Hopes and Dreams (2 page)

Sparks is sitting on my bed, backcombing his wavy blond hair until it sticks up at all angles, like some kind of punk porcupine. He is grumbling about his maths homework.

‘Fractions and equations and square roots are kind of pointless,' he argues, blasting his hedgehog hair with a cloud of borrowed hairspray. ‘I won't need any of this once I'm a famous dancer, so why torture me with it now? It's cruel. Possibly even an infringement of my human rights.'

‘Rubbish,' I tell him, working through yet another page of equations. ‘Maths is a basic skill. You'll need it one day to negotiate your fees when you're dancing for the Royal Ballet!'

‘I wish,' Sparks says.

The door opens and Grace comes in, her face registering annoyance when she sees Sparks.

‘What's
he
doing here?' she asks, rudely. ‘Boys aren't allowed in the girls' dorms, Jodie, you know that. I could have just been in the shower or anything! It's totally against the rules!'

‘Hello?' Sparks says, waving his fingers at Grace. ‘I am actually here, y'know! You can talk to me directly, like everyone else does. You weren't just in the shower, so I won't be fainting clean away at the sight of your naked ankles. And before you get your knickers in a twist, we are just chilling, and doing a bit of recreational maths homework, none of which is illegal or dangerous or threatening to the fabric of society. Don't go stirring up trouble where there is none …'

‘Sparks is just a mate,' I say, trying to defuse things a little. ‘Mates like to hang out together. It's no big deal!'

‘He's a
boy
!' she huffs.

‘Well, yep, last time I looked,' Sparks quips.

‘You've been at my hair gel!' Grace howls, outraged. ‘And my hairspray! Sparks, you spend more time here than in your own dorm. Seriously, this just isn't funny!'

Sparks rolls his eyes and jumps off the bed, leaping effortlessly across the room in a dramatic
grand jeté
before bowing low to Grace and blowing her a kiss.

‘Thanks for the loan of the hairspray,' he says. ‘I'd advise you to buy the extra-hold version next time, though. I know how you hate having even a single hair out of place …'

He flounces out into the corridor and I follow, biting back a giggle. Grace can be a bit moody at times, and she is a real perfectionist. Sometimes she makes me feel I'm making the dorm untidy just by being there; the fact that I occasionally dare to breathe, talk or express an opinion can be enough to send her off the deep end.

When that happens I take myself off to the common room or head outside for a trudge through the grounds to blow the cobwebs away – living 24/7 with twenty-five ballet-mad girls and four dance-crazy guys can get a little intense sometimes.

‘Grace is so fussy and dull!' Sparks complains, as we flop down beside the woodburner. A few of the other students are loafing on the sofas across the room watching a DVD. They can't hear our chat over the noise of the film. ‘I think she's jealous of you, Jodie. She thinks you'll land the leading role in the Christmas production, and she's all eaten up with envy.'

‘Or else she just hates me,' I say, gloomily. ‘She's so serious and determined … I bet she ends up in one of the top ballet companies. I'm not exactly a threat to her, am I? I'm not a classical-type ballerina, like most of the girls here, and I'm not really solo material … I don't even know why they offered me a place at all.'

Sparks rolls his eyes. ‘They offered you a place because you're amazing,' he says. ‘You've got natural talent oozing from every pore. Grace can see that, and it makes her nervous … because no amount of hard work and practice can substitute for that! Besides, why shouldn't you be a soloist? You should put yourself forward a bit more!'

‘No, I'm happiest in the background,' I say, laughing. ‘Thanks for the flattery, though! You're not so bad yourself, Sparks!'

‘I know, right?' he teases. ‘We can't help it if we stand out from the crowd. Mind you, I think there could be another reason why Grace has a problem with you …'

‘Yeah? What's that, then?'

‘One word,' Sparks whispers. ‘Sebastien Dubois!'

‘That's two words,' I point out, hoping that the heat in my cheeks is not translating into a crimson blush. ‘And I don't know what you're talking about!'

Sparks raises an eyebrow knowingly, and the two of us sneak a glance at the kids lounging on the sofas. Sebastien is at the centre of a gaggle of girls, seemingly oblivious to their starry-eyed glances as he watches the DVD. He has dark, unruly hair, flashing eyes and olive skin that marks him out as different, Gallic, cool. I know that when I look at him my eyes go starry too, but I was hoping nobody had noticed.

‘Ooh la la,' Sparks says under his breath, jabbing me in the ribs with an elbow. ‘You 'ave a bad case of zee love bug! Don't try to deny it … I can tell!'

‘I do not!' I protest. ‘I hardly know him!'

‘You'd like to, though,' he teases. ‘And so would Grace. I've seen her – her eyes are out on stalks every time he's around. That's why she gives you a hard time.'

‘She can have him,' I declare, recklessly. ‘He's way out of my league anyhow.'

Sparks shakes his head, despairing. ‘Don't run yourself down,' he says. ‘You do it all the time – with your dancing, your looks, everything.'

‘Self defence,' I tell him. ‘If you don't build your hopes up, you don't get too disappointed when things knock you down …'

Even as I say this, I'm not certain it's true. I get hurt when things go wrong, just like everybody else. There've been a few knocks; I failed the Royal Ballet School auditions back when I was ten, and I was only offered a place here because Summer dropped out. I guess that hanging out with Summer Tanberry hasn't helped my confidence over the years. Our dance teacher, Miss Elise, was always kind and encouraging, but everyone back home knew that Summer was the star. The harder she pushed herself, the cooler I played it. Admitting how much I cared would have been asking for trouble.

When Summer was given the place at Rochelle Academy we'd both worked so hard for, I was genuinely pleased for her; she was one of my best friends, and she deserved the chance to shine. I would have been very mean to have begrudged her that. I cried myself to sleep every night for a week, but I would never have shown anyone just how gutted I felt.

And then Summer dropped out and her place was offered to me.

‘I'm so proud of you, Jodie!' Mum had said. ‘Only the very best young dancers are given this kind of opportunity!'

I smiled, but deep inside I knew I was second best to Summer, that I always would be.

‘Modesty gets you nowhere in this life,' Sparks says, toasting his toes in front of the woodburner. ‘You can't just switch off the passion and pretend you don't care. That's only half a life, Jodie! You have something special, you know that, don't you?'

I look across at Sebastien and he glances over at me, grinning briefly before looking back towards the DVD. I wonder if he knows I think of him in those half-dreaming moments before I sleep, before I wake? I wonder if he cares? He's a friendly boy, but I don't think he has a clue who I even am.

‘I'm a realist,' I tell Sparks. ‘Why reach for the moon when you don't have a skyrocket to get there?'

‘I don't have a skyrocket either,' he replies. ‘It's not going to stop me. Today Rochelle Academy … tomorrow the world!'

I wish I had half his confidence.

I thought that ballet was second nature to me already, but after weeks of daily practice, it becomes as instinctive as breathing. Moves that were challenging to me a couple of months ago come easily now, but my teachers raise the bar higher ever week; they want us to push harder and harder, reach for some impossible, invisible goal. We keep pushing, keep reaching.

I can feel my body getting leaner, stronger; my muscles ache from hard work, and my toes are bruised from hours and hours of pointe work. At Rochelle Academy, you live and breathe dance. It's part of the deal.

And all of us are waiting to find out what the Christmas production will be, and whether we might have a chance of a solo. The first week after half term, Sylvie Rochelle calls an assembly in Dance Studio One to announce that we will be working on a production of
The Nutcracker
, to be staged the week before Christmas at the theatre in nearby Plymouth. Every student at the academy will take part.

I look at Sparks, to my right, his fingers crossed, his face hopeful; Tasha, to my left, chewing her lip. A metre away, Grace is sitting rigid with anxiety, her forehead creased, her eyes bright with a mixture of fear and longing. All around the studio, the students are pensive, wound up, daring to dream that it could be them. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

I am careful to stay guarded, my face a mask of careless nonchalance. A girl who knows she is second best cannot afford to hope too much, or to care. I am not hoping for a solo … the chorus line will be good enough for me. I am not ready to be centre stage.

The leading roles go to Annabel, who'll be playing Clara, and Grace, who gets the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy. When Madame Rochelle tells us that Sparks will be playing the Nutcracker Prince, he lets loose a whoop of pure joy, hugging everyone in sight. The rest of us get smaller roles, short solos from the second act of the ballet when Clara is in the land of the sweets. I'm given the part of ‘Hot Coco' who does a Spanish flamenco-style solo, and I don't know whether to be terrified or happy. Naomi, Priya, Niamh, Tasha and some of the others all land similar cameos, and then Madame Rochelle reads out the parts for the younger students who will make up the chorus, doubling up as party guests and snowflakes and mice. Relief rushes through me, joyful, intense; I have a solo, a respectable role, a part worth having. Then the doubts crowd in, sucking all the joy out of the moment. A solo. I'm not ready for this, not brave enough, not good enough. And everyone will see that.

‘A-mazing,' Tasha whispers, beside me. ‘We got solos! How cool?'

‘Cool,' I agree.

Beside me, Sparks is fizzing with glee and Grace's face is radiant at the news that she has a major part. I know how much this means to her, and I try to be glad.

‘We will begin working on the production tomorrow,' Sylvie Rochelle says. ‘Well done, everybody – I know you will do your best. For now,
mes chéris
, you are dismissed!'

We stand to go, but as I file past Madame Rochelle with Naomi, Tasha and Sparks, she reaches out and touches my arm.

‘Jodie?' she says. ‘I wish to speak with you a moment. You 'ave five minutes?'

My heart thumps, and my mouth is suddenly dry; is something wrong? Am I in trouble?

‘Yes, of course,' I say. ‘No problem …'

‘Shall I wait?' Tasha whispers.

‘No, don't worry, I'll find you,' I tell her. ‘I'll be fine.'

I follow Sylvie Rochelle to the side of the studio as the last of the students leave. I have attended ballet lessons every day for six weeks with her; she is a strict and exacting teacher, but inspiring. She looks at each one of us and sees our strong and weak points. Has she seen mine?

She smoothes back her neat, greying hair, tilts her elegant chin. Her blue eyes, sharp and bright, seem to see right into my soul.

‘I 'ave been watching you very carefully, Jodie,' she says. ‘You show great skill and promise in classical ballet, yet all the time I feel there is something … missing?'

Fear closes my throat. Something missing? I am dancing for hours each day, pushing myself harder than I ever have before; if something is missing, I'm not sure it is within my power to find it. Will my stay at Rochelle Academy be over so soon?

‘Jodie?' she says gently, and my name sounds alien, exotic, in her strong French accent. ‘Do you understand what I am saying? At the auditions, back in August, I felt you were holding something back. That is why we did not offer you a place to begin with; I sense the same … how should I say, reserve … in the way you dance now. Technically, I cannot fault you. You do what I ask of you – work hard … yet somehow, still, you are holding back. I need my students to dance with their heart and soul, not just with their bodies. You 'ave to want this, Jodie. You 'ave to want it more than anything else in the world. When you do that, the magic begins.'

‘I am trying my best,' I argue.

‘I don't think so,' Sylvie Rochelle says. ‘I think you are playing safe. I want you to take some risks, open up, show me that you have something to give!'

‘Yes, Madame Rochelle,' I whisper.

I turn away, holding my shoulders back, my head high. I put every ounce of energy I have into making sure I look calm as I walk carefully out of there; I will not let her see my tears. The trouble is, in a boarding school, there is nowhere to run to if you want to be alone. I share my bedroom with three other girls, and I have never seen the common room with less than half a dozen people in it. Even the bathroom is no escape – if you're in there too long someone comes along and starts hammering on the door, I kid you not.

At Rochelle Academy, when you want some space, there is only one option.

I walk along the corridor and push through the heavy oak front door, run down the steps and out across the frost-rimed grass. There's an old summerhouse half hidden behind a stand of willow trees down beside the river: the doors hanging off, the paint peeling on the veranda – the wood beneath weathered to a silvery grey. Some of the other students must know about it too because inside, in the corner, there's an old wicker chair and a blanket with chocolate wrappers, banana skins and squashed up Coke cans littered around it.

It's not my private place, I know, but I have never seen anyone else here. It's where I come when I want to be alone.

I make it as far as the steps before the tears come, sliding down my cheeks, hot and salty and bitter. I sink down on to the steps and wrap my arms around my body, gasping and shaking as the sobs rack through me. Sylvie Rochelle thinks I am holding back. That's crazy – why would I hold back? I am giving everything I have, and still it's not enough.

The truth is that Sylvie Rochelle has seen through me, seen that I am second best, not good enough.

It's only as the tears begin to subside that I realize I am still dressed in leotard, tights, legwarmers, wraparound cardi and pointe shoes, and that I'm achingly cold.

Could it get any worse?

It could. It really, really could.

‘Hey,' a voice says behind me, and someone drapes a jacket around my shoulders, thick and warm and heavy.

A boy sits down beside me on the ramshackle steps, dark hair falling across his face.

Sebastien.