Finn to say I can't make our date. My possessive boyfriend's back, he demands I focus on the end of year ballet.

In rehearsals for
Peter Pan
, I'm fighting with Ollie, who's playing Captain Hook. He's meant to be kidnapping me and I'm resisting, obviously.

‘Abigail, Wendy is in battle but she's still Wendy. I want to see some sweetness, some vulnerability.' Sweetness? This part is so not me.

Sammy comes in. He's meant to be resting for the Prix, but he feels lost so Zach gets him to film our
rehearsal so we can go over the footage later and spot where I can add some more wimpy sweetness.

 

In the common room later, I'm sewing a pair of my
pointe
shoes, minding my own business when Tara comes in, ranting about Grace. She's back from England. I knew there was more to her sudden departure and I was right. She made a move on Zach, our teacher and then accused him of doing it to her. Why am I not surprised? It was Tara who exposed her scheme to Miss Raine and now Grace is out for revenge.

In her non-competitive ‘oh did I really win that?' way she's representing England in the Prix de Fonteyn. Not only that but she's going to dance
The Red Shoes
. With so much natural talent, and her own revenge subplot, she'll be almost impossible to beat.

‘Grace has manipulated me this whole year. And now she expects me to lie down and …' Tara's ready to explode.

‘Hang on …' says Ben. He's clearly not read the status update. ‘You and Grace are friends.'

‘Grace doesn't have friends,' says Tara.

‘Only roadkill,' I add. It's war.

War is where my natural talents lie, but I have to go in the opposite direction – Wendy. I head to the rehearsal space only to find Sammy taking up half the room with a laptop and some DVDs.

‘Can you take whatever that is somewhere else? I have to find Wendy's “sweet side”.'

He's working on something for his Prix final performance. He'd told us all that he wanted his friends on stage with him. It sounds pure gimmick to me.

‘You're trying to distract the judges because you don't think you deserve to be there,' I tell him, but he's got his smiley determination thing going. He can be incredibly stubborn when he's happy.

‘No. This is my chance to be on the world stage. I'm showing them who I am. That's the only way I'll be good enough to win.' He grins and closes up the laptop. ‘Watch my tech rehearsal and if you still think I'm sabotaging, I won't do it.' If there's one person he can rely on for brutal honesty, it's me.

 

At the Opera House, I'm alone in the auditorium while Sammy stands on the empty stage in the dark. Then his voice comes over the speakers. ‘Every
dancer knows that being technically perfect isn't enough. We need to know why we dance.' Video footage appears behind him, filling the back stage. It's Tara dancing Clara from
The Nutcracker
, the end of year performance last year. Sammy starts dancing, like he's dancing with her. ‘For me it's to be connected. I'm inspired by my friends,' his voice continues. Then I'm on the screen doing my solo from the Showcase this year and he's dancing with me. One by one, all his friends appear and he dances with each one of us, responding to us, changing with us but still maintaining his own unique style. It is the most amazing thing I've ever seen him do. It's not just good. It's magical.

As we walk home, Sammy's on a complete high. I've already told him it's good but he can't get enough positive reinforcement.

‘I can still change it,' he says.

‘Lieberman, you're not seriously still fishing for compliments.'

‘It's good isn't it,' he says, picks me up and spins me around. He's so happy, so excited, it's impossible not to get caught up. I never thought he could be a great dancer, but he could. He is.

Suddenly we're face to face. He tries to kiss me. I turn away but then before I know it, we're kissing.
Like we used to. For a second nothing else matters. No Prix, no Wendy, just the two of us. I stop. It's weird. Nice, but weird.

‘I better … rehearsal in the morning.'

‘Me too. Competition, not rehearsal obviously,' he says.

It must have been his performance that moved me, his confidence, his excitement. Whatever it was, I can still feel it as I lie in bed. My Sammy, the world-conquering hero.

 

Next day in rehearsal, Zach's got nothing but praise. I've found Wendy's sweet side. The rehearsal carries on and I know why I'm there. I want to dance. I want this. I really do. I haven't just found the character, I've found my reason for being here, my love for dance. And I have Sammy to thank for it.

When I first see Miss Raine enter, I feel annoyed. I don't want this rehearsal to be interrupted. I don't want this feeling to end, but it does. I realise straight away something's wrong. Miss Raine isn't the happiest of people but her face is so pale it's almost grey and one hand is holding her other arm, trying to stop it from shaking. Something's happened.
I watch her neck as she swallows hard and raises a finger to make the music stop.

‘I need to interrupt rehearsal Zach,' she says. The rest becomes a blur. I can see her mouth move and I can hear words, but they don't make any sense.

My head pulses, the sweat from dancing turns to ice, freezing over my skin as I make out the words, ‘Awful news', ‘a terrible road accident' and ‘dead'. She says a name, but I don't want to hear it. She has to be wrong, lying, mistaken, confused, anything but right. She can't be right, she can't have said Sammy Lieberman. Sammy can't be dead. Not my Sammy.