Hopes and Dreams (4 page)

How do you open up and let your feelings show when you've spent a whole lifetime hiding them away? It doesn't happen overnight. It's about learning to trust, learning to let go of the fear that people will laugh or frown or turn away if they see what lies behind the mask of friendly politeness.

Love, fear, anger, sorrow … they're not so scary any more, not now I have stopped burying them and begun to dance them free.

Music is the key, of course. It connects with a place much deeper than my mind – heart and soul, I guess.

And now I am listening to the music properly, I dance with everything I have. Even Grace has started to look at me with a new kind of respect.

In contemporary dance class, I finally understand what I am supposed to be doing; it's all about feeling the music, reacting, responding, expressing, interpreting. It makes sense now, and I wonder how I ever managed all these years without making the connection. It's like I have been dancing in my sleep, just going through the motions.

‘Excellent, excellent,' Sylvie Rochelle says, a few weeks into the new term. ‘You have woken up at last! I knew you could do it, Jodie!'

Joe Nash is even happier. ‘Yes!' he yells as I partner Sebastien in an improvised dance about walking up from a long winter sleep. ‘Let your body tell the story … it's your musical instrument, your paint and canvas! Forget about traditional dance moves, forget what they've taught you in classical ballet; feel it, live it … fantastic, Jodie!'

It's easy enough to dance a story about waking up from a long sleep, of course, because it's exactly how I feel. As I dance, I can feel the wonder of it all right down to my fingertips. It's there in every heartbeat, in every breath I take, and that knowledge is exhilarating.

‘Why didn't you tell me?' I ask Sebastien, after class. ‘Why didn't you say I was doing it all wrong? I've wasted years hiding in the shadows, going through the motions, thinking that was enough. Why didn't somebody TELL me?'

‘You weren't ready to hear,' Sebastien says.

Of course, Sebastien had told me, and Sylvie, and even Summer; and in the end I understood. It's not just true for dance, either. Whatever you care about in life, you have to give it everything – heart and soul.

Joe Nash is working with our class to create a whole story around the theme of coming back to life, and so our
Spring Awakening
performance is born, with Sebastien and me taking the main roles. Joe is steering the storyline, choosing the music and helping us to create responses that work well, but much of the work is down to us. The result is far less structured than any classical ballet might be; it's like creating an expressive, abstract painting as opposed to painting by numbers.

It's all about freedom, letting go, but instead of making me feel weaker, more vulnerable, it makes me feel stronger than before. It makes me feel like
me
.

On the afternoon of the performance, I sit in the communal dressing room at the theatre in Plymouth, dressed in a green tutu with a skirt of layered chiffon, green footless tights and a ragged white velvet cloak hung with ribbons of icy blue satin. Tasha is dabbing my face and arms with a base of soft spring green, then painting on curving tendrils of emerald that spiral around my arms and snake up around my neck to flower on my cheeks.

‘You're a work of art,' Tasha says. ‘Awesome!'

I look in the mirror, shaking my hair free from its ponytail. There will be no tightly wound ballerina bun for this production. Naomi backcombs my hair to make it bigger, wilder, and Niamh threads it with green ribbons and tiny flowers.

It feels strange to be the focus of so much attention; for years I have been a shadow girl, waiting in the wings, keeping out of the limelight. Today, that will change. Today, I will be centre stage.

The thought pours icy water over my confidence, makes my belly curdle with fear. Is this why I held back for so long? Did I know that fear would unravel me at the last minute? Even my hands are shaking.

‘I can't,' I whisper, but Tasha just laughs and Naomi rolls her eyes and everyone else is too busy putting last minute touches to their own costumes. Panic floods through me, and my mind goes blank; I cannot remember what I am supposed to do, and this time there are no classical ballet moves to fall back on, to help me through.

Someone is behind me suddenly, strong hands resting lightly on my waist, warm breath on my neck.

‘OK, Jodie?' Sebastien asks. ‘Not long now!'

I turn into his arms. ‘Not OK,' I whisper. ‘I can't do it, Sebastien … I'm frightened. I'll mess up, forget my moves, fall, fail …'

‘No,' he says into my hair. ‘No, Jodie, you won't. This is just nerves … it will pass. You will be perfect, as always, I promise.'

‘Five minutes to curtain!' Joe Nash calls, sweeping through the changing room, checking everyone is ready. ‘Prepare to be brilliant, guys! Sebastien, what are you doing here? You need to be onstage, ready for your cue; chorus girls, you need to be in position now too – we're almost ready for curtain-up. Come on, come on, this way!'

He ushers everyone out and I am left all alone except for Sylvie Rochelle, watching me quietly from across the dressing room.

‘Nerves?' she asks, and I nod because my mouth is dry and I cannot trust myself to speak.

‘It is natural,' Sylvie tells me. ‘The adrenalin, this small flutter of fear, it is what we need to keep us sharp …'

I shake my head. ‘No, no, it's more than that,' I whisper. ‘I just can't do it … I can't! This is why I held back before. I understand now. I never wanted this!'

Sylvie walks towards me, takes my hands in hers. Somehow, the shaking stops and I feel myself standing a little taller.

‘You do want this,' she tells me. ‘You have wanted it all your life, Jodie, to be centre stage, and now it is happening. You are ready for this!'

‘But … I'm scared!' I argue.

‘So? You think I have never been scared before a performance?' she challenges me. ‘Every single time, Jodie. It is part of it all. Perhaps you are scared, but once that curtain opens you will forget everything but the dance, trust me. Be scared, if you must; but dance anyway.'

She is steering me towards the curtain at stage right, ready for my entrance, and suddenly the orchestra begins to play and I see the thick curtains sweeping back to reveal my classmates, curled as if sleeping, scattered across the stage. The performance has begun.

‘No,' I protest again. ‘Madame Rochelle, I mean it, I really don't think …'

‘Don't think,' she hisses. ‘Just dance. Yes?'

I hear the swell of violin music that heralds my entrance and I move forward, running barefoot on to the stage. I catch sight of the audience, rows and rows of people sitting in the darkened auditorium, and I think I might falter. Instead I turn away, beginning my first solo. The music takes me by the hand, leading me out of danger, and soon I am lost in it all, heart and soul, loving every moment as I whirl about the stage, swishing my wintry cloak before finally discarding it as the music warms and works its way to a crescendo. I am springtime, the pulse of green running through me, wakening the chorus girls one by one from their winter sleep until all of us are dancing together.

The music slows and the chorus girls move back, kneeling in a semicircle. A golden spotlight picks out Sebastien, curled up tight at the back of the stage, slowly stretching and standing tall, dressed in shades of orange and ochre to represent the sun. He walks towards me, takes my hand and pulls me close, and the two of us use every bit of space to dance out the joy of the music. As our duet finishes the first act with a swooping lift and an embrace that sinks down on to the floor, the audience is whooping and cheering and clapping for so long I think I must be dreaming.

By the end of the third act, as spring fades gently away to a riot of summer colour from the chorus girls, I am exhausted, exhilarated, ecstatic. Behind the curtain we listen as the audience goes crazy, and then the lights come up and we run onstage again for a final bow. When I look up I can see my mum and dad and my little brothers in the front row of the theatre, and just behind them, Summer, Skye and Alfie with Charlotte and Paddy cheering louder than anyone else.

I drop into another curtsy, my eyes wet with tears of happiness.

The evening is crazy; that backstage buzz lasts right through a makeshift afterparty in the theatre cafe, through hugs and praise and kind words from Mum and Dad and Summer, from Sylvie and Joe, from total strangers. The local newspaper takes photographs and promises a review, and I watch wide-eyed as the reporter scrawls ‘Jodie Rivers: exciting new talent', in her notebook.

‘You were awesome,' Summer tells me, and I hold her tight and tell her I did it for her too, for both of us, heart and soul.

‘I know,' she whispers back, her eyes bright. ‘I know you did.'

When everyone has gone, we travel back to Rochelle Academy in a couple of coaches, talking non-stop, laughing at the remnants of stage make-up still on our faces, outlandish false eyelashes, streaks of green around our hairlines, ribbons and flowers in our hair.

‘Epic stuff,' Sparks declares. ‘We blew them away back there! With a little help from Jodie and Sebastien, of course …'

‘You were incredible,' Tasha tells me.

‘Fantastic,' Naomi agrees.

Grace smiles and leans across the aisle. ‘I never really understood contemporary dance until tonight,' she says. ‘You made it come to life, Jodie. You were great!'

That is my favourite compliment of all.

Back at the academy, the cooks have laid on a celebration buffet; we eat quiche and salad and cake while Sylvie and Joe tell us we were all amazing. We are even given an extended curfew because it's clear that none of us will be in bed by ten-thirty, not on a night like this.

Things are starting to break up by half eleven, and I am trying to sneak away quietly when Sylvie catches me by the wrist.

‘You see?' she teases. ‘Centre stage is not such a scary place to be. Some of us were born to it, Jodie Rivers. And you cannot hide from your destiny.'

I smile at her, and wonder how she seems to know me better than I know myself. ‘Thank you,' I say. ‘For giving me a chance!'

‘I was always willing to give you a chance,' Sylvie replies. ‘You just had to find the courage to take it!'

‘How about me?' Sebastien asks, coming up behind me. ‘Was I OK?'

‘You were excellent,' Sylvie tells him. ‘Just as I knew you would be.'

And then we are out of there, just the two of us, slipping down the empty corridors, grabbing jackets and sliding silently out of the kitchen door, the one that nobody ever remembers to lock. We walk across the moonlit grass, hand in hand, under the willow trees wearing their fresh green ribbons of leaves, down to the ruined summerhouse.

And now we are sitting on the ramshackle steps together, just as we did in November, all those months ago.

Sebastien's mum did not come to the performance; it's a long way, of course, from Paris, and he knew she wouldn't make it, but I think he is sad all the same. When term finishes Mum and Dad have said he can come home to Minehead to stay with us. Who knows, maybe one day I will get to stay with him in Paris?

I lean my head against Sebastien's shoulder and he wraps his arms around me, and I know without any trace of a doubt that today has been the best day of my life. I danced centre stage, the star of the show, and I found reserves of courage I didn't know I had. I danced better than I ever have before, heart and soul, and I loved every single second of it. Now, finally, I am here, in my favourite place, with my favourite person.

The last minutes of the day slide through our fingers like sand, but it doesn't matter; I have learned so much today about courage and friendship and trust. I have learned how to step out of the shadows and into the spotlight, and I won't be going back.