3: Chocolate Box Girls: Summer's Dream (13 page)

He cracks a smile and faint patches of pink appear in his cheeks … or maybe he let the make-up girl dust him with blusher too; it’s hard to be sure with Alfie.

‘I am not pining for Aaron,’ I promise. ‘I just got a shock, I suppose. I didn’t expect to see him here, especially not with Marisa.’

‘He must be mad,’ Alfie says. ‘You’re a million times prettier than Marisa. And you’re clever and talented and
popular too … you’re amazing, Summer Tanberry, you know that, right?’

There’s a silence, a long, empty silence. I think Alfie Anderson just paid me a compliment, and a pretty big one too. He’s just trying to make me feel better, I know. This is Alfie Anderson after all. He does not have a romantic bone in his body.

‘Watch out,’ I say, jabbing him gently in the ribs as I get to my feet, brushing the twigs and fallen leaves from my clothes. ‘I knew you couldn’t stay away from the wind-ups for long. You’re good, Alfie, I’ll give you that. Anyone would think you were serious!’

‘As if,’ Alfie says, a little sadly.

‘I’m not going to bother with boys from now on,’ I declare, crunching my way out of the woods towards the rickety stile. ‘I have to focus on ballet. I wish I hadn’t let them talk me into this. I’ve missed practice, and now I’ll have to work all afternoon to make up for it. I have to be perfect for the audition …’

I clamber over the stile, but as I swing down into the field, my head swims and the world shifts and suddenly I am seeing stars.

‘Hey,’ Alfie is saying. ‘Whoa, Summer … what’s up?’

He takes my hand, steadies me, and the world shifts back again. I take a deep breath and my head clears and the stars fade.

‘I just felt a bit faint for a minute there,’ I whisper.

‘When did you last eat?’ Alfie asks. ‘Eat properly, I mean?’

I sigh. ‘I had an apple for breakfast. Fruit is good for you.’

‘Breakfast was hours ago,’ he tells me. ‘And fruit is great, but you can’t keep going all day on one poxy apple. You’ll make yourself ill.’

Anger bubbles up inside me, and I push it firmly down again.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say. ‘You don’t get it, Alfie, OK? It’s tough being a dancer – really tough. It’s not just about talent, you have to look right.’

‘You haven’t been eating properly since before school broke up,’ Alfie argues.

‘Back off, Alfie,’ I insist. ‘I’m eating plenty … I just skipped lunch because of the whole filming thing. Their buffet table was all potato salad and French bread and full-fat cheese …’

‘Bread and cheese and potatoes aren’t bad for you,’ he says.

‘I know, but … look, it’s only for a little while …’

‘Are you sure?’ His brown eyes search mine, and I have to look away.

We walk down across the grass towards the marquee, still holding hands, and I am glad that my sisters and my friends are not here to see us because, boy, would they have a field day with that. They would not understand that we are only holding hands because of the way I felt woozy a few minutes earlier.

I hope Alfie understands that, come to think of it.

18

I head to the dance studio – maybe there I’ll remember who I’m meant to be. After losing my cool earlier with Aaron and making an idiot of myself with Alfie, I am not sure I recognize myself. I am not the kind of person who loses the plot in public, who runs away from an ex-boyfriend and ends up sharing my secret fears with the most annoying boy in school … except that now I am.

Dancing might not be going as well as I’d like it to, but it helps, all the same. My body feels stretched and worked and the guilt of missing yesterday’s practice is a little less sharp, the memories of this afternoon’s embarrassment less shameful. I am still no further forward with my set piece, though. I have two weeks to come up with something creative and dramatic, something that will wow Sylvie Rochelle,
yet I cannot seem to dredge up even the tiniest spark of originality.

Then, coming out of a pirouette spin, the room tilts suddenly and I lose my footing and fall. For a second or two I lie still, crumpled on the floor, my head whirling, the music swooping on in the background; then the fog lifts and I sit up, a little shakily.

I switch off the CD and pad softly through to the changing rooms. My left side is a little sore and bruised, but my pride has taken the biggest knock. At least nobody was around to see my fall this time, but two faints in one day? That can’t be coincidence. Could Alfie be right about the skipping meals and eating properly thing? I frown. Suppose I fainted and fell in an actual dance lesson? Or, worse still, during my audition? I can’t risk that, no way.

I get changed quickly. I want to get away, out of the dance school, away from the studio, but I can’t go home yet. I don’t want to face my sisters, or their questions. I head for the library and sit for a while in the quiet, using the computer to google dance audition tips. Be prepared, the websites suggest. Practise hard. There are no tips for producing an expressive dance out of thin air … I guess that would be
asking too much. I google ‘Firebird’, and watch online clips of slim, beautiful ballerinas pushing themselves to the limit. If they can do it, why can’t I?

Because you’re weak
, the voice in my head says smugly.
Weak and lazy and greedy
.

I wince. I don’t want to be any of those things, of course, but I don’t want to faint in class either … maybe there are smarter ways to cut back on calories. I check out a couple of books on diet and healthy eating, promising myself I’ll read up on nutrition, then catch the late bus home. As it chugs along, I check my mobile, expecting texts from Skye, Tia and Millie asking if I’m OK. Nothing. Did they miss me at all? Or maybe they’re still filming? I try not to mind.

There is one from Mum at least – telling me that she and Paddy are now in Cuzco, getting used to the higher altitudes before trekking up to Machu Picchu. I want to call her right now and ask her to jump on a plane and come home because I need her, need to talk, need a hug. I don’t, of course. Instead, I tap out a chirpy message telling her I’m fine, that practice is going well. It wouldn’t do to let the mask slip, would it?

When I get home, my sisters – and Finch – are loafing
on the squashy blue sofas, eating takeaway pizzas and endlessly rerunning the day. They can’t shut up about the fairground scene and the filming, the costumes and the candyfloss, the thrill of it all.

‘You’re back!’ Skye says as I come in. ‘Honestly, Summer, you should have stayed – you missed the most amazing day!’

‘Tia and Millie said you changed your mind,’ Finch says. ‘Got bored and decided to practise instead …’

That’s why Skye didn’t text then. I suppose I should be grateful that Tia and Millie covered for me.

‘It’s important,’ I say, squeezing on to the end of one sofa. ‘This audition …’

Honey rolls her eyes and Coco throws a cushion at me and says that I never talk about anything except the audition any more, and it’s beyond boring.

I feel as though I’ve been slapped, but Coco doesn’t mean to hurt me, I know. Is that really what my sisters think? That ballet is boring? That my dream is dull, pointless, pitiful? Spots of colour burn in my cheeks. I feel a million miles away from my sisters right now, an alien creature, outside looking in.

They don’t even notice I’m upset. You’d think the lot of
them are heading for Hollywood any minute, the way they are talking. Skye wants to be a costume designer, Cherry a scriptwriter; Honey wants to be a movie star and Coco wants to train animals for films because she met a woman who did just that for a living. Finch has been asked to play a bit part in the rest of the film, as one of the gypsies. It’s a non-speaking part, but still, he is dreaming of fame and fortune.

‘They said I had something,’ he muses. ‘A kind of spark!’

‘You do,’ Skye tells him, wide-eyed. ‘Definitely. You were awesome. Me, I’ve never worked so hard, only it didn’t feel like work, not one bit. Best day of my life, I swear!’

She lines up a DVD of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, Grandma Kate’s favourite film. I like it too because it stars Audrey Hepburn who was very beautiful and very thin and once trained to be a ballet dancer.

Finch leans down to read the DVD box. He’s squished so close to Skye you’d think they were joined at the hip. It feels odd to see my twin with a boy. A few weeks ago I was the one with a boyfriend; things have turned upside down, and I am not sure I like it. It’s impossible not to like Finch, but it feels like he is all Skye is thinking about right now.

Grandma Kate comes in and everyone settles down as
the DVD begins. We watch the waiflike Audrey Hepburn sitting on a window ledge singing ‘Moon River’, the saddest, most beautiful song in the world, as the last of the pizza is handed round. I let it go by me.

Skye looks up briefly, her brows slanted into a frown. ‘Not hungry?’ she asks. ‘You love pizza, Summer!’

‘I ate at the dance school,’ I lie. ‘You know me, I always have an appetite after practice …’

Skye looks at me for a long moment, thoughtful, but then Finch nudges her and I am forgotten. My heart thumps. I am not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Mum’s not here, but maybe I could talk to Skye about all this?

Or maybe not. Skye is the person who knows me best in the world, but she has no idea I’m struggling. I am right here, in the middle of my family, yet I have never felt more alone. What’s happening to me? Why can’t somebody see what’s wrong? Skye is miles away, in some kind of fantasy world with Finch, their hands entwined as they watch the screen. I look at Grandma Kate and wish she wasn’t quite so easy to fool, or that Mum didn’t have to be on the other side of the world.

19

On Thursday Miss Elise asks us to show her our expressive dance pieces, and I panic. I seem to have lost the ability to turn music into dance. The sequences I’ve put together so far feel forced, awkward – they don’t hang together properly, and I feel like I am wearing clumpy boots instead of pointe shoes.

Miss Elise shakes her head. ‘Summer, that’s not good enough,’ she says quietly. ‘What’s going on? It’s a strong piece of music, but the dance doesn’t match up to it. It’s rough, unformed, amateurish. Haven’t you been working on it?’