Authors: Sarah Webb
Dancing Daze (10 page)
He stops and stares at her, looking confused. Amber introduces herself and asks if he’s ready for the interview. He gives a toothy grin and nods enthusiastically. Then they walk off toward the main school building together. Without turning round, Amber twists her arm behind her back and gives a thumbs-up.
“Way to play it, Amber!” Clover says. “I knew she was the right girl for the job. She has a lot of smarts for a D4. And she certainly knows how to handle her heels. Ready, Operation Happo team? Thunderbirds are go, go, go! Let’s show these Crombies we mean business. Follow me, troops.” We all pile out of the car and head over to the changing-room door that Happo’s team has just gone through.
As soon as we enter and start walking down the slightly gloomy hallway, I can smell the familiar odor of teenage boy — rancid socks, sweat, body spray, and hormones. There’s shouting and laughter from behind a door, and Clover stops in front of it.
“This must be it,” she says in a low voice. “Bean Machine, you’re keeping watch outside the door. Seth, you’re the bouncer. Don’t let anyone inside the building, understand? As soon as you spot the coach or any other adult, wave at Amy, OK? And she can alert me and Brains.”
“OK,” Seth says, now looking as green as our hoodies.
“So are we all set, team?” Clover asks.
Seth and I nod. I have to admit, my stomach is knotted with nerves. Seth squeezes my hand. “Good luck, kiddo. See you on the other side.”
“Stay alive,” I gush while gripping his hand. “I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you.”
Clover frowns. “Beanie! This is no time for amateur dramatics. Right, it’s action stations, troops.”
I salute her. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
Clover knocks loudly on the changing-room door, opens it a little, and shouts, “Lady incoming.” After waiting a second or two, she strides in, with Brains just behind her.
Standing outside, I feel another wave of anxiety. What if the Crombies don’t believe Clover and Brains are with the IRFU? They don’t exactly look like your average rugby officials.
“Excuse me.” Clover’s voice cuts into my thoughts. The sound is carrying through the thin changing-room door. “Can I have your attention, please?” She sounds very confident and very, very official. “This is the Junior Cup team, is that correct?”
“Yeah,” a voice rings out. Then there’s a wolf whistle.
“Less of that now, please, lads.” It’s Brains this time, with a surprisingly brilliant accent. “We’re here on important IRFU business. If we have your full cooperation, it won’t take long.”
“As you all know, the use of performance-enhancing drugs is banned in rugby, and we at the drug-testing unit take our jobs very seriously indeed,” Clover says. “Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware, random drug testing is part of any athlete’s life, and the IRFU is following the Olympic officials’ lead. So today we will be taking urine samples from two of your players and testing them for illegal substances.”
“You can’t just barge in here and do that without a warning,” a boy says angrily. “My dad’s a lawyer. I know these things.”
“Actually, they can,” another boy says. “My cousin’s an Olympic swimmer, and she’s tested all the time.”
“What’s your name, son?” Brains asks him.
“Happo,” he says. “Sorry — Harry O’Loughlin.”
Bingo!
“One of the names on my list, in fact,” Clover says. “Would you mind going with Brai — sorry, Mr. Harrington — here and giving us a sample? As I said, the sooner we get the tests done, the sooner we can be out of your hair.”
“Me?” Happo sounds nervous.
“Yes,” Clover says firmly.
“Hey, shouldn’t our coach be here for this?” the first boy asks.
“He’s in the office, filling out the paperwork with our colleague, Ms. Moneypenny,” Clover says smoothly. “So Harry first and then you, please.”
“Why me?” another boy says.
“It’s a random selection,” Clover says. “And unless you are using steroids or any other performance enhancers, you have nothing to worry about. As of yet, creatine is not on the banned substance list, in case any of you are wondering. But steroids most certainly are.” She pauses for a second and then adds, her voice grave, “Of course, you’re all far too intelligent to go down that route, aren’t you, boys? Because you know your entire rugby career would be over if you tested positive for steroids, right? Plus, your whole team would be thrown out of the league and banned from playing for three years. You wouldn’t want that on your head, would you?”
The room goes deathly silent.
“So, if you’d do the honors, please, Mr. Harrington,” Clover continues. “And then we can be on our way. And do tell any other rugby players you know about the dangers of using banned substances, boys. We might be testing their school soon. I think Saint John’s is next on our list, in fact, along with Blackrock College and Saint Michael’s. So, do spread the word.”
“Success,” Clover says as we walk back toward the car. “I think they’re suitably terrified. There’s no way Happo will touch steroids now.”
“You were amazing, Clover,” I say.
She grins. “I was rather good, wasn’t I? And Brains did a stellar job with the sample jars and the food coloring. Rather you than me, babes. Yuckster!”
“All in the line of duty,” Brains says. “But I sure am glad I was wearing two pairs of surgical gloves.”
“No kidding,” Clover says. “Now, where’s Amber? We need to skedaddle, tout de suite.”
Brains starts singing the “Toot Sweet” song from
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,
and we all laugh. And this time it’s not the nerves.
We’re climbing back into the car when Amber reappears, smiling.
“Good interview?” Clover asks.
“Great! He was actually very interesting, for a rugby player.”
Clover looks at her, surprised. “You’re not into rugby players?”
“No way. They’re, like, the worst dancers. Besides, I like a man with brains.”
“Hey,” Brains says. “That’s me. And my moves are pretty genius too.” He gyrates his hips and we all go into fits of laughter again.
Clover throws her arms around him and gives him a kiss. “I know, babes. And sorry, Amber, he’s already taken. Now, let’s banana split!”
Dear Clover and Amy,
Happo came home today and told me about a drug test they’d had. He said it really freaked the lads out and everyone’s talking about it. The team captain has made them all swear they won’t go near steroids, ever, for the sake of the team and the school’s good name. “No glory if it’s illegal glory, lads,” he said, apparently. They’re right drama queens in Monkstown College sometimes. And the news is spreading like wildfire on Facebook. I hope it means all the rugby-playing schools will hear about it soon.
But here’s something odd — the coach rang someone at the IRFU about the test, and they didn’t know anything about it. They suggested it might be something to do with the department of health . . .
It was you guys behind that drug test, wasn’t it? I have no idea how you pulled it off, but it worked. I owe you so much, girls. I don’t know how to thank you. There are tears in my eyes as I type, I swear, I’m so grateful. I don’t want to sound totally over-the-top and stuff, but you may have saved Happo’s life.
Yours forever,
Dominique O’Loughlin
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx + a trillion!
That evening I’m sitting in my room. I’m supposed to be reading
To Kill a Mockingbird
for school, but instead I’m thinking about Dominique’s brother, Happo. I’m so happy we were able to help him and that my drug-testing idea worked. It was pretty inspired, if I do say so myself! Maybe I’m not such a bad person after all, despite what Mills thinks. After all, if Happo had listened to his teammates and taken steroids, he could have killed himself, and for what? A game! But I guess rugby is his passion, just like dancing is Claire’s passion.
Hang on! If there are drugs that can make you gain weight, there must be drugs that can make you
lose
weight. Maybe Claire’s taking something to help her slim down. Didn’t her ballet teacher — that scary-sounding Madame Irina — call her fat and flabby? Maybe that’s it! Maybe that’s what’s wrong with her. What if what she is taking is dangerous, like those steroid things? And what if I can help Claire, like I helped Happo? Would Mills forgive me then? It’s a long shot, but it’s got to be worth a chance. I know it’s wrong to keep reading Claire’s private thoughts, but if it saves her life . . . I just have to read more of her diary and find out if I’m right.
I open Claire’s diary and start to read some of the entries, looking for clues, but they’re all about how tough Madame Irina’s classes are and how much Claire thinks she’s improving, plus funny things Lana has said or done and how bad the food is at the academy. There’s also the odd mention of how homesick Claire is, how much she misses Ireland and Mills and her parents and the food — she’s obsessed with Irish butter, chocolate and crisps, and her mum’s monthly junk-food parcels. Aha — junk food! Maybe she put on a lot of weight, couldn’t lose it, and then resorted to some sort of drugs or diet pills and is now addicted. No wonder she’s such a skinny Minnie.
Then I discover this entry:
Dear Diary,
Today we started duet classes, which meant we got to dance with the boys for the very first time — yeah! They all marched into the studio behind Madame Irina like they owned the place, tossing their heads and nudging one another. They reminded me of stallions, lean and strong and full of restless, wiry energy. I half expected them to start whinnying.
Zsuzsanna made a big deal of waving at one of them, a boy in a black T-shirt and shorts, with wide shoulders and curly dark-blond hair.
“Péter!” she called.
The boy raised his hand and grinned at her easily. When he smiled, his face lit up and his brown eyes twinkled. And his cheekbones — heaven! I had to drag my eyes away in case somebody noticed me staring at him. I’d seen him before in the cafeteria and wondered who he was, but I’d never been this close to him before.
Some of the girls here hook up with the boys to have flings and relationships, but I don’t have time for that sort of thing. And I haven’t been all that interested in any of the Hungarian boys, to be honest, until now. . . . Some of them have tried talking to me, but they come across as very serious and intense. This boy seems different, though: lively and fun, and more like Irish boys. I can’t believe Zsuzsanna knows him. I dislike Zsuzsanna even more now!
She’s being increasingly nasty to me as the weeks go by. Last week she whispered to Nóra the whole way through my solo, and it was really off-putting. Madame snapped at her, and Zsuzsanna scowled at me, as if it was my fault! She hates the fact that people say I am better than she is. She thinks she’s the best in the class. As if!
Anyway, at the start of the duet class, Madame Irina gave us another massive lecture about weight, in front of the boys and everything. She said that the boys couldn’t be expected to lift any girl who is over 110 pounds. It would be too much of a strain on their bodies. She asked Lana to sit out. “We do not want any accidents,” she told her.
At five foot eleven, Lana is one of the tallest girls in the class, and she’s also the most muscular. I know she worries about her weight, but there isn’t a bit of fat on her. You can see every bone of her rib cage pressing through her skin, like a ladder.
Lana went bright red.
Péter stepped forward then and said that he was strong and could lift any of the girls.
Madame wasn’t impressed. She said that he could dance with Lana, but if he got injured, it was on his own head.
As there are twice as many girls as boys, the girls were broken into two groups and we took turns at being lifted. I was paired with a blond boy called Alexandr who’s a good dancer with a safe pair of hands, but he isn’t very exciting to watch or to dance with. He has no spirit. Not like Péter.
The boys have separate classes from ours normally, so I’d never seen Péter dance, but I’d heard about a guy called Péter who was amazing. As soon as I watched him dance, I understood immediately what all the fuss was about.
When Péter takes to the floor, everyone pays attention. It certainly isn’t his technique, which can be a little sloppy and lazy. It’s the sheer joy and passion he puts into every step. Every jump is higher, every leap wider. He’s mesmerizing. And even when he lifted the tall girls like Lana, he made them look as light as feathers and as graceful as swans. He doesn’t seem to realize how good he is either, which makes me like him even more.
At lunchtime, my head was still full of Péter, playing through his spectacular series of lifts in my mind. And, OK, I admit it, his beautiful face, his intense brown eyes, his strong, toned arms . . .
Lana got cross because I wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. I felt bad — she’d had a horrible morning. I noticed she wasn’t eating her goulash. “Madame said I have to drop seven pounds or I’m out of here,” she said when I asked why.
I told her not to be so silly, that she needed the energy to dance, and besides, Péter had had no problem lifting her and they’d looked amazing together.
She gave a
pah,
but I could tell she was upset underneath her hard shell.
I’m worried about her. She needs to eat; otherwise she’ll get sick. It’s really unfair — Madame shouldn’t put pressure on us to lose weight. No wonder some of the girls pick at their food.
Lana tried to change the subject by talking about the boys and saying how much fun it was to dance with them. I agreed, saying it was the best class ever. I told her I was jealous that she got to dance with Péter. And she said she thinks Péter likes me! Apparently he asked Lana about me after class. “You need to be careful,” she said “’cause Zsuzsanna has her eye on him, and she’ll be even nastier to you if Péter shows an interest.”
I told her he probably just wants to practice his English or something, but secretly I’m thrilled. The best male dancer in the school, interested in me. Me!
I’m off to dream about Péter now, Diary.
Szia!
xxx
