* * *
I jolt upright in bed. 5.30 am. My phone is buzzing and vibrating, a crescendo that awakens my senses. Still weary, I scramble to the other side of my bed to turn off my alarm. My eyes are heavy and my sixteen-year-old body feels like it’s one hundred and two today. I reach down to my outstretched legs in front of me and pull back my feet to stretch my hamstrings, waiting a good thirty seconds before letting out a sigh, slumping forward and resting my head on my legs. Before I start to drift off again, I snap my body back into an upright position and give myself a shake in an attempt to stay awake.
Pushing myself up, I leave the soft warmth of my bed and walk to the window to take a peek through my curtains. It’s dark. The surrounding houses glow faintly from the few streetlights scattered along the road. A chill runs up my spine. The street is completely zapped of life. Closing the curtains, I notice the silence that fills our home as my family continues to sleep. I wrestle with the idea of snuggling back under the comfort of my doona, but I know I’ll never get up if I do.
My brain has already started scanning through everything I need to prepare for this year: auditions, competitions, assessments, work experience, Solo Seal (the Royal Academy of Dance’s highest-level examination), onstage productions, choreography. Not to mention all the theory assignments that are piling up around me. And now dance teaching too. Teaching has always been a passion of mine, alongside choreography, as another way to express my love of dance. The extra teaching on top of my diploma course is exhausting but I am thankful that it comes naturally to me as I’ve been doing it on and off since I was twelve. I love seeing the kids improving and sharing all the knowledge of dance that I have learnt over the years.
The list in my head overpowers any thoughts I have of sleeping in. It’s time to get moving.
* * *
After a long hot shower, I’m standing in the bathroom, awake and ready to take on the day.
‘Good morning.’
I jump at the voice behind me. ‘Jesus, Fez, why are you up this early?’ I whisper as my little sister peers around the corner of the bathroom. Her flushed cheeks are covered by a tangle of light-brown hair, all messed up from sleep. Her yellow cotton pyjamas are all mangled and unkempt as she looks up at me through squinty, tired eyes.
‘You woke me up. You actually wake me up every day when you get up for ballet,’ she says. I thought eight-year-olds could sleep through anything. Apparently not.
I playfully scruff her hair and tell her she’s feral and needs to go back to bed. With a cheeky grin, she takes off in the opposite direction to her bedroom and goes in search of our dog, Sammy. My sister’s real name is actually Phoebe, but we’ve whittled it down to Fez or Fezzy after Zac and I labelled her a ferret because she’s always running around feral in the backyard. The name has stuck. She is my little Fezzy. She is a terror, but I love her to death. I don’t always have as much time for her as I’d like anymore with my early morning starts and late finishes, and that makes me incredibly sad. Maybe that’s why she always wakes up when I do.
After a quick breakfast of Weet-Bix and yoghurt, I’m focused and ready to train. As I climb the stairs in our house, a familiar feeling builds in my chest: positivity, purpose, anticipation. My hand turns the doorknob, and as the door swings open, the first beam of sunlight of the day shines through the window on the right side of the room. It bounces off the full-length mirrors and on to the black vinyl flooring beneath my feet. There’s a ballet barre smack bang in the middle of the room. In the loft of my family home is a small dance studio. Most girls dream of a walk-in wardrobe. I dream of this. I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
It took a lot of persuasion, but I finally convinced my parents to convert the unused space in the roof into a dance studio. It’s not quite big enough for a grand allegro—a series of big ballet leaps—but it’s enough to practise and perfect my technique after studio hours.
Today, I warm up like every other morning before I head to the studio. I activate my sound system before placing one hand on the barre. I let the music move through me as I pull up my hips, straighten my back and engage my core before commencing a full ballet barre. I feel strong.
I follow the program that’s printed out and plastered on the wall beside me—my usual routine of a ballet barre followed by pirouette practice, stretching and Pilates. Facing the mirror, I relevé high on to my demi-pointe and place my leg into a retiré position, balancing on one leg in a turned-out position to find my balance. I then plié and turn, and plié and turn and plié and double and triple turn. Yes. I am on my leg today. My goal this year is to do four to five pirouettes at once, on both the left and the right leg consistently.
Lying down on the floor, I do three sets of a hundred sit-ups, followed by a set of fifty Pilates clams to strengthen the turnout muscles in my glutes, and then a couple of adductor exercises to strengthen my inside thighs. My body is warm, my blood is pumping and sweat is trickling down between my shoulder blades.
I attach leg weights to my ankles and lie on my back, splitting my legs open against the wall. The weights help to lower my legs flat against the ground so my split is parallel to the floor. I get back into a standing position and wrap my feet around a TheraBand, then point and flex my feet against the resistance of the rubber band. I am determined to get a better arch in my feet this year.
Probably not the safest of practices, but next I shove my feet in the gap under the one-seater couch in the corner of the room. The weight of the couch pushes my toes down on to the floor and stretches the tops of my feet. No one will tell me my feet aren’t good enough this year.
Finally, I return to the barre. I’m already pretty strong and flexible with my extensions, but I know I can be better. Standing on one leg, I pull the other leg over my head with my hand so it’s positioned right next to my ear. Slowly taking my hand away from the barre, I let go of my leg so that my arms can rise up into a fifth position above my head. With my leg still raised next to my ear I count to three. Breathe in. Then slowly rise up on to my demi-pointe and balance. Elation ripples through me. It’s strong. Today is going to be a good day.
* * *
Mum and Dad are sitting downstairs, each with a cup of tea and toast in hand as they watch the morning news. Mum has her clear-frame glasses on and her attention goes between the television screen and the piece of paper in front of her. Lists. Mum is always writing lists of things that need to be done.
I know exactly what is about to happen. Mum is going to put on her serious voice starting with ‘Now Tony’, and then she’ll rattle off a list of errands my dad needs to run. Dad’s eyes will glaze over and his frown lines will increase before he rubs his head in confusion. I’m thankful that Dad has been able to work just from Newcastle now and not travel so much. Although to his disappointment, it now means that he gets extra jobs and lists handed to him from his incredibly organised wife.
Mum is already dressed in a trendy deep red and black cotton top with funky matching accessories. Her short brunette hair is blow-dried into a teased-up style it takes half a can of hairspray to create. She looks wonderful.
Standing at the top of the stairs, I witness this little interaction—one of many that make up my beautiful little family’s life.
Mum gets up and is already moving about the kitchen as I run down the stairs and try to pounce on her. ‘Morning!’ I say and place a big wet kiss on her cheek. She laughs and gently pushes me away. Grabbing my lunch, my keys and my L-plates, I inform Dad and Fez that it’s time to go. ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ I shout as I race out the door. I can be a little bossy in the mornings. Mum yells something that I don’t quite catch. Probably telling me to drive safe. With no time to waste, I run out the door and head straight for my car. I hate being late.
I’ve spent the last six months learning to drive, and I think I’m really starting to get the hang of it, although I’ve only driven to and from the dance studio. I’ve driven the route so many times now that I could do it
with my eyes closed. Mum didn’t appreciate that piece of information when I mentioned it last week.
Fezzy hops into the back as Dad climbs into the passenger seat with an exaggerated sigh, and I start the engine.
Hands gripping the wheel, I sneak a glance in the rear-view mirror at my sister in the back seat. She’s a bit cute, dressed in her aqua-green performing arts school uniform. She’s just started singing lessons and is passionately singing ‘Castle on a Cloud’ at the top of her lungs. She’s surprisingly good. Shame I didn’t get that gene. Dad’s holding very tightly to the grab handle on the inside roof of the car. He has little faith in me as a driver. Calls me a lead foot. I’m not, I just need to practise accelerating a little more smoothly. This drive is really the only time I get to spend with him during the dance term, and I secretly love hearing his ‘bloody hell’ and ‘what are you doing?!’ outbursts as I occasionally forget to give way. Whoops.
As I pull up at a stop sign, the lines in my dad’s face grow deeper as he furrows his brow and squints, assessing whether it’s safe for me to turn. I know when it’s safe to turn, but I let him tell me anyway. The radio is strictly turned off. He thinks it will make me lose my concentration, even though I’ve got a soprano singing in the back. So instead, he fires off a few dad jokes that neither Fez or I get, and laughs to himself.
I love this little silver Toyota Corolla just for the fact that it gives me and my dad this time together. The night-time drive home is my favourite. Dad’s calmer and the roads are quieter when I leave the studio. He always has his head down, concentrating fiercely on filling out my logbook while I drive us home and tell him about my day. He can’t quite listen to me and write at the same time, but he tries hard to act enthused. I love watching his whole demeanour change and perk up when I ask him how the football is going, especially after I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes talking to him about dance.
We arrive at the studio, and before I get out of the car, I rub my hand over Dad’s balding head like he’s a Laughing Buddha.
‘Oh, get out of it,’ he says, waving his arms about. He hates it when I do that, but I have a laugh as he takes the driver’s seat.
‘Bye, Clo!’ my sister yells from the back window. Waving them goodbye, I blow a kiss to Fezzy and head into the dance studio.
This dance college has been my home for the last two years, a place I’ve spent countless hours learning to be a true performer. It doesn’t just train dancers, it creates artists, equipping us with all the tools we need for a career in dance. We are trained at a professional level—like athletes— learning ballet, contemporary, jazz, lyrical, choreography, pas de deux, pointe work, repertoire, syllabus, music, drama, Pilates, conditioning, stretch, nutrition, dance history, anatomy and theory, and also attend workshops, private lessons and master classes. We are drilled and pushed to our maximum capacity for a minimum of seven hours a day. And after that, I teach dance to some of the part-time students in the evening, making some days twelve hours long.
My days are spent running up and down the two-storey building, going in and out of each of the seven different studios. This place is my life. My world. The people here have become my second family and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Emotion fills my throat as I stand in the foyer. I take a breath and think about the two biggest goals I want to achieve this year.
1. Nail my diploma course.
2. Get a placement in a pre-professional dance school.
After everything I’ve sacrificed to be here, this is my year and I am going to give it everything I’ve got.
‘Hey babes.’ A voice snaps me out of my dreaming, and I see my friend Demi standing in the doorway of studio three, all sweaty and red faced from practising. She’s wearing her cornflower-blue leotard—the colour of the Certificate IV class below me. The Diplomas, as we call ourselves, wear bright royal blue.
Demi is like an edgier, more mysterious version of me. She’s tiny, almost as small as me, with pale skin and dark black hair. On stage we look very similar, but in person, her thick black eye make-up makes her seem a little older. Her laid-back personality can sometimes detract from how hard she actually works, and it’s baffling to me the way she never lets anything faze her, especially considering our world is full of constant rejection and criticism. She’s cool and confident, whereas I think I can be too serious sometimes. I like being around her. She’s a fierce dancer, and so captivating, always staring down the audience with her smouldering eyes, making you want to look inside her brain and see what she’s thinking. I think we became friends because we have the same work ethic, both determined to strive for excellence; an endless chase for perfection. We push ourselves to the absolute limit, and encourage each other to do better. Our friendship is built on support and understanding for each other’s ultimate desire to be the best dancer we can be.
She shuffles towards me, and I can tell her feet are in pain. That slight penguin walk tends to happen to dancers when their pointe shoes are hurting. She leaves a mix of sweat and foundation on my face as she hugs me and kisses my cheek. ‘Oh my god. How cool is it that we’ve been chosen for Miss Heidi’s new contemporary trio?’ she says while setting her satin ribbons free and discarding her pointe shoes. ‘Her choreography is out of this world. Apparently, we’re dancing with another guy too,’ she says. Demi hitches her knee up to the side and cracks her hip, eyes darting back and forth as she ponders out loud, ‘Lucas or Jake are my pick.’
Jake has been partnered with me for Pas De Deux class this year. His broad shoulders make him the perfect partner for lifts. He is also incredibly sweet, always asking if he is holding me correctly or if there’s anything he can do to support my technique. But Lucas is the best male contemporary dancer in the school and is closer in height and has the same colourings as Demi and me.
I shrug. ‘Could go either way.’
Demi nods in agreement and picks up her pointe shoes. ‘I’ve gotta keep working. See you later,’ she says and heads back into the studio.
* * *
At 3 pm, I’ve got one class to go, and I change from my hard-sole demi-pointe shoes to pointe shoes.
‘Quickly, quickly, girls.’ Our principal ballet teacher Miss Carmen is pacing up and down the studio, hurrying the class along as we change our shoes. I tuck in the last of my ribbons. ‘We’ve got a lot to learn today and I also have a special announcement at the end of class, so no time to waste,’ Miss Carmen says in her posh accent.
I’m nervous. Today we begin learning the Solo Seal syllabus, the highest ranking, hardest grade exam you can do under the Royal Academy of Dance training syllabus. You can only qualify for this exam if you have completed every single grade exam, including Advanced Two with a distinction. It’s taken me twelve years to get to this point and I’m taking my Solo Seal exam in October, and I’m terrified. Dancers either pass or fail this exam, there’s no in between.
‘Up and up and spot and spot. Use your plié, Chloe!’ Miss Carmen commands as I make my first attempt at doing thirty-two fouettés en pointe. I don’t make it. My consecutive turns are carrying me across to the right side of the room and I fall out of my twentieth turn. Miss Carmen zooms over at lightning speed. ‘You must use your plié, Chloe. Do not release your leg until you are square to the front. Show me.’ She says all this in a firm but somehow loving way, a tone that I aspire to achieve in my own teaching. It makes me feel terrified and supported at the same time. As one of the finest ballet teachers in Australia, she is a force to be reckoned with. Her hair is forever changing depending on how stressed she is, so the dancers always know it’s almost concert time when she comes into the studio with three different haircuts in one month. Today it is short and dark with a new side fringe that shapes her beautiful, pixie-like features. I have a push–pull relationship with her: sometimes she is so direct and commanding that I feel like I just don’t have what it takes to be a ballerina; other days she is kind and giving. But without fail, she is always inspiring, and I h
ave never met anyone with more passion or love for dance.
Standing in front of me, she takes my hands in hers and asks me to développé, extending my leg to the front with a deep plié. Her nails poke into my belly making me engage my abdominal muscles, then her hands move quickly to my waist to align my hips so I don’t tuck in my pelvis. Her perfume passes my nostrils as I breathe in, preparing to turn. It’s strong but somehow pleasant; a smell belonging only to her. Stepping away from me, she stands with her legs placed one in front of the other, turned out in fourth position. She tilts her head up, looking down her nose and simply says, ‘And.’
That’s my cue.
I relevé up on to my pointe shoe, whip my leg out and into a turn and stay perfectly on the spot. I did it. Miss Carmen gives me a knowing smile and a simple ‘Good’, before she calls the next dancer to the floor.
* * *
My feet are throbbing in my pointe shoes, but my heart soars as I take my révérence and curtsy at the end of class. Sweaty and fatigued, I sit myself down next to the piano with the other students. Today was tough.
Undoing my ribbons, I take off my shoes and toe pads— the protective pouches for my feet—and begin removing the tape plastered around each of my toes, revealing red, sore and worn-out feet. After closer inspection, I breathe a sigh of relief—I haven’t got any blisters yet. I massage my feet and stretch out my ankles as Miss Carmen starts to discuss our year ahead.
There’s an air of anticipation in the room about what this special announcement is going to be, and I can tell even Miss Carmen is excited as she scans our eager faces.
‘Girls,’ Miss Carmen says, then pauses. My teeth bite down hard on my lip. I can’t wait a minute longer.
‘We are going to America,’ she announces grandly, ‘in April.’
There’s a united gasp from the class, and I realise my mouth is hanging open.
Looking at our gobsmacked faces, Miss Carmen continues speaking, in a way that sounds as though she is trying to contain a smile. ‘In two months’ time, I will be taking those who wish to come on an audition tour throughout America to a number of pre-professional dance schools. I have lined up auditions for the Joffrey Ballet School and Ajkun Ballet Theatre in New York City, the Washington Ballet School in Washington DC, and the Miami City Ballet School in Miami, just to name a few.’
En Pointe Page 3