Attitude (2 page)

“Dad. Come on. It's an international school. I'd meet people—dancers—from all over the world. And they have a totally famous ballet company, and lots of their students end up joining it.”

“But you wouldn't want to live there, would you? It's so far away…”

Canada might be far away, but the possibility of joining a ballet company felt even more distant. “I wouldn't have to,” I said. “Seriously, their graduates get into all the best companies. I bet I could get into an Australian ballet company.”

Mom leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “That does sound interesting,” she admitted. “But it's probably too expensive. And you've never really been away from home at all.”

“I did that Girl Guide camp last summer,” I said.

“And you hated it,” Dad pointed out. “By the second day, you were begging to come home.”

“This'd be different,” I said. “None of my friends at school here understand why I even care about ballet so much. At the academy, we'd all be dancing together every day. We'd get to know each other. I'd make friends. And I'd be studying with great teachers.” I squeezed my hands together, fingers laced, under my chin. “Please think about it?”

“It's not that we don't support you,” Dad said. “You're a wonderful dancer. I just don't think your whole life should revolve around that one thing.”

Mom nodded. “That's right. We want you to enjoy being a kid.”

“I enjoy
dancing,
” I said, fighting back tears. “And if I want to dance professionally, I
can't
wait until I'm older. It'll be too late.”

They looked at each other. Mom sighed. Dad shrugged. “We'll think about it,” they said, more or less in unison.

The next morning, Mom told me that they'd decided it was my choice. If I did the audition and got accepted for the Summer Intensive, I could go. ust for the summer. As for staying on in the fall, they said we'd cross that bridge when we came to it. I think maybe they expected me to change my mind, but I never even considered it. I knew what I wanted. I'm not usually overconfident, but somehow I knew it would happen. It just felt like it was meant to be.

And now, here I am, in my own room in a strange Canadian house with a family that I am going to be living with for four weeks.
Four weeks!
It sounds like forever. I change into a clean shirt, wash my face and brush my teeth, and head downstairs to join them for dinner.

The Harrisons are much more formal than my family. At home, we usually eat in the living room, in front of the TV, with our plates on our laps. Here, we sit at a table with a white tablecloth and pale-green place mats, and we have separate plates for salad and for the rest of our dinner, which is grilled fish and asparagus. I've never had asparagus before.

“So Cassandra,” Mr. Harrison says, “I bet you have lots of questions for Edie.”

He is smiling at me, and there is a glint of sympathy in his eye, like he understands how overwhelming this all is. I swallow a mouthful of food. “Um, yeah, I do, actually.” I shift in my seat to face Edie, who is sitting beside me. “Have you been at the academy for a long time?”

“Since I was six,” she says. Her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper. “I'm hoping to start PTP this fall.”

“That's the Professional Training Program,” Mrs. Harrison explains.

“That'd be amazing,” I say. “You're lucky to live so close to such a great school.”

She nods. “Are you just here for the summer? Or are you hoping to get into PTP?”

“I'd love to get in,” I say. “But I don't know if my parents would let me stay. They might not want me to be away for that long.” I look around the dining room, with its crystal chandelier and artwork on the walls, and think of my own comfy but slightly scruffy home. I can see it all so clearly in my mind—Muffin, my fat gray cat, curled up on Mom's lap; Dad dozing in his big chair in front of the TV; the enormous jigsaw puzzle we were working on still half-finished on the coffee table. There's a sudden ache in my throat. “A year's a really long time,” I say.

I can see Edie relax as I say this. She actually smiles at me. “Well, the summer should be good,” she says. “Hard work, but good.”

“It'll be cool to meet other girls who love ballet as much as I do,” I tell her. “Most of my friends back home thought I was crazy to spend so much time dancing.”

“I dance ten hours a week,” she says.

“Same here, I guess. Ballet three times a week, and tap and jazz once each.”

Edie takes a sip of water. “My best friend at the school—Melissa—she's going to get into PTP for sure. She's an incredible dancer. The teachers all love her. Her mom was a dancer, a famous one. She danced the lead parts in
Swan Lake, Giselle, Romeo and Juliet
…practically every ballet you can think of.”

“That's amazing.” I smile at her. Now that we're talking about ballet, Edie is like a different person.

“Edie's mother used to dance too,” Mr. Harrison tells me. “When she and the girls get talking about ballet, it's like they're speaking another language.”

Mrs. Harrison laughs. “I took some lessons as a kid,” she says. “I didn't ever get close to the level you girls are at now.”

Edie nods. “Melissa's mother was in a whole other league. Like, a prima ballerina.”

“Wow,” I say. “That'd be so cool, to have a famous ballet dancer for a mom.”

Mrs. Harrison slides a bowl of whole-grain rolls toward me. “A lot to live up to, I would imagine.”

“I guess so.” My mom says she dances like a chicken with two left feet. No pressure there. Quite the opposite, actually. She thinks I'm crazy for wanting to dance as much as I do. “Tell me more about the Professional Training Program,” I say.

Edie balances her chin on her fingertips. “In PTP, you dance, like, twenty hours a week. The academy has this arrangement with the high schools so you get to leave early and dance every day for at least four hours. And that's not including rehearsal for recitals and festivals and stuff like that. That's just your regular dance classes.”

“Edie, elbows off the table,” Mrs. Harrison says.

I realize my own elbows are on the table too and hastily sit back and place my hands in my lap. “How many girls will get in?”

Edie shrugs. “Not as many as are hoping to. It's probably a good thing you're planning to go home at the end of the summer session.”

I nod and grin, but inside me, hope and ambition are leaping up and dancing a crazy pas de deux.

“It can get a bit intense,” Mrs. Harrison says. “The summer session is really a four-week-long audition, isn't it, Edie? Especially for the new girls. It gives the teachers a chance to really assess who has the potential for a career as a dancer. Physically and mentally.”

“Courage, passion, dedication,” Edie says, as if she is quoting, and I recognize the words from the academy website.

I know I have the passion. I am pretty sure I have the dedication. But do I have the courage to become a dancer if it means leaving my family?

Three

Mrs. Harrison drops Edie and me off at the academy on Monday morning. “I'm sorry I can't come in with you, Cassandra,” she says. “I'm running late for work, but Edie will show you around and introduce you to everyone.”

I pick up my bag and slide out of the car. “I'll be fine.” Edie is already halfway to the front doors, and I hurry to catch up and follow her inside.

Girls are milling about in black leotards and tights, duffel bags slung over shoulders, shiny hair scraped up into tight buns. My heart is beating fast. I lift my chin, determined not to let anyone see how nervous I am. Edie takes me to the office, where an older woman with dyed-black hair and a lot of gold jewelry checks my name off a list. “Studio Three,” she says. “Cassandra will start off with you, Edie, so you can show her where to go. Here are name tags for you both. Just pin them to your leotards, please.”

Edie nods and guides me down the crowded hallway, up a flight of stairs and through another set of doors. I can feel myself calm down as I step into the studio. With the mirrored wall, the double bar and the piano in the corner, it feels just like my dance classes back home. Girls are already sitting on the floor, stretching, adjusting their shoes and chatting.

“Melissa!” Edie runs forward and throws her arms around a tall slender girl with flaming red hair. “I've missed you.”

Melissa laughs. “Goof. I was only away for a week.”

“I know, but…” She trails off and turns to me. “This is Cassie. She's our homestay student.”

“Hello, Cassie.” Melissa eyes me appraisingly for a long moment, then turns back to Edie. “There's a lot of new girls, have you noticed?”

“Are there? We just got here,” Edie says. She looks around the room and I follow her gaze, feeling a little dismayed at the size of the group. At home, there were never more than fifteen or so in a class, but there must be close to thirty girls in here. Some seem very young, not more than eleven, I'd guess; others look maybe sixteen or even older. Everyone is dressed the same—black leotards, soft shoes, the palest pink tights.

“Good morning, girls!” A teacher walks to the front of the room, and the chatter and giggling subside. She waits for complete silence before she begins. “Welcome to the first day of the Summer Intensive. I am Diana Komlos—you can call me Diana—and I teach ballet and contemporary here at the academy. We're going to be working hard over these next four weeks, and I am expecting you all to give one hundred percent.”

“Yes, Diana,” some of the girls say.

Diana is about thirty and quite elegant, with a long slender neck and white-blond hair tied back in a short ponytail instead of a bun. She speaks slowly and clearly, her eyes moving from one of us to another, and I can sense that she is already assessing us. “Martha Graham once said that dance is the hidden language of the soul,” she says. “Think about that, girls. The body doesn't lie.”

I wait, barely breathing, wanting to hold on to every word. I feel like she can see right into me. I drop my shoulders, lift my chin, pull in my stomach and hope that she sees whatever it is she is looking for.

She smiles. “For this first class, we're going to be taking things a little more slowly than we usually do,” she says. “I want to see where you are all at and what you can do, so that I know what we need to work on. Mrs. Hoffman, another one of our teachers, will be observing the first half of our class.” She gestures toward an older darkhaired woman standing just inside the door, and the woman nods at us without smiling. “I'll be dividing you into three smaller groups, and I'll let you know what those groups will be at the end of this class.”

Melissa and Edie exchange looks, no doubt hoping they will be in the same group. I cross my fingers for a moment, hoping I'll be with them and not a bunch of complete strangers.

“Let's get started,” Diana says, clapping her hands briskly. “Positions at the barre, everyone. First position, please.”

I take a place at the barre behind Edie and Melissa. The smooth wood under my hand feels comfortingly familiar, and I take a deep breath before settling into the routine exercises.
First position. Heels together. Turn out from the hip.

“Think of trees,” Diana says. “Think of how they reach up for the sunlight, trying to be the tallest tree. Lift your abdomen, straighten your spine. From the hipbones up, be like a tree, stretching up.” She stands behind one girl, holding her hand an inch or so above her head. “Stretching to touch my hand…yes.” She walks on, past me, and our eyes meet in the mirror for a second. “What else do trees have?” she asks me.

“Roots?” I say.

“Yes. Trees also have roots. So below the hipbones, stretching down into the ground, sending your roots deep to find the water...good.”

I focus on the stretch in my muscles, trying to get as much turnout as I can, making sure my position is perfect.

“Iako, lovely turnout. Heels together, though—don't be sloppy. Edie, drop your shoulders.” Diana walks down the line, pausing to correct each girl as she passes. “Julie, turn out from the hip. Nice work, Zoe, but tuck your seat in. Cassandra, make sure you keep your shoulders level.” She touches my left shoulder, pressing down lightly. “Okay, now demi-plié.”

I bend my knees slowly, concentrating on keeping my thighs turned out.

“Heels stay on the floor, Julie.” Diana approaches the girl behind me. “That's it. Make sure those heels stay together.” She raises her voice to address us all. “And grand plié!”

I take a deep breath, let my heels lift and bend my knees farther, sinking into a grand plié.

“Very nice…” She pauses, bending to look at my name tag. “Very nice, Cassandra. Julie, a little deeper, bring your thighs parallel to the floor…that's it. And slowly come up again, back into first position. Slowly, Edie! Don't rush.” Diana nods at me as she passes. “Good, Kendra, good…Zoe, bring your heels back to the floor as soon as you can. Let's see that again…yes, plié, and now rising up…heels, heels…hmm. A little better, Zoe.”

Over the next hour, Diana takes us through a series of exercises at the barre: tendus, retirés, développés, pirouettes, arabesques and attitudes. There is a level of seriousness and intensity in the room that is pushing me to work even harder than usual. My legs are trembling, and I know I'll be sore tomorrow.

Finally the class is over and we are stretching, warming down. “Shake it out,” Diana says. “Shake it out.”

Edie leans toward me. “What did you think?” she whispers.

“It was excellent,” I say. “She's awesome.”

“She's a good teacher. I hope I'm in her group.”

“Me too.” I know without a doubt that studying with Diana is going to make me a better dancer.