Authors: Sarah Webb
Dancing Daze (7 page)
I stop reading and sit back in my chair, still lost in Claire’s world of damp tights and tendus. I’d forgotten how strong and self-assured Claire used to be, certain that she could be one of the best dancers in the world and determined to get to the top. From what Clover said, unless Claire can tap into that old confident self again, her whole ballet career could be at stake. And so far, Claire’s diary hasn’t given me any clues as to what’s troubling her or how we might be able to help her.
Claire’s diary reminds me to write in my own, and I have to get something off my chest.
Sunday, December 2
Dear Diary,
Ten Reasons Why Mills Starr Drives Me Crazy!
Number 1:
I hate the fact that Mills always chooses Bailey over me. Take today, for example. Mills rang me this morning to say that she couldn’t come over until this evening, as she was still tired after the tryouts yesterday. And then she let it slip that Bailey was coming over. “I thought you were too tired to see anyone,” I said.
After the call, I was fuming. I know Bailey’s great and everything, and yes, OK, übercute, but the way Mills goes on about him, you’d think he was some sort of reincarnated Greek god. Which he’s not! He’s a normal mortal. He belches and farts just as much as the next guy. Mills is just too blind to see it.
Number 2:
I hate the way she’s always flicking her hair around like a D4. I know she doesn’t mean to do it, and she has fantastic hair — all glossy and perfect — but it’s still annoying. And if she becomes a cheerleader, she’s bound to hair-flick even more. It’ll be like hanging around with My Little Pony.
Which brings me to Number 3:
The whole perfect thing. Why does she have to be so perfect all the time? Perfect hair. Perfect teeth. Perfect skin. Perfect neat, ironed uniform. Perfect grades. Perfect family . . . which all combine to make her the Perfect Cheerleading Girlfriend for the newly crowned Rugby God. All hail, Bailey Otis!
And this brings me to another gripe . . .
Number 4:
This whole All Saints thing. Mills hasn’t stopped going on about the tryouts, telling me every little detail of her All Saints experience and how amazing Nora-May is at cheering and how in Boston, where Nora‑May’s from, cheerleading is recognized as a proper sport and how difficult some of the moves are to remember, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . Not one word about what happened in Dundrum, with Dad and everything. No “How are YOU, Amy? How was YOUR day yesterday, Amy? Sorry for abandoning you for the All Saints and my boyfriend, Amy.” Nothing!
I’m convinced that, despite all her Nora-May talk, Mills is only taking up cheerleading so that she and Bailey can be the “Perfect Couple.” It is further evidence of the Starr Perfection Curse. Which poor Claire also seems to suffer from, by the way.
My clearly deluded friend has been watching too many old American teen movies. You know the ones: where the Quarterback dates the Head Cheerleader. Doesn’t Mills realize that the Quarterback and Cheerleader never end up together? The Quarterback always finds love with the Geek Girl, and the Cheerleader always runs off with the Bad Boy.
Mills may be in for a fall.
I sit back and think for a moment, but I can’t come up with any more “reasons,” so I cross out the number ten at the top and replace it with a four. Looking back over the list, I start to feel bad. Here I am, moaning on about Mills in my diary when Claire is finding it so hard to cope back in Budapest. I need to get my priorities in order. My life is pretty rosy compared to Claire’s at the moment. So I add:
OK, now I’ve got all that off my chest, Diary, I feel a whole heap better. Mills may be annoying sometimes, but I love her anyway, and let’s face it, I’m hardly perfect either. Despite everything, she is the best friend a girl could wish for, and that’s a fact!
I drop my pen, sit back in my chair, and smile to myself, Mills’s aggravating flaws almost forgotten. This diary thing really is great! Talk about cheap therapy!
Later that evening, I’m keeping an eye on Alex in the bath while Mum settles Evie to sleep (which can take a while) and wondering if Mills will visit, like she promised. I feel bad for ranting about her in my diary. It wasn’t fair, and I didn’t really mean it. I was just feeling ratty. I vow to rip out the page as soon as Mum relieves me from Alex duty. I can hear her singing to Evie, so she won’t be long.
Evie’s starting to talk now and can even say my name — sort of. She calls me “Mee-mee,” copying Alex, who still calls me this, even though he can say Amy perfectly well now if he wants to. I don’t mind. It’s kind of cute. Alex is “Ahhhh-ex,” but Clover’s name is the funniest. She’s “Oooo-vaaaa,” to which Clover adds, “and out,” making herself laugh like a hyena. “Get it, Beanie? Over and out?” I just roll my eyes at her.
Alex is more troll than toddler, stomping around the house, destroying things. His train obsession is getting worse too. He will only wear Thomas the Tank Engine underpants now. (Mum’s trying to potty-train him at the moment, and there are tiny “Thomas” underpants drying on every heater. Let’s not go there!) But he is megacute, with a puffball of superblond hair, big gooey blue eyes and a funny round potbelly. At the moment, he’s standing up in the bath, covered in bubbles from head to toe, giggling away to himself. He bends down and scoops up some water in his hand, clearly about to chuck it at me.
“Don’t even think about it, Alex,” I tell him, tipping the water out of his hand. “No! And sit down before you slip, OK?”
“O-K, Mee-mee.”
The doorbell rings downstairs.
“Can you get it, Amy?” Mum calls from Evie’s room. “I’ve nearly gotten her to sleep.”
“No problem.” I look at Alex sternly. “Stay here, buster, and no funny business, understand?”
He nods. “I good boy, Mee-mee.”
I dash down the stairs and swing the door open. It’s Mills, stepping from foot to foot and looking a little awkward.
“Hiya, Mills.”
“Look, Amy, I’m sorry. I was going on and on about tryouts earlier, and I completely forgot to ask you about your dad’s house and to say sorry for not coming to meet you in Dundrum yesterday.”
“It’s OK. I understand,” I say, feeling even worse about my diary rant. “Dundrum wasn’t so bad in the end. Dad got me a top at Harvey Nicks. Sonia Rykiel, no less.”
Mills looks at me blankly.
“She’s a French designer. It’s the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned.”
“Cool! Can I see it?”
“Sure, come on up. Alex is in the bath, and I’m supposed to be supervising him. Why don’t you wait in my room while I pull him out? It won’t take long. The top is hanging on the back of my door if you want to have a look.”
Mills goes to my bedroom while I deal with Alex. I walk back into the bathroom and gasp. “
Pógarooney,
goblin boy, what have you done?”
He’s lying tummy down on the floor tiles, completely naked, one hand on the back of his head.
“I shark,” he says. “I eat you.” He grabs my leg and chomps it with his surprisingly sharp baby teeth. Luckily, I’m wearing jeans or he might have broken the skin.
“Ow! Alex, stop that. And stand up. There’s water all over the floor.”
“Sea,” he explains. “Shark like sea.”
“What’s wrong with being a shark in the bath?” I ask him, losing patience.
“Too small,” he says. “I big shark.”
“Right, Mr. Shark,” I say, holding his arm firmly. “You’re in for it. Mum!”
I wrap a large towel around Alex, sling him over my shoulder in a quasi-fireman’s lift while he squeals with delight, and walk into the hall. I bump straight into Mills, who is running out of my room. There’s a funny look on her face. Her lips are pressed together and her cheeks are bright pink.
“What’s up, Mills?” I ask her.
Saying nothing, she just pushes past me and runs down the stairs.
“Mills, where are you going?” I call after her.
She swings around at the bottom of the stairs and clutches the banister. “Home!” Her eyes are welling up.
“Why? You’ve only just gotten here. What’s wrong?”
“You hate me. You think I’m annoying and stupid.” Her face crumples and tears start spilling down her cheeks. “
And
you were mean about my sister. I thought we were best friends. What kind of person are you, Amy Green?”
The whole world stops. The only thing I can hear is my own heart thumping wildly in my chest. Then I realize what Mills is talking about. I left my diary open on my desk, which means . . .
“Mills, don’t go,” I say frantically. “I can explain. I was in a bad mood. I didn’t mean any of it —”
But it’s too late. She’s already out the front door and banging it behind her.
“What’s all the commotion?” Mum asks, appearing in the hallway.
“I shark, Mummy,” Alex says, gnashing his teeth in her direction. “I eat you.”
“Was that you making all that noise, young man?” she asks him. “Here, let me take him, Amy. He’s heavy.”
“I’ll clean up the bathroom,” I say, relieved that Alex has managed to cover for me. My stomach is churning. How could I have been so stupid? What kind of eejit leaves her diary on show like that?
Mum smiles at me. “Thanks, pet. And who was at the door, by the way?”
“Just Mills popping in to ask about some homework due tomorrow.”
Mum tilts her head. “Are you sure everything’s all right? You’re very pale.”
“I’m just tired. Busy weekend.” I turn away from her, hoping she hasn’t spotted the tears starting to prick at my eyes because I have a horrible feeling that absolutely nothing is all right. I think I’ve just lost my best friend. And it’s all my own stupid fault.
Later, to try to take my mind off things and to stop Mills’s words from ringing in my ears —
What kind of person are you, Amy Green?
— I read another of Claire’s diary entries. If I can’t help myself, at least I can try to help someone else.
Dear Diary,
I’m back! Now . . . what was I writing about? Ah, yes, my very first class with Madame Irina.
Hang on, no, I should start by wishing you a very happy Saint Patrick’s Day. Lana ordered some Cadbury’s chocolate for me on the Internet and gave it to me this morning over breakfast.
“Happy Paddy’s Day, Irish,” she said, and then proceeded to eat most of the bar herself. I didn’t mind, though. It was nice of her to remember. I wonder what Mills and Mum and Dad are doing today. They love Paddy’s Day. They always go to the parade and cheer on all the floats. I miss Mills. I must remember to ring her this week.
Anyway, back to my debut class. We had a full lesson of tendus. I did my best, but even with Lana’s coaching, I was way behind the other girls. But when Madame called me an unfit, flabby, lazy, rich girl, I remembered what Lana had said and didn’t say a word. I just took it all on the chin and stayed completely silent. It seemed to be the right thing to do. Madame stopped criticizing me when I didn’t flinch and moved on to pick holes in another girl’s technique instead.
As for smiling in class, there isn’t much to smile about, so I don’t need to remember to keep a straight face. It’s exhausting and soul destroying. Miss Smitten warned me that Hungarian teachers are not like Irish teachers. They believe in hard work and total 100 percent dedication to dance. I didn’t think it would be
this
bad. But I do know that I’m learning so much every day and taking baby steps toward becoming the dancer of my dreams. I know all the hard work will pay off in the end.
I’ve worked out that Madame Irina’s hardest on the girls she thinks have the most potential. That seems to be me and Zsuzsanna, one of the Hungarian girls. She pushes us to our limits. I hate it when she prods me with her stick or criticizes me, but I know she’s just trying to make me a better dancer, so I take it.
Today, Madame Irina moved me to the middle of the back barre, which is the best spot in the whole class. Nóra, one of the other Hungarian girls, had to give up her place and move to the side barre. If looks could kill, I’d be in a Hungarian morgue right now. But that’s OK. I’m here to work, not to make friends. Besides, I have Lana, who may be direct but is also funny and kind underneath her tough exterior.
And wonder of wonders! Madame finally said my tendus were “OK for a rich girl.”
I told her that my family was not rich, forgetting what Lana had said about not talking back. I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted to set the record straight. I said I came from a normal Dublin family and that my dad worked in a post office. He’s some sort of accountant for the postal service, so it’s kind of true.
Madame just gave a loud
pah,
and said I’d probably been spoiled all my life. Then she grabbed my arm and pinched my skin between her bony fingers and said, “Fat, fat, fat. Lazy, lazy, lazy.”
Now, OK, my arms aren’t as toned as the other girls’ yet, but they soon will be. Lana has me doing special exercises to strengthen all my muscles. And with that and the food in the cafeteria — which is basically different versions of goulash and cabbage every day, plus hard, chewy bread and odd fried-doughy things that taste of grease and I refuse to eat — I won’t be flabby for long.
I stuck out my chin and said I wasn’t lazy and I deserved to be here. I’ve been practicing every night after class until I drop, both with Lana and on my own, and “lazy” wasn’t fair.
Madame Irina’s eyebrows lifted at that, but she seemed amused rather than angry. “We shall see, Irish girl,” she said. Which was better than being called “rich girl,” I guess.
I knew better than to say anything else. I half expected her to move me back to a side barre, but she didn’t. As Lana said, maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Speaking of practice, I’d better run. Lana’s expecting me . . .
Until next time, Diary,
szia!
Claire Starr, future prima ballerina xxxxx
