Abigail: Through the Looking Glass (8 page)

Every time I look at Tara I feel angry. I know I can dance the part better than her.
I
don’t make silly mistakes or fall out of solos. I worked as hard as I could at my audition, and I feel as if she didn’t even have to try.

When Tara and I go to choose our Clara costumes, I pick out the newest nightgown, but she chooses
the plainest, most faded one on the rack. It fits as if it was made for her.

Kat takes the card that’s tied to the costume and reads the names that are written there. I guess every costume has some history.

‘It is ancient,’ she says. ‘My mum wore it. And Olga Boranski. Dame Josie Doran.’

‘Yes,’ says Miss Raine. ‘It came over with the
Ballet Russes
– 1936. Superstition says it’s never had so much as a broken thread.’

Tara is gazing at her image in the mirror. She looks suddenly radiant – as if a light has come on inside her.

‘Take good care of it,’ says Miss Raine.

But it doesn’t matter who wore Tara’s costume in the past if she can’t make it through the dress rehearsal. The lights dim and she runs out onto the stage in her costume. From the wings, I can see that she looks ghostly. She knows – we all know – that if she can’t perform now, she won’t play Clara. I stand and watch, wearing my snowflake costume. Will I soon be wearing my nightgown instead?

As she begins her first dance, something happens to Tara’s pale face. The same radiance that I saw when she put on the gown brightens it, and she looks suddenly ethereal. I am reminded of the first time I
saw her dance at her best. That day in Miss Raine’s class in audition week seems like many years ago, but there is the same look on her face now – the look of someone who has slipped into another world.

When she reaches the
arabesque,
she holds it as if she could stand there forever. She has found a way of slowing time and infusing the dance with light, lyrical grace. And I know, long before Sebastian makes it official, that my hopes are finished. If Tara dances like this at the show, the audience won’t be able to take their eyes off her.

Sometimes I feel as if there are two Abigails. There’s the real me – the one who has worked and developed and learned about friendship and love and teamwork. And then there’s the other me – the girl in the mirror. The one who pulls a face when someone else does well. The one who’s always got a quick comeback, but never seems to understand how other people are feeling.

It’s the day of the performance and
The Nutcracker
posters have gone up, showing Tara in the nightgown. I don’t want to be mean or have jealous feelings, but every poster I pass makes it worse … and worse … and worse. It’s as if there’s something writhing inside my chest, something dark and spiteful, like a disease, and the only way to get it out of me is to say the things it makes me think.

No matter what I do or how hard I try, Tara always comes out ahead. How does she manage it? What does she have that I don’t? I remember what Jai said about it being enough that he has done his best, and I want to feel like that too, but those posters just remind me that I can’t match up to her. The writing underneath Tara’s picture might as well say, ‘Abigail isn’t
quite
good enough’.

When I walk into the dressing room there’s a production runner looking confused.

‘Can I help you?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know, I’m doing work experience,’ he says. ‘I have to take costumes?’

I point at the two costume racks.

‘That rack’s for side-stage changes,’ I tell him. ‘These are fine to go into storage.’

The runner starts to wheel the two racks out of the dressing room, and then he spots Tara’s nightgown hanging behind the door.

‘And that one?’ he asks.

Time stops dead. I stare at Tara’s costume. I’ve heard her say that she thinks it’s the nightgown that makes her able to dance Clara so well. Superstition of course – but she believes it.

It’s not often that you’re given a clear choice, but sometimes you find yourself standing at a
crossroads, and that’s where I am now. I open my mouth.

‘Storage,’ I say.

The show has begun, with Tara in her Act One costume. The corridors are full of dancers and stage crew, everyone buzzing with excitement and rushing to complete their jobs on time. I move through the crowds slowly, feeling like I’m swimming against a tide.

I find Sebastian and Ethan standing near the stage manager’s box.

‘I was just hanging my Clara costume side-stage,’ I say.

My voice sounds abnormal – loud and echoing, but they don’t seem to notice.

‘Obviously nothing’s going to happen to Tara,’ I go on, ‘but it’s good to be prepared. Anyway, I noticed her nightgown doesn’t seem to be there. I’m sure it’s fine but I thought it was best to say something … ‘

Ethan’s eyes are accusing, but he can’t prove anything. As he goes to check, I wait for a swell of triumph, but nothing happens. Even the dark,
writhing feeling in my chest has gone, and I don’t feel anything.

The curtain comes down at the end of Act One and the applause is deafening as Tara runs into the wings.

‘Okay, that was fun!’ she says, smiling and alight.

But her smile fades when she sees the expressions on the faces around her.

The dressing room’s in chaos – everyone’s hunting for the nightgown and Tara’s at the centre of it all, her face pale and pinched. Ethan is looking at me as if he’d like to kill me.

‘What did you do with it?’ Ethan demands.

To my surprise, Sammy leaps to my defence.

‘Back off. It’s just been misplaced.’

He glances over at me, and in that glance I can see the old Sammy again – my friend. That should make me feel happy, but I can see his shining belief in my innocence. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to keep this up in the face of that look.

Christian rushes into the dressing room, clutching two nightgowns.

‘Wardrobe gave me these!’ he exclaims.

Tara’s face shows a glimmer of hope, but drops again when she looks at the costumes.

‘You’re going to have to wear one of those,’ Ethan tells her. ‘Or Abigail’s.’

‘I can’t,’ says Tara, very quietly.

‘It’s just a costume,’ Ethan exclaims.

‘No it’s not,’ Tara says. ‘It’ll be like in rehearsal. I have never made it through this act without the costume. Abigail will have to go on.’

‘We can’t have a different Clara halfway through,’ Ethan cries.

Christian crouches down beside Tara.

‘Tell me what you need,’ he says.

‘Kat,’ she says. ‘I want to talk to Kat.’

Tara’s voice is pitiful. I want to slink away and disappear, but I dare not.

Christian calls Kat and Tara talks to her, but it doesn’t seem to be doing any good. Finally, Ethan looks at me.

‘Abigail, start getting dressed.’

But I can’t move. I can hear what Kat’s saying.

‘Stop making excuses,’ says Kat’s voice through the speakerphone. ‘I get that you’re scared, but you need to suck it up and do what it is you’ve been working for this whole year.’

In a sudden rush, the horrible, other-worldly feeling leaves me. The best ballerina ought to be out there showing the audience what the Academy is capable of producing. And right now, it doesn’t even hurt to admit that for this part, Tara is the best ballerina.

‘Kat’s right,’ I say briskly. ‘And you’re going to have to, because I’m not.’

Shocked faces turn towards me.

‘You’re better at this than me,’ I say, ‘with or without a costume. And the audience will see it.’

Tara locks eyes with me. She might not always like me, but she knows when I’m being honest. I have no idea what she’s thinking, but then I see determination flash in her eyes, and the paleness leaves her cheeks.

Tara looks beautiful in my Clara nightgown, but I can see her trembling as she walks towards the stage. The curtain is rising and she runs out onto the stage. In that instant I know that she’s going to be all right. There is strength and confidence in every lyrical move she makes. The radiance is back, and the magical costume is nothing more than a piece of fabric. Tara is defying gravity – she belongs in that spotlight. Her emotions show in every line and every
shape she makes. There are no walls around her heart – her feelings are there for everyone to see.

We’ve been fierce competitors and we’ve even been enemies, but I think that whatever happens in the future, I’ll always respect Tara. In the end, maybe respect is what friendship, teamwork and competition are all based on. We rely on each other and support each other through all the knocks and dramas and highlights, and being friends with people doesn’t mean that you always get along with them.

I’ve made hundreds of mistakes, and I expect that my second year at the Academy will be full of hundreds more. When the new semester starts, I’ll be ready to work even harder and find a way of letting my emotions bleed through into my dancing, just like Tara. I want to be able to tell a story through my dancing – I want to be able to put that much feeling into my work.

And next time there’s a lead part up for grabs, Tara will be understudying me.