Attitude (8 page)

Thirteen

Mrs. Harrison picks us up as usual, and she's smiling. “Good day?”

I guess she doesn't know. “All right,” I say.

Edie shrugs and gets into the passenger seat beside her mother. I hold my breath, waiting, but she doesn't say anything.

Which doesn't mean she won't. I can't relax yet.

“I thought we'd get a movie this evening,” Mrs. Harrison says. “Friday night! I bet your bodies will be glad of a little rest this weekend.”

In the back seat, I buckle my seat belt. “Definitely,” I say. My legs feel as weak as a toddler's and my left hip hurts, and my toes— well, I don't even want to think about my toes.

“Can Melissa come over?” Edie says. “And can we get that ballet movie? The new one, that documentary?”

“What a nice idea,” her mother says.

I didn't think things could get worse, but they just did. I can't imagine spending the evening with Edie and Melissa.

Maybe I'll pretend to be sick and just go to bed.

* * *

When we get back to the house, I head up to my room. I change into my old flannel pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and I curl up on my bed. I ache all over, and it's not just my muscles. I want to cry, but I'm too exhausted. If a fairy godmother appeared right now and offered to wave her wand and send me home, I'd be gone.

I can't imagine how I'm going to get through two more weeks of this.

I push my face into the pillow. It's pale blue, silky and cool and smells like fabric softener. I think of my own well-worn red-plaid pillowcase and a wave of homesickness rushes over me. I think about calling my parents, but there's the time difference, and I'd have to borrow Edie's computer. And I don't know why, but I feel oddly ashamed, like I've done something wrong. I don't want my parents to know about the Facebook comment beside my name.

Then there's a knock and my bedroom door opens.

I sit up. It's Mrs. Harrison. She steps into my room and closes the door behind her, and I see her creased forehead and the hard line of her mouth.

My heart gives a jolting kick high in my chest.

She knows.

“Cassandra,” she says, “I just heard something extremely disturbing. Something about you posting a very hurtful comment on Facebook.”

I shake my head. “I didn't, Mrs. Harrison. I know what it said, but I wouldn't ever do that.”

She frowns, her plucked and penciled eyebrows moving toward each other like two skinny black worms. “Then how do you suggest that this happened? The comment was in your name.”

I can hardly tell her that her own daughter must have done it. “Someone must have signed in as me,” I say. “Maybe I forgot to sign out of my account.”

“I hope you aren't trying to shift the blame to Edie,” she says sharply. “She's been very loyal, you know. She didn't even tell me what you did. I only heard just now, from Melissa's mother. She called to let me know. Apparently Melissa is very upset.”

I'm pretty sure the whole thing was Melissa's idea. “I'm not trying to blame anyone,” I say. “I just know I didn't do it.”

“This Facebook business, all this cyberbullying…I've read about it happening, but really, Cassandra, I wouldn't have thought you would do anything like this.” She leans toward me, tilts her head and tries to look me in the eye. “Is there something going on that you'd like to talk about? If you're having a hard time making friends with the other girls or feeling homesick…well, I hope you'd tell me.”

I don't say anything, because what else can I say? I can't make her believe me.

She sighs. “Well, I can't make you talk about it.”

The lump in my throat is so huge, I don't think I could say anything even if I wanted to.

“I don't want you using the computer this weekend,” Mrs. Harrison says. “Obviously it's a privilege you can't be trusted with.”

I swallow. That means no email, no Skype, no contact with my friends or my parents.

“Melissa will be here soon,” she says. “I hope you'll apologize to her and Edie.” She sighs again. “You can't take back what you have said, but you need to figure out how you are going to repair the damage you have done. It's up to you to make things right with them.”

I clench my hands into tight fists, nails digging into my palms. “I'll talk to them,” I say. The words come out hard as pellets and leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Good,” Mrs. Harrison says. She turns to leave but not without a parting shot. “If it were up to me, you would lose the privilege of auditioning next week,” she says. “Edie started to cry when I told her that, just so you know. She doesn't want that to happen. Personally, I think she is being far more generous than you deserve.”

The unfairness of it all is feeding the growing fury inside me, and I'm scared of what might come out if I try to answer.

She takes my silence for stubbornness, or perhaps heartless indifference, and makes a little noise of disgust before walking away and closing my bedroom door much harder than necessary.

I sit motionless on the bed for a long time, just breathing deeply and trying to calm myself. I feel like screaming, or crying, but there's no point.

I need a plan.

I need to stand up to Melissa and Edie somehow. I can't let them win.

I get off the bed and look at myself in the full-length mirror. First position. Second. Third. Chin up, back straight, shoulders down and back, turn out from the hip…Despite everything, I danced better today than I ever have. I know I did. And I can see the dancer in the mirror, looking back at me with determination in every line of her body.

Courage. Passion. Dedication.
This is how I will beat Melissa and Edie. I will apologize if I must, lying through my teeth, and I will not let them see that it hurts. And I will go back to the school on Monday and convince Diana to let me audition.

I will dance my heart out.

I will get the part of Clara, and that will be my revenge.

* * *

When Melissa arrives, I go downstairs and join her and Edie in the living room.

She looks at me, eyebrows lifted, mouth curled into a smirk. Edie looks down and tugs at a loose thread in the cuff of her hoodie.

I take a deep breath. “That comment on Facebook was awful,” I say. “It was a mean thing to write. And it was a lie, anyway.” I meet Melissa's eyes and hope she knows exactly what I am really saying:
You're mean. You're a liar.

“I just figured you were jealous,” she says. “Because, you know, Edie and I probably have a better chance than you do of being Clara.”

I force a smile. “Probably,” I say. “I guess we'll all have to wait and see.”

Mrs. Harrison is standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, listening and nodding approvingly at our civilized behavior. If only she knew…

“Well, may the best dancer win,” Melissa says.

* * *

I get through the weekend somehow. Mrs. Harrison is cool toward me, but Mr. Harrison seems to think the whole thing is rather funny. “Girls and their drama,” he says. I bet he wouldn't be laughing if he knew the truth.

When I'm alone with Edie on Saturday, I ask her directly if she posted the comment. She doesn't answer, but she can't meet my eyes. “Just tell me the truth,” I say. “It's not like anyone's going to believe me anyway. Besides, I already know you did it. You're the only one who could have got into my account.”

“Why ask, then?” she says.

“I want to hear you admit it,” I say.

Her cheeks are red and her eyes are too bright. “So what if I did?” she says. Her voice is high and shaky, like she's on the edge of tears.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I'm just going to dance,” I say.

* * *

On Monday morning, Diana pulls me aside. “We're going to let you go ahead with the audition for
The Nutcracker
,” she says. “But I should warn you, Cassandra. Any more incidents like the one last week, and the consequences will be severe.”

My heart leaps and flutters like a dancer doing entrechats inside my rib cage. “Thank you,” I whisper.

She nods, hesitates as if she is going to say something and then shakes her head. “I'll see you in class.”

I watch her go. I want her to believe me. I hate that people are thinking badly of me.

Getting the part of Clara might be a good way to get even with Melissa and Edie, but it won't erase the dark mark against me. It won't clear my name.

And I'm starting to realize that might be more important to me than revenge.

Fourteen

Mackenzie is jumpy all week, figuring that she'll be the next girl voted off, but nothing else happens. We're all worked half to death in every class, so maybe Melissa and the other girls just haven't had the energy for their usual games.

And finally, Thursday—audition day—arrives.

The auditions are being held at a dance studio downtown. It's a bit of a zoo when we first arrive, because the youngest kids are just leaving. There are dozens of them, cute little munchkins, maybe six or seven years old, all chattering nonstop as their parents herd them up and usher them out the door. I watch their excited faces and wonder which ones will end up onstage—they'll be the mice, I guess, and they'll never forget it.

We gather in a wide hallway, and someone hands out our numbers. I get number thirteen—which is fine, as I've never been superstitious. I pin it to my leotard and look around to see who got number one. Not Melissa, anyway—she's got seventeen pinned to her chest.

“They're just auditioning the party girls now,” Diana says. “It'll be half an hour or so before they start calling you in, so try to relax. Do some stretching, get ready, don't stress. And keep the volume down, please!”

The floor is littered with shoes, water bottles, bits of lamb's wool, and I can hear faint piano music drifting from the closed studio door. I find a spot to sit and stretch. Cam sinks down into the splits beside me. “Nervous?”

“Yeah.” I'm looking around, checking out the competition. Clusters of girls—all slim, longlimbed, smooth-haired—stand around talking, stretching, fixing their hair, adjusting their numbers. They all seem disturbingly confident, like they've done this a hundred times before. A handful of adults is bustling about, making sure each girl is numbered and counted and where she should be. “There sure are a lot of people trying out, aren't there?” I say quietly.

“No kidding.” Cam leans forward, chin almost to the floor. “I'd sort of forgotten that there are so many other ballet schools here.”

“Odds are, Clara won't even be someone from our school,” I say.

Cam sits up. “Not all the schools are as good as the academy.”

“I'm going to try not to think about it,” I say. “It makes me nervous. I'm just going to dance, and what happens, happens.” I slip on my pointe shoes and kneel to lace them, the way Peter taught me. If you kneel on one leg while you lace the other shoe, it's easier to get the tension around your ankle just right.

“You'll do fine,” Cam says.

Mackenzie comes and sits down beside us, her back against the wall. “I think I'm going to throw up.”

“I know,” I say. “Me too.”

“Maybe we should both throw up,” Mackenzie says glumly. “Gross everyone out so much that they can't dance. Then you and me could get the part.”

I laugh. “The Puking Claras. Sounds like a really bad band name.”

She laughs, then turns serious. “I don't have a shot anyway.”

“Sure you do,” I say. “I think you have a better shot than most of us.”

“How many black Claras do you think there have been?”

I'm stunned into silence for a moment. It had never occurred to me to wonder. I want to reassure her that of course it doesn't matter—but I have no idea if this is true. I mean, it shouldn't matter. But that doesn't mean anything. “I don't know,” I say at last.

“I've seen
The Nutcracker
about a dozen times,” she says. “And Clara is always white. Always.”

“Well, maybe not this time,” I say. “You'd be an awesome Clara.”

“Thanks.” She sighs, then laughs. “I wish we could tell Andrew Kingsley that Melissa is an evil cow who doesn't deserve an audition, let alone a part in
The Nutcracker
.”

“I have to beat her,” I say. “And Edie too. I have to.”

She stops laughing. “Yeah, you do. You really do.”

“I will,” I say. And I have a sudden rush of confidence. I can do this. I know I can. “Come on,” I say. “Let's get warmed up.”

* * *

A few minutes later, the studio door opens, hordes of nine- and ten-year-olds—the party girls, I guess—come pouring out and we are called in.

A four-person panel is sitting at the front of the room. One of them—a tall lean man—stands up and introduces himself as Andrew Kingsley. He explains the audition process and tells us what he is looking for. “Clara should be playful,” he says. “Lighthearted, smiling—can you do that?”

We all nod. I glance at my reflection in the mirror and realize my expression is the opposite of lighthearted. More like life or death. I fix a smile on my lips and see the other girls doing the same—which makes me smile for real.

We start out by doing some floor exercises: tendus, pliés, jumps. I feel good—strong, steady, light on my feet. The pianist plays, and we do pirouettes, arabesques, changements. Then we all gather in one corner to do cross-floor exercises. Andrew explains what he wants us to do—one at a time, we are to cross the room diagonally, doing a series of movements. “This will allow us to get a better sense of your abilities,” he says. “So you'll go one at a time, and we'll watch each of you as an individual.”