Pirouette

Woodbury, Minnesota

Copyright Information

Pirouette
© 2013 by Robyn Bavati.

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First e-book edition © 2013

E-book ISBN: 9780738737577

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Cover design by Ellen Lawson
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For Mum, who is also a Gemini

prologue

The young nurse was hurrying to the kitchen when she heard a cry. It was time to heat the bottles for the afternoon feed, but, unable to bear the thought of leaving a baby in distress, she headed back to the nursery that housed the youngest infants.

Apart from the odd snuffle, whimper, or sigh, it was fairly quiet. She peeped into one crib after another, tucking in blankets, gently stroking those who were fretting. She wished she could give each and every one of these babies more of her time, but there were so many children to take care of, and the orphanage was woefully understaffed.

She was about to head back to the kitchen when her eye fell upon the corner crib and she couldn't resist a peek inside. This crib was slightly larger than the others, for in it lay not one infant, but two—two little girls who were simply exquisite, and absolutely identical.

Marcela loved all the children in her care, but none so much as these special two. Their parents had died as a result of a freak accident on the way to the hospital, just as the car was approaching the hospital grounds. The babies' father was killed outright; their mother hung on a few minutes more, allowing the hospital staff to deliver the girls by Caesarean section.

Now, oblivious to the events surrounding their birth, the four-week-old twins lay on their backs, side by side, one with a tiny fist clasped tight around the other's finger. Soft, cooing sounds issued from their delicate throats, as if they were having a conversation.

Marcela smiled as she watched them, but her smile faded as her gaze moved to the recently updated charts clipped onto the crib.

Every infant had a chart, and every chart listed important information about the child: date of birth, current weight and birth weight, mother's name if known. It also listed basic details about the child's adoptive parents, and it was this information that caused the nurse's brow to crease in concern.

For while one twin was to be adopted by a single woman in Melbourne, Australia, the other seemed destined to become part of a family in Houston, Texas.

Marcela's heart went out to the unsuspecting baby girls. It would be wrong for them to lose each other; it was bad enough that they had lost their parents.

Though not unexpected, it was a shock when Marcela came to work one morning to find only a single infant in the corner crib. The night nurse reported that the baby girl had howled for most of the night; indeed, tears were still drying on her sad little face.

Marcela had coaxed and pleaded with Beatriz, the woman in charge of the orphanage, to reconsider, but Beatriz had said the decision was not hers to make.

“Twins are meant to be kept together,” Marcela protested. “It's government policy.”

“Yes, Marcela, just like it's government policy that babies born in Brazil should be adopted by Brazilian families. But private adoption agencies are not always bound by government policy. There are not enough Brazilian families with the means to adopt, and there are so many childless families overseas. Perhaps the agency feels it's unfair to give two babies to one family and none to another.”

“But if the parents
knew
there were two, then maybe they'd—”

“
Basta,
Marcela! Both the babies will be loved and cared for. It is out of my hands.”

Now, as Marcela began the morning shift, she plied the night nurse for information. “Did you see the Australian woman?”

The night nurse nodded. “She wanted to know all about the baby's parents.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Beyond the circumstances of the parents' death? Only that the child's mother was a ballet dancer who came to Brazil with the Paris Opera and remained here when she fell in love with a Brazilian boy.”

“You didn't mention the baby's sister?”

“How could I, Marcela? I'd lose my job.” The night nurse yawned and rubbed her eyes.

“But—”

“
Bom dia
, Marcela. I'm going home now. I really must sleep.”

After the night nurse left, Marcela gave all the babies their weekly weigh-in and entered the current figures on their charts. Very few, she saw, were destined to remain in their country of birth. One little boy would soon be on his way to England, one to Greece, another to Israel. And one sweet little girl had been promised to a couple in … Marcela's breath caught in her throat and she read the name of the place again, just to be sure.

Yes, there was no doubt about it—the little girl was scheduled to leave for Melbourne, Australia. In fact, the couple were coming to collect her the very next day.

Unbelievable though it seemed, this child had the same birth date as the twins, and was a similar weight. Like them, her skin was the color of light caramel, and the soft, silky down that covered her head was just a shade darker than theirs.

Making sure she was unobserved, Marcela scooped the baby into her arms, carried her gently to the corner crib, and placed her inside. Then she picked up the remaining twin, who was sound asleep.

“
Não preocupes tu
,” Marcela whispered. “Don't worry, little baby. You too will travel to Melbourne, Australia.” She kissed the infant's forehead, gently so as not to wake her, and laid her carefully in the empty crib.

Then she went back to work, for she'd done all she could.

Now, only Fate would determine the future of the baby twins. But at least she'd given Fate a push in the right direction …

Fifteen years and
five months later

one

Simone Stark flung open the door to the nearest cubicle and dropped to her knees, head poised over the toilet bowl. Afraid she'd throw up again, she tried to focus on her breathing
—in for two counts, out for four—but it was hard to get an even rhythm when her whole body was trembling.

The bathroom door crashed open and Simone held her breath.

“Simone! Are you in here?” That was Jess, Simone's best friend.

Simone heaved herself up and opened the stall door.

Jess was already in costume and fully made up. “You missed your call,” she said. “Mr. Dixon is fuming. Hey, are you okay?”

Simone shook her head as she crept toward the bathroom sink, catching sight of her own reflection—face flushed, eyes bloodshot and puffy, strands of lank, untidy hair plastered to her sweating forehead.

“I'll tell Miss Sabto.”

“No.” Simone turned on the tap and scooped handfuls of water into her mouth and over her eyes. “It's too late for me to back out now.”

“But—”

“My mum will freak out if she doesn't see me on that stage. How long have I got?”

“About twenty-five minutes.”

“I can't go into the dressing room like this. Can you bring me my costume and makeup?”

Jess looked doubtful.

“Please, Jess.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Fifteen minutes later, Simone looked every bit the calm and elegant ballerina in her golden tutu and flesh-colored tights. Her makeup was heavily and artfully applied, and artificial flowers were threaded through hair that was slicked back tightly into a bun.

Eyeing the stranger in the mirror, Simone wondered at the irony of it—the great chasm between who she really was and who she seemed.

“There,” said Jess, giving Simone's hair one final spray.

They hurried backstage, where dancers were flexing and stretching their muscles to keep them warm.

Luckily, Mr. Dixon was nowhere in sight, but Miss Sabto was frantic. “Simone, I'd just about given up on you. Where on earth have you been?”

“I had an upset stomach.”

“Hmm! Probably nerves. Don't worry. They'll fall away the moment you step onstage.”

Wrong
, thought Simone. That used to happen. Not anymore.

If only she didn't have to perform today—or any day. If only she could make it all go away. But the orchestra had started playing to a packed and eager audience, and she was on any minute with a classical solo
.

“Knock 'em dead,” said Jess.

Sick with dread, but smiling out into the darkened theater as she'd been trained, Simone slowly revealed one pointed foot after another as she made her entrance, trying to comfort herself with the thought that the show would soon be over.

She had four dances to get through—ballet, contemporary, jazz, and tap—and each performance was just as stressful as the one before.

When she took her final bows, the applause rolled over her. Her head ached and she wished the audience would stop making such a racket. She wanted to lie down and close her eyes. She wanted to snap her fingers and find herself in bed, asleep. She wanted to sleep for a long, long time.

At last, the curtain came down and the ordeal was over. It would be months before she had to go through it again.

On the car ride home, Harriet Stark kept up a running critique of the evening's performance—and all the dancers. “You were the best, of course,” she told her daughter. “Matthew Holden's turned into a fine young dancer. Jess wasn't bad. Didn't think much of Alison Boyd—I honestly don't know how that girl got into the school.”

Simone stared out the window, trying to block out the sound of her mother's voice. She wished she had the strength to tell her not to be so harsh and judgmental, but she was too tired to speak.

The digital clock read 12:05. It was the first day of the summer holidays. For the first time in months, Simone had been able to sleep as late as she liked. Still, she woke feeling numb and out of sorts. She lay in bed a while longer, her limbs heavy from sleep. It wasn't until she tried to move that she became aware of her aching muscles. The dull pain brought back the memory of the night before, and the months of hard work leading up to it. Thank God the year had finally ended, and she'd have six whole weeks without a single dance class.

She got up and made her way slowly into the kitchen. Harriet was out and Simone was alone. She poured herself a glass of juice and sat down to drink it. It was only then that her eye fell upon the cream-colored envelope at the edge of the table, and her heart sank at the sight of the familiar letterhead.

The envelope was addressed to her. She tore it open and skimmed it briefly.

Dear Simone,

We are pleased to confirm your place at Candance …

Enclosed, please find your receipt for …

Should you have any special requests or requirements, don't hesitate to …

Simone felt anger rise within her. Had her mother really booked her into Candance again when she'd specifically said she did not want to go?

It was bad enough attending the VSD—the Victorian School of Dance—during the year, where full-time dance training was combined with regular academic studies. But the thought of full-time dancing in the holidays was just too much to bear.

Curbing a sudden urge to shred the letter into tiny pieces, Simone opened her hand and watched it fall. It landed face-up on the table, and she stared at it until her vision blurred and the black print swam before her eyes.

Harriet came home an hour later. “What is it, Simone?”

“You booked me into Candance.” Simone was on the verge of tears. “I told you I didn't want to go.”

Harriet kept her voice light as she said, “What's so terrible about Candance?”

“I'm supposed to be on holiday. I need a break.”

“Of course you do,” said Harriet, “and you'll have one. Candance doesn't start for another three weeks.”

“
I don't want to go.
”

“Nonsense, Simone. You always enjoy it. And it'll give you an advantage over the other students when you start Year Ten. Besides, it's been booked and paid for.”