Attitude (9 page)

This is it,
I think.
My chance to show the panel what I can do
. I take a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart and quiet the chatter in my mind, and listen to what Andrew is asking us to do: temps levé in arabesque, temps levé in retiré, chassé, pas de bourrée.

“Have a large step on the temps levé in arabesque,” he says. “Turn out your downstage foot on the chassé, and turn out your trailing foot on the pas de bourrée when you close it into fifth position.” Then he smiles. “And show me what the music sounds like,” he says. “Joyful. Playful. All right?”

I watch Danika go first, light and graceful, and then Edie. I can feel the music moving through me. Everything is coming together perfectly.

I can do this. I know I can
. I step forward, ready to take my turn—then something hits my shoulder and spins me around, and I fall, twisting to one side, and land heavily, hitting the floor with my knee, chest, chin. White-hot pain explodes from my ankle and shoots up my leg, and I roll onto my side, clutching my foot between my hands. A wave of nausea rolls over me, and I gasp for breath.

“Oh my god! Are you okay?” Mackenzie's face floats in front of me, wide-eyed and worried. “Can I help you up?”

I can hear myself groaning, making these awful grunting sounds, and I grit my teeth, trying to be quiet, trying not to cry. It hurts so much. Mackenzie reaches out and rubs my back, and I flinch, not wanting to be touched. “My ankle,” I say. My face is wet with tears.

“You sort of rolled sideways on it,” Mackenzie says. “It looked awful.”

Diana's face appears beside hers. “Cassandra? What on earth happened?”

“It's her ankle,” Mackenzie says.

“Can you get up?” Diana asks.

I look past her and see all the girls standing still, shocked looks on their faces. The pianist has stopped playing. Andrew Kingsley walks toward us, his forehead creased with concern. When he speaks, he's all business. “Will she be able to continue with the audition?” I hear him ask Diana.

“Yes,” I say grimly, even though he wasn't talking to me. “I'm not quitting.” With Mackenzie and Diana on either side of me, I try to stand. As soon as my left foot touches the ground, I gasp and clutch Mackenzie's shoulder for support. The pain is excruciating.

Diana shakes her head. “I'm sorry, Cassandra. I think you're going to have to take it easy. Mackenzie, help me get her to a chair.”

I hobble and hop to a wooden chair and collapse on it. “May I look?” Diana says.

“Yeah, but don't touch it—” It's all I can do to keep from screaming as she gently unlaces my shoe.

“It's already swelling,” she says, her voice low. “You're staying with the Harrisons, aren't you?”

“Yeah.” I feel like everything is crashing down around me. I won't be Clara. Worse—what if I've broken my ankle? What if it doesn't heal well enough for me to be a dancer? It's too much—the pain, the disappointment, the dread—and I can't hold back my tears.

Diana turns to the other girls. “Edie, can you please run down to the office and ask the receptionist to call your mother? Cassandra's going to need to get this ankle X-rayed.”

Edie's eyes are huge, and her face is pale. She doesn't move from the spot.

“Edie,” Diana says sharply. “Now, please.”

“Okay,” Edie says. She rushes out of the room, and I think she is crying. I can't imagine why—I would have thought she'd be pleased to have me out of the running for Clara.

Maybe even out of the running for PTP. I shove the thought away and look down at my ankle. It's weirdly puffy-looking. It doesn't look like my ankle at all. Somehow that makes me cry even more.

* * *

Edie returns, bringing an ice pack and saying her mom is on her way. The audition goes on without me. Diana asks if I would prefer to wait in the office, but I say I'd rather watch. At least it's a distraction from my ankle, which is throbbing and hurting so much it is making me nauseous.

Mackenzie looks good. So does Melissa, unfortunately. There are a couple of girls I don't know—older girls—who are amazing dancers. Edie, to my surprise, is dancing badly. Her face is flushed and blotchy, and there's nothing playful or light about her dancing.

I can't believe I'm sitting here, watching. Missing the audition. How could I have been so clumsy?

A few minutes later, Mrs. Harrison arrives.

“You poor thing,” she says. “We'll make sure you get taken care of properly, don't you worry.” She helps me to the car—I sit in the back so I can have my foot up on the seat—and heads to the hospital.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” I say.

“Well, of course,” she says. Now that I'm hurt, it's like she's forgotten how mad she was at me. “Hopefully they won't make you wait for hours in the emergency room,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. I can't stop looking at my ankle. It's fatter and lumpier than ever. It looks like someone else's foot got attached to my leg. Gross. Through the thin pale-pink tights, the skin looks faintly bluish and bruised.

“What happened?” Mrs. Harrison says. “Did you just lose your balance?”

“I don't know,” I say. “I think someone bumped into me, but I didn't really see.”

“No one else was hurt though?”

“I don't think so,” I say. “Everyone kept dancing. And no one said anything.” I think back again, remembering. That sudden shove from behind, knocking me off balance, spinning me around…

Did someone push me?

* * *

At the hospital, Mrs. Harrison talks to a nurse and shows her my health-insurance information, and I am helped into a wheelchair. I feel silly, sitting in the emergency room in a ballet leotard, tights and one shoe. I unpin the number from my chest. Thirteen—so much for not being superstitious.

After a few minutes, a doctor looks at my ankle, flexes it a little, which makes me gasp, and asks me if I can curl my toes. “What were you doing, trying to fly?” he says. “Even ballerinas have their limitations.”

I don't bother answering.

“Well, it looks to me like it's probably a bad sprain, but we'll take a few pictures and make sure there isn't a fracture.” He's short and plump and balding, and he pats my cheek in a way that reminds me a little of my grandfather. “And we'll give you some painkillers. That should cheer you up a little.”

“Would a sprain swell up like that?” Mrs. Harrison asks.

“Sure. There's probably some soft-tissue injury, which can cause a lot of swelling.” He looks at me. “No dancing for you for a while.”

“Even if it's not broken?” I ask.

“A bad sprain can take weeks to heal,” he says. “But let's get those X-rays done. If there's a fracture, it could be considerably longer.”

My heart sinks. The Summer Intensive is only four weeks altogether, and we're already two weeks into it.

If a few weeks is the best-case scenario, that's it for me.

Game over.

And I've lost.

* * *

I'm wheeled to the X-ray department and helped onto a table, and a heavy lead apron is spread over my body. The technician makes me hold my leg one way and then another, and helps me back into my wheelchair afterward. Mrs. Harrison brings me a hot chocolate from the cafeteria, and we wait to see what the radiologist has to say.

It takes a while, but eventually a tall black woman arrives and introduces herself as Dr. Gentle, which makes me laugh.

“Good name for a doctor,” I say.

“Could be worse,” she agrees. “I used to work with someone called Dr. Payne.”

“Ouch.”

“Indeed.” She is wearing dark brownish-purple lipstick, and when she smiles, her teeth look startlingly white. “Well, I've got good news and good news. Which do you want first?”

“I'll take the good news,” I say.

“Nothing's broken,” she says.

“Okay.” I know this is good, but right now it is hard to feel happy about it.

“And the other good news?” Mrs. Harrison asks.

“We'll bandage you up, give you some drugs and let you go home.” She pats my shoulder. “It'll be pretty sore for a few days, but it should mend just fine. You'll be back on your toes by the end of the summer.”

I nod, swallow, taste the salt of my tears on the back of my tongue. “Thanks,” I say.

No Clara. No PTP.

The end of the summer will be too late.

Fifteen

Mrs. Harrison drives me home and gets me settled on the couch with my foot up, the TV remote in my hand and a mug of mint tea on the end table beside me. “Now, are you sure you're okay here on your own for a bit? I have to pick up Edie.”

“I'll be fine,” I say. I'm wondering what is going to happen. I can't just stay here sitting on the couch for the next two weeks. Edie's parents both work. I wonder if they'll send me home or if I'll be able to go to the school and at least watch the classes.

I doubt it, somehow. After that awful Facebook thing, the school will probably be glad to get rid of me.

I flick through the channels, but I can't concentrate on anything, especially not stupid reality-TV shows. My ankle aches and it's all I can do not to cry. To come all this way and have it end with a sprained ankle and everyone hating me…

Eventually I hear the front door open and close, and Edie and Mrs. Harrison walk into the living room. “Cassandra?” Mrs. Harrison says.

I look up. Her expression is serious, and beside her, Edie is red-eyed and teary.

“What's wrong?” I say. “You didn't get the part? Did you find out already? Who got it?”

“Edie has something to say to you.” Mrs. Harrison nudges her daughter.

“Sorry,” Edie mumbles.

“What for?” For a second, I wonder if she pushed me. But no, she went ahead of me—I was watching her dance when I fell.

“The Facebook comment,” Edie mumbles. “I wrote it.”

“I know,” I say. “You were the only one who could have done it.”

She nods. “I told my mom,” she says. “And she says I have to tell Diana and Mrs. Hoffman.”

I remember the way the two ballet teachers looked at me, so disappointed, that day in the office. The sense of shame that has followed me like a heavy gray cloud ever since dissipates like fog in the sunshine. “Good,” I say. Then I feel a flicker of compassion for Edie. It'll be awful for her, having to admit this to them.

“I'm very sorry too,” Mrs. Harrison says. “I'm sorry I didn't believe you, Cassandra.”

“It's okay,” I say. I can afford to be generous now. “I guess it makes sense that you'd have to believe your own kid.”

Her cheeks are flushed almost as pink as Edie's. “She says Melissa told her to do it, but obviously Edie is responsible for her own actions. It doesn't matter whose idea it was.”

“Melissa's hard to say no to,” I say, and Edie flashes me a grateful glance from beneath wet eyelashes. “Why'd you decide to tell your mom the truth?” I ask her. “I mean, you got away with it. And now you're going to have to tell the teachers and everything.”

She shrugs. “Because you got hurt, I guess. And…well, sometimes Melissa scares me. I think she'd do anything to win, you know? She said that if I got the part of Clara and she didn't, she wouldn't even be my friend anymore.”

“So who got the part of Clara?” I ask her.

“We don't know yet,” she says. “They'll tell us tomorrow, maybe. But it won't be me. I totally blew it.”

“Well, it won't be me either.” I make a face. “It'll suck if Melissa gets it.”

Edie sniffs and rubs her eyes with her knuckles. “She pushed you, didn't she?”

“I don't know,” I admit. “I wondered…but I didn't see.”

Mrs. Harrison puts her hand on Edie's shoulder. “That's a pretty serious accusation, Edie.”

“She said she was going to make sure she got the part,” Edie whispers. “She was really upset that the teachers let Cassandra audition—you know, after the Facebook thing.”

“That doesn't prove Melissa pushed her,” Mrs. Harrison says. “If you don't know for sure, maybe you should keep that suspicion to yourself.”

“I won't say anything,” I say.

Edie doesn't speak. Her face is blotchy from crying, but her jaw is set stubbornly.

“Edie?” her mother says.

“Melissa pushed her,” Edie says. “I know she did.”

I don't know if Melissa pushed me or not, but I know one thing: She's pushed Edie too far. And I think that might have been a really big mistake.

* * *

Before I go to bed that night, I call home on Skype. It's early afternoon in Adelaide, so my dad's at work, but my mom's there.

“Cassie! How are you, sweetie?”

“Um, not so good,” I say. I fight to hold back tears. “I hurt my ankle.”

“Oh honey. Is it bad?”

“Not broken,” I say. “I had to get X-rays.”

“Oh honey,” she says again. She leans in to the camera, like she's trying to get closer to me. “How awful. Can you still dance? Or do you have to rest it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Rest it.”

There's a long pause. “Do you want to come home? Because we can change your flight. If you can't dance anyway, maybe you should come home.”

I don't answer right away. I imagine being snuggled up cozy on the living room couch with my cat and my mom's quilts and the radio playing, and I think about how homesick I have felt since I got here. I think about Melissa and Edie, and how awful they've been. I think about the Facebook thing and about Diana and Mrs. Hoffman and the Harrisons all looking at me like I was the lowest of the low. Like I was such a disappointment to them all.

I think about how I felt like I was going to cry all the time.

My mom just watches me, waiting. “It's up to you,” she says.