The production of Staged 08 is one of the most exciting I have ever been a part of. The dancers will be given the incredible opportunity to dance alongside artists from the Australian Ballet who are coming to perform the principal roles of Odette and Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake. My excitement at the prospect of performing on the same stage as these professional artists with my first live orchestra is next level. As well as being a cygnet in Swan Lake, I’ve also been chosen to perform a trio with Demi and Lucas as part of a contemporary piece based on the seven deadly sins. We’ve worked all year on this trio and I feel so fortunate to have been chosen to perform the choreography. I’m looking forward to this piece more than anything else in the production.
Along with choreographing group assessment pieces, learning repertoire for Australia’s biggest dance competition, the Sydney Eisteddfod, as well as teaching and trying to keep up with my diploma subjects, I’ve been making small trips to Sydney to collaborate with a student from the Sydney Conservatorium of Music who is composing an original piece of music for my choreography assessment. There’s absolutely nothing that can stop me from making it as a professional dancer.
But life has a funny way of sneaking up and ripping everything out from underneath you when you least expect it.
* * *
The dressing room is crowded and hot. Dancers around me are sculling down water, wiping sweat from their foreheads, and eating whatever quick energy replacement they can find—usually a protein shake. One of my long-legged friends, Sofia, has her leg up flat against the wall while she’s standing upright; a few others are on the floor giving each other back massages; most are chatty and upbeat. I am not. I am sitting on the ground, water bottle in hand, not wanting to interact with anybody.
My body is crying. I just want to curl up and die after doing a full run of Swan Lake Act II—twice!—in preparation for Staged 08 in August.
I have been cast as a cygnet. As the smallest person in the studio, there’s no surprises there. We also have to perform the Act II corps de ballet as part of our mid-year assessment. I don’t know how many more swan arms I can do before my arms actually fall off.
Looking around the room, I try to gauge if anyone else is struggling as much as I am. But they all seem fine, laughing and chatting away.
My body is killing me, especially my shins. I usually don’t get too many injuries because I am so careful with my technique and strength training, but pain is shooting through the fronts of both of my legs. I massage the muscles along the insides of my shins, trying to relieve the pain. It doesn’t seem to be working. Argh, I don’t have time to be injured; my schedule this month is jam-packed with Swan Lake rehearsals, assessments, competitions at the Sydney Opera House—the list goes on. There will even be some industry professionals in the audience at Staged 08 so I only have one chance to make a good first impression.
Rummaging through my ballet bag, I feel my way past pointe shoes, stockings, TheraBands, strapping tape, the lamb’s wool which I occasionally use to cushion my toes in the bottom of my pointe shoes, ballet skirts… a golf ball which I use to help release muscle tension. The smell of feet wafts from inside my bag making my stomach churn, and I make a mental note to find some time to clean it out. At the bottom of the bag, my hand closes on a cardboard box. I breathe a sigh of relief as I pull out a packet of anti-inflammatory tablets. Not caring whether or not they are past their use-by date, I grab my water bottle and knock back a couple of tablets.
‘Babes, you all right?’ Demi is standing in the doorway waiting for me to join her for rehearsal.
‘Yeah. Well, no. Not really. My shins are killing me,’ I say.
Demi nods sympathetically. ‘Are you sure you want to dance today? We can just take it easy and walk through the piece or something?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, not wanting anyone to go easy on me. If I want to make it in this industry, I have to be tough. ‘Let’s do it.’ I get my shit together, stand up and head into another coaching session of Staged 08. Onwards and upwards.
* * *
Walking out of my last rehearsal for the day, I run straight into Miss Carmen, who has obviously been waiting for me.
‘I need to see you in my office,’ she says, and takes off down the corridor and into her room. I think I am supposed to follow her. I’m scared. Am I getting in trouble for something? Anxiously, I enter her office.
‘Please close the door, Chloe,’ she says as she takes a seat.
I do as she says, then sit in the chair opposite her, my hands twisting around one another as I nervously await her news.
She searches her computer for a moment, then peers over the top of her glasses at me. ‘Chloe, darling.’
A warmth fills her eyes and I think she might be about to tell me something good. Or maybe she’s just trying to calm me down before she comes in for the kill. I can’t for the life of me think what I might’ve done wrong. Am I getting replaced as a cygnet? Have I failed an assessment? Is this the moment she tells me I’m not good enough and should start thinking about other career options? Just as I’m about to have a total freak out, she starts speaking again.
‘Congratulations. You have been accepted into the Washington Ballet School’s and the Joffrey Ballet School’s pre-professional year. So you can take your pick!’
‘Washington!’ I blurt out, still in shock. Then, as my brain starts to register her words, my whole body starts to shake, a smile breaking across my face.
THE WASHINGTON BALLET SCHOOL! I can’t believe it—the one place I fell in love with when I was there, and I’ve been dreaming of it every day since. They picked me!
Miss Carmen’s poised exterior melts as she joins in my excitement. She tells me that although the schools in America start their year in September, they have given me permission to begin in January after I finish my diploma. That’s only six months away! Unbelievable. In six months, I will be living and dancing in Washington DC in the United States of America.
Wrapping my arms around Miss Carmen, I thank her for everything, then run from the room, barely noticing the pain that’s still lying quietly in my shins. I grab my gear, then jump into my little Silver Toyota Corolla and chew my dad’s ear off for the whole trip home.
* * *
My eyes lock onto the steam that’s rising from the large roast chicken Mum’s placed in the middle of our dining room table. A beautiful aroma of herbs and spices awakens my nostrils and saliva fills my mouth.
‘Okay, everyone, dinner’s ready,’ Mum yells as she sets down a bowl of bright orange honey-glazed carrots.
Fez comes tearing down the stairs and almost knocks over the glass of water that’s in my hand as she takes a seat beside me. ‘Can I come to Washington?’ she says, stealing a carrot and shoving it into her mouth.
I don’t have time to answer her before there’s a knock at the door. Peering around the chicken, I hear footsteps getting louder and louder in the hall before I see…
‘Zac!’ I squeal and run over to my brother, who has grown significantly in the past few months. ‘What are you doing here? And what’s with the beard?’ I wrap my arms around his belly, my head only coming up to his armpits. I guess I’ve been too wrapped up in ballet to notice how much he has matured of late. Zac now lives out of home in a share house a couple of suburbs away.
He grins and unlatches my hands from his body. ‘I’m here to celebrate,’ he says and produces a small blue book titled Washington DC City Guide. ‘Thought you should learn about the city you’re moving to so you can give me a tour when I visit.’
My smile is so wide my cheeks hurt.
Taking a seat at the dining table, my mum raises a glass. ‘We are all so proud of your achievements, Clo. We are going to miss you terrib—Oh shit, the garlic bread!’ She jumps out of her seat to rescue the bread and Dad, Zac and I burst into fits of laughter. This isn’t the first time Mum has left garlic bread in the oven.
Fez has been too busy playing with the carrots to notice the
commotion, but now her head snaps around and she looks me dead in the eyes. ‘Can I come to Washington?’ Her voice is stronger this time.
My lips press together. I hate lying. ‘You’ll be allowed to visit, I hope.’ My heart stops as I wait for her response.
She gulps down her water and grabs another sticky carrot. ‘Okay,’ she says and runs over to see what Mum’s doing with the garlic bread. Crisis averted.
Dad and Zac start talking footy while Mum continues to fuss in the kitchen. Smiling so hard I could burst, I make a mental note to ring my grandparents after dinner to inform them of my big plans. I don’t stop thinking or talking about Washington the whole night.
* * *
A week later, the excitement of my Washington Ballet news has taken a back seat. My list of dance events has got longer and longer as the time before they happen has got shorter and shorter.
This morning, I drove into the studio car park with Dad, and while I was reverse parking, I could hear him saying, ‘Slow down, Clo’. The sensors on my car started going off.
Beep. Beep. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beeeeep.
The sound got faster and faster, louder and louder, then BANG. I was so stressed out and trapped in my own thoughts that I reversed my car into a concrete pole.
Miserably, I dump my bags in the diploma dressing room, then cross the floor to the grey lockers. As I search around in my locker for my long chiffon ballet skirt, a group of my friends enter the room, laughing and chatting. They don’t seem to notice me, too engrossed in their conversation.
‘Oh my god, I was so drunk last night,’ one of them says. Their gossip and scandalous stories always pique my interest. Most of the students in my diploma year have turned, or are turning, eighteen this year. I have only just turned seventeen, so they are all heading out and tearing up the town. I, on the other hand, haven’t kissed or even gone near a boy since I made out with Caleb in Year Eight. So, for now, I live vicariously through their tales of drunken escapades and hilarious hook-ups.
I turn around to see them throwing down their bags and getting ready for class. The thought pops into my head before I can stop it. They look terrible. Make-up is smudged in the creases under their eyes, and they all seem to have half attempted a ballet bun that looks like they’ve slept in it. We have a big rehearsal today, and for the first time I feel myself getting a little irritated. I forcefully shove on my skirt and fix my hair, listening as they recall the wild antics they got up to last night. My frustration builds. We are supposed to be athletes. It’s a school day and they were out all night and hungover today. And I know what this means: they will dance terribly, which in turn will make our teachers angry, and we’ll have to rehearse twice as long.
All these thoughts tumble around in my head, one on top of the other, until I can’t think clearly. Usually I pride myself on my positivity, but I can’t seem to stop these negative thoughts.
Maybe I’m just frustrated because I’ve been feeling overwhelmed and off in general lately, and I’m unfairly taking it out on them. I know I stress out sometimes, but I think I might actually be losing it this time. Yesterday, our drama teacher played the class some piano music. He simply asked us to close our eyes and visualise ways in which we could connect deeper with the characters in our acting monologue. I can’t quite explain what happened next. All I know is that I got this sudden overwhelming sense of dread and I ran from the room in a flood of uncontrollable tears. I am usually such a tough person, but right now, everything feels like too much. I’m utterly exhausted. It’s moments like this when I feel as though I’m the only one having a hard time as I run from class to class and then teach all evening. I haven’t had a break for fourteen days. Yep, I have been at the studio every day for fourteen days straight. I didn’t even get my usual one day off because it was taken up by a six-to-eight-hour jazz rehearsal in preparation for our upcoming finals performance at the Sydney Opera House. And my shins are still killing me.
Grabbing my pointe shoes, notebook and water bottle, I block out the girls’ chatter and head into class early. I love my friends, I do. But my emotions are all over the place, and I feel as though I don’t have any control over myself anymore.
* * *
During class, I only make it to the third exercise at the barre before my shins flare up again. It’s incredibly painful, but I push through to the next exercise because I need to practise. I’ve got too much going on to stop dancing.
Miss Carmen walks around the room correcting and assessing everyone’s technique. When she gets to me, I know she can see that something’s wrong. I try my hardest to rise up on my demi-pointe, but pain shoots through the front of my shin like an electrical current, hot and intense. She looks at my face, and her mere presence makes my eyes well. I never take a day off for an injury. But I know I need to stop. I have reached my limit.
‘Chloe darling, are you okay?’ Miss Carmen asks.
I stop dancing and move closer to her, so I don’t distract the other dancers. ‘I… I’ve just… My shins are killing me. They’ve been hurting for a while now. I–I don’t know why. They are just so painful,’ I whisper. My face scrunches up as I try desperately not to cry. Getting an injury is my worst fear; getting an injury could end my life as a dancer.
Miss Carmen takes me by the shoulders and leads me away from the barre. ‘Right. I think you should have the day off. You are overworked and you need to rest. Get some icepacks and just sit and watch for the day, okay?’ she says.
I’ve never been one to sit and watch in my life, but I give her a nod, then grab some icepacks and a sewing kit before reluctantly sitting down in the front of the class. I put the ice on my legs then start sewing sequins onto my jazz costume for next week’s performance at the Opera House. Sewing sequins instead of dancing—I can’t stand it.
* * *
That evening, I teach the under-twelve contemporary group I’ve been teaching all year. They are beautiful kids, and they’ve come so far this year. Seeing them dance makes my heart feel as though it might burst with pride. Normally, I stand up the front to instruct the dancers as they rehearse the piece I have choreographed for them. Today I’m forced to sit in a chair, not wanting to put any pressure on my legs.
The first half of the class is uneventful as I fantasise about melting off my chair so I can lie down and stretch out my aching body. Motivation to get up and encourage the students is at a hard zero for most of the evening, until my eyes land on a dancer who’s out of line. And then another who’s forgotten some steps. I fly out of the chair and onto my feet. ‘Stop. Stop. Stop!’ My words are louder than I intended, but I don’t care. ‘You should know this by now. We’ve gone over it a thousand times! Again!’ I’m almost yelling as I make them start over from the very top of the routine.
This happens again and again until I can see that they have remembered it. I’m not an angry person, but emotions are pouring out of me like sand through an hourglass— there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s not until I see one little girl’s face drop that I realise I’ve gone overboard. Guilt constricts my throat, and at the end of class, I make sure to tell them how beautiful their work has been. This is not a lie. I love them dearly, and they are dancing my contemporary piece superbly. Their little faces light up and they leave my class like the happy dancers I’m used to seeing. I am so thankful that these beautiful children are so forgiving.
Packing up my gear to go home, I’m disappointed today has been such a downer when I should be over the moon about Washington.
It’s night-time and the studio corridors are almost empty. As I walk the silent halls, my friend Ivy comes to mind—my curly-haired, long-legged and oh-so-fabulous friend. After we returned from our audition tour, she took up a cruise ship contract in America as a dancer. I always knew she’d be a showgirl. I miss her. I miss her antics. I miss the way she could turn any situation into something funny. And I sure need a laugh right now, because for the first time in a long time, I am really not coping.
<
br /> CHAPTER SIX
Hitting the wall
AUGUST 2008
The following months feel as though I’ve boarded a train that never stops. My days whiz by and at times it feels like I’m trying to escape a fog through which all I can see is dance, dance and more dance. Weekly visits to my physiotherapist enable me to suppress the ache in my shin bones enough to get through all my competitions and assessments. Taking things one day at a time allows me to gain some control over my mood swings. And with Staged 08 just around the corner, I tell myself that I can be physically and mentally strong enough to conquer the next few weeks if I just stay calm. But first, I need to go to Brisbane where I’m due to do work experience with four other diploma students at the Queensland Ballet—my first trip away without any teacher or parental supervision.
* * *
Yesterday I arrived in Brisbane. Yesterday I buried my feet into cool, dry sand and watched the sun create sparkles across an inner-city man-made beach. Yesterday I enjoyed a day with my friends, ice cream in hand. Yesterday I was prepared, focused, fit, healthy. Yesterday I was happy.
Today, my head feels as though it’s about to split open. It’s still early, morning light only just creeping in around the edges of the curtains. I’m lying in my bed in our hotel room in Brisbane, and it feels like a gremlin is clawing at my skull trying to make its way out. Groggy and a little breathless, I sit up and look over to Sofia, one of the other four students chosen to do this work experience. Her long legs are sprawled across the single bed beside me. The white polka dots on her hot-pink pyjama bottoms play tricks with my eyes in the low light, and I blink quickly, trying to clear my head. Careful not to wake her, I push myself out of bed, then hold on to every piece of furniture I can find until I reach the bathroom.
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