Sammy

by Bruno Bouchet

  That’s what should be happening, but it isn’t. I’m not taking her to any heights – I can’t get our lifts right. It’s all about unison. She has to jump and I have to lift at exactly the same second to take advantage of the momentum. Unison we simply don’t have.

  At first she heaps abuse on me, but then it gets worse. She doesn’t even bother. She simply turns round and we try it again … and again … Night after night, we’re in the studio.

  After my physiology exam I need a night off from rehearsals. It’s just too much. The pas de deux exam is tomorrow and there is such a thing as over-practising. I’d never thought I’d be avoiding Abigail but here I am creeping around trying not to bump into her. I think it would do us both good to have the night off.

  She catches me as I’m running down the steps to the wharf. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  Words I once longed to hear. Not today.

  ‘I hope you’ve been working on your lift?’ She fixes her eyes on me.

  ‘I have. Feel this bicep, I’m a lift machine.’ My humour doesn’t work. ‘Perhaps you should take the night off. You’re looking kind of tense.’

  ‘You’re telling me I’m tense,’ she glowers.

  ‘Tense and beautiful. Realistically there’s only so much work you can do.’

  ‘If they gave me a real partner I wouldn’t have to work so hard,’ she snaps and walks away.

  ‘You know misplaced anger is often a by-product of low blood sugar,’ I call after her. ‘When was the last time you ate?’

  ‘My blood sugar is fine. My only problem is you.’

  There’s no avoiding it. At eight-thirty I turn up to the rehearsal studio. Abigail’s already hard at work. She sees me in the mirror.

  ‘You came.’

  I’m wondering if there’s a flicker of emotion. She might actually be pleased.

  ‘Let’s start. No marking.’

  Pleasantries over and down to work, she hits play on the CD and we begin.

  The rehearsal is going okay. Something seems to have clicked. I don’t suck, but I know the really hard part is coming, the lift where I crumple every single time. She pirouettes perfectly, ending straight in front of me. I put my hands on her waist, we bend our knees, she jumps and I lift, raising her up to my shoulder in one fluid movement.

  ‘Yes! We did it!’ I grin. ‘We rock!’

  She smiles as I twirl her around. Actually smiles.

  ‘We should run it again, straightaway,’ she says. ‘Make sure it sticks.’

  She takes her first position again but she’s wobbling. Abigail never wobbles.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not fine.’

  ‘Just a bit dizzy. It passes.’

  ‘What do you mean, “it passes”? Does this happen often?’

  ‘Can you stop procrastinating and let’s …’

  Suddenly I realise what’s been going on. She’s been pushing herself way too hard without getting proper nutrition.

  I hold her arms down and get serious. ‘When was the last time you ate something?’

  ‘I eat, okay,’ she says.

  ‘Not this week.’ I haven’t seen her eat a single thing, not at breakfast or lunch, and certainly not after 3 pm. ‘I haven’t even seen you drink water.’

  ‘I’m not interested in being bloated.’

  ‘Your body needs fuel,’ I tell her. It’s hardly advanced physiology. ‘We need to go see Dr Wicks.’

  For the first time ever, Abigail actually looks frightened. ‘No, what we need is to get through tomorrow’s exam. After that I’ll rest all holidays.’

  I don’t think it’s right.

  ‘You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone, Sammy!’

  She’s almost crying. I’ve never seen her so desperate. I give in, but in my bag I’ve got the only thing that can help at this stage – homemade pastries.

  ‘On one condition,’ I say. ‘Mum sent me these, for good luck. You look like you could use them.’ She smiles. ‘I thought you said I looked beautiful?’

  The next day at the exam Abigail’s looking terrible. I reckon she hasn’t even touched Mum’s pastries.

  ‘This isn’t right,’ I say to her. ‘We should tell someone.’

  ‘No, you promised, remember?’

  It’s too late. It’s our turn to dance in front of the judges. We begin our routine, but it’s nothing like last night. When it comes to the shoulder lift, I know I can do it. I did it last night. Something tells me I’ll be fine. I’m in exactly the right spot. Abigail positions herself perfectly but there’s no energy in her jump. I can barely lift her. Her pathetic face looks at me and she whispers ‘sorry’.

  I try to cover it but Miss Raine doesn’t miss a trick. She stops the music and makes us do it again. ‘And this time, for your sake, put some life into it.’

  Abigail nods, turns, but it’s obvious something’s wrong.

  ‘Bees,’ she says to me. ‘I’ve remembered what happens when I get nervous. I hear bees.’ Her voice is faint like she can barely make herself heard over the sound of bees in her head.

  The music starts, we step into the first movement and Abigail collapses on the floor.

  I stare, horrified, as Miss Raine calls for someone to fetch the doctor. She’s asking everyone if they know what’s wrong.

  I know. I knew last night and I didn’t do anything. Abigail is barely conscious and it’s all my fault.

  CHAPTER 6

  What is it about parties that seems to bring out the worst in people? Perhaps it’s the pressure of having to have a good time. Perhaps it’s the belief that you have to do something crazy to prove you know how to ‘party’. I’ve never understood it. It’s not the kind of pressure I’ve ever felt.

  I do know that if I need any evidence that Abigail was back to normal in our second semester then Kat’s birthday party is it. She rested during the holidays, she attended appointments with the psychologist, ate as she should and did everything right to make sure she got the bit of paper that says, yes, she can dance again.

  Abigail is back – only now she actually talks to me without rolling her eyes, snarling or cutting me down. She won’t admit it, but she likes me. As for me, most of the time I don’t like her but I’m totally besotted.

  At Kat’s party we are all behaving normally, having a good time. Abigail is dancing with me and Petra, the exchange student who’s visiting the Academy from Germany. Petra hands her phone to Abigail and asks, ‘Take a photo of me and Sammy.’

  Abigail takes the pic and as I later find out she just happens by another picture on the phone of Tara and Christian kissing. She can’t help herself. She does a group send to everyone on Petra’s phone. That probably means dozens of people in Germany get a picture of two people they’ve never met, but it also means everyone at the Academy gets to see Tara cheating on Ethan.

  Tara, who spent weeks torturing us with her unrequited love for Ethan, finally got what she wanted and then somehow finds herself kissing Christian. I’m not going to judge her, not after the way I treated Mia. I do know that Tara wouldn’t do anything to deliberately hurt anyone.

  Unlike Abigail. Sending that pic to everyone was pure spite. How can someone so beautiful do something so horrible?

  The photo has meant war has broken out between Tara and Kat, and I’m the UN – desperately trying to keep the peace.

  Just when I have a really nasty Abigail act that might cure my addiction, Fate, disguised as Ms Histead, our English teacher, has different plans.

  We’re about to go off on a bush camp to rehearse scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the great outdoors. The day before we’re due to leave, Ms Histead summons Abigail and me to her office. She’s at her desk drinking miso soup.

  ‘Will this take long? Because we have contemporary,’ Abigail says. Now she’s allowed to dance again, nothing can get in her way.

  ‘Shouldn’t,’ says Ms Histead, blowing on her soup like
there’s all the time in the world. ‘You’ll be on your way soon as you hand in your assignment, Abigail.’

  I still can’t see why I’ve been summoned. My assignment was in days ago.

  ‘I have a note for that!’ Abigail wrinkles her nose in disgust at the thought of something as mundane as an assignment. As she rummages through her bag, Ms Histead hands me a pile of notes and asks me to read them out.

  ‘Abigail was unable to complete her assignment due to eyestrain,’ one says. The next says ‘due to a bruised finger,’ and then there’s tonsillitis, bronchitis, dermatitis … She’s a walking dictionary of disease.

  ‘Interesting that none of these conditions has stopped you from dancing?’ Ms Histead observes.

  ‘I preserve my energy for what’s important.’

  ‘I think it’s important that you’re failing English and if that continues I’ll keep you down next year no matter how well you dance.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  With one flick of the eyes, Ms Histead says she clearly would. ‘Before you go on camp you will submit a new essay on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Sammy is going to be your tutor.’

  That evening in the common room, I’m all set up to help her. She turns up late.

  ‘I said six o’clock, it’s six-thirty.’

  ‘Struggling to care,’ she says. ‘But you seem to have a problem with me at the moment.’

  She’s right I have a problem. I tell her that, thanks to her sending that photo around, my two best friends are at each other’s throats. She acts like it’s not her issue.

  ‘So, where’s my assignment?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m not going to do it for you.’

  ‘We’d both be out of this faster if you did.’

  ‘Look, I’ll watch and give you some pointers, but if you’re failing you’ve got to learn.’

  She shoots daggers at me with her eyes, grabs my laptop and starts typing. After a moment she pauses. ‘If you’re not going to help me properly, I’d rather you didn’t watch. It’s creepy.’

  I leave her to it.

  The next night I have a look at her essay on my laptop. It’s a very good essay. Very impressive. But it’s not hers. I do some checking on the internet and find where she got it from. Unfortunately she’s already handed it in.

  ‘As your tutor I would have advised you to change a few more words. It’s pretty obvious it’s copied straight off the net.’

  ‘It wasn’t like I had a choice.’

  ‘I’m about to get done for cheating because you can’t be bothered trying?’

  ‘Actually I tried, it’s just I couldn’t do it. I know my strengths. I know my weaknesses. I put my energy into what I’m good at.’

  ‘That’s such a cop-out.’

  ‘Not really. You obviously think I’m stupid otherwise you wouldn’t have checked to see if I cheated.’

  I hate it when she’s right even when she’s being completely and utterly wrong.

  At our camp, Abigail is definitely not in her element. Nature, messiness and fresh air are not her favourite things. In the ballet, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Abigail’s been cast as Puck, the sprite that makes everything worse before he makes things better. It’s the perfect role for her. I’m Bottom, whose head gets turned into a donkey’s.

  We’re performing in a clearing, trying to get in tune with the outdoor setting of the ballet.

  Abigail is waiting by the trees that are serving as the wings when I walk past carrying my donkey head. I notice that she’s got a massive pimple on her cheek. An imperfection at last! It’s so big I completely forget what I was going to say. ‘Wow, I’ve never seen you with a pimple before. It’s like a novelty!’

  ‘Check your contact lenses. It’s a mosquito bite.’

  She tries to push past me to take her opening position. I stop her, remembering what I have to say. Perhaps it’s the bite or pimple that suddenly makes me feel like I can.

  ‘Look, Abi, I don’t like you a lot of the time but I definitely don’t think you’re stupid.’

  ‘Get out of my way, Lieberman.’

  I put my arm out to stop her from going. ‘I think you’re scared of trying which doesn’t make sense because you’re about to go out onstage and be absolutely fearless.’

  I can hear Patrick calling her. She’s meant to be onstage.

  ‘In a billion years I could never be as brilliant as you,’ I tell her.

  ‘But you just mean dancing,’ she says.

  ‘No. I kind of mean everything.’

  Early next morning I can’t sleep so I’m sitting watching the dying embers of the night’s campfire. It’s cold. A few sheets of paper appear in front of me. Abigail has handwritten an essay.

  ‘It’s not perfect. I couldn’t spellcheck it,’ she says.

  I read it. It’s obvious this is her own work. She really tried.

  I look at her sitting next to me, waiting to see what I think. She’s actually worried about my opinion.

  ‘Disgusting,’ I say, pausing just a moment for dramatic effect. ‘Another thing you’re brilliant at.’

  The essay is really good, but the smile on her face is magical, completely bewitching.

  ‘I’ve never done essays before. Mum usually did them for me and … ’

  I can’t stop myself. She is so sweet with her huge mosquito bite on her cheek and her thrilled look. I lean in to kiss her, waiting for her to push me away. But she doesn’t. She kisses me back.

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘Once I had a secret love…’

  I used to groan when my grandmother insisted on singing that old Doris Day song.

  ‘One day you’ll know, Schmuelly,’ she used to say.

  Now is that day. I am living my grandmother’s favourite song in a storeroom.

  In front of everyone else Abigail is her usual scornful self but the minute I get her into the storeroom, my Abigail emerges. We kiss – properly. Kissing is another thing that Abigail does perfectly. I live for that storeroom and those moments when I can taste her fresh mouth and see that gorgeous smile that seems to come out just for me.

  She is like two completely different people. If only the world outside the storeroom could see the Abigail from inside, they’d know what I’ve always known deep down. That far beneath the cold, perfect and bitchy exterior is a totally lovable person.

  The ‘secret love’ is nearly exposed when Christian walks in on us. Anyone else and it would have been round the school in seconds, but Christian is a man of few words. He leaves quickly.

  I think it’s funny. I wish he would spread it around.

  ‘Stop laughing,’ Abigail says, ‘this is a disaster.’

  ‘People are going to find out about us, it’s bound to happen.’

  ‘What do you mean “us”? This is just this,’ she says as she waves her arms around at the storeroom. ‘It doesn’t make us us.’

  She’s embarrassed by me. Great. It’s not like I don’t have other options. I tell her Petra has made it very clear she would love to kiss me in the storeroom or anywhere else. But Abigail refuses to acknowledge our relationship in public.

  ‘What? Do you want us to hold hands and swap chewing gum under the monkey bars?’ she sneers. ‘We could get matching public tattoos: “Sammy and Abi 4 eva”.’

  I try to make her jealous. ‘Maybe I should just go out with Petra.’

  She calls my bluff. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

  However, it’s not just my self-esteem that is being challenged. All the guys at the Dance Academy are under siege. We’ve been invaded by enemy forces: bigger, stronger but less coordinated and flexible. A group of football players from the Australian Institute of Sport has been sent to our school to learn some agility and balance. If Ethan, Christian and Sean get their way, they’ll learn a few others things, too.

  Things really kick off when they see us in character dance class. It’s a loud, strong gypsy dance that requires us to move in perfect unison. It’s all about masculinity
: in the face, the eyes, the movement, but not in the clothing. The shirts we’re wearing have seriously puffy sleeves.

  While we’re dancing the footballers watch through the window from the corridor. We can’t hear them but we just know the kind of jokes they’re making. It’s the type of thing we all had to put up with before we came to the Academy. One of the best things about being here is not getting that sort of crap, but here we are with meatheads guffawing in the background again. The footballers are in the changing room as we walk in afterwards.

  ‘Is zee dance for zee men,’ Ollie, the top dog of the pack, starts taking the micky out of Ms Tikkinova, our teacher. Jai, his mate, has his shirt off and is impersonating our dance. Badly. He might have muscles to spare but he’s no dancer.

  ‘Hey, ballet boy,’ he calls out to me as we enter, ‘can I borrow your puffy shirt?’

  This is apparently a hilarious joke and sets the footy players off.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Missed that. I don’t speak meathead.’

  Next thing I know Ollie is towering over me.

  ‘Who are you calling a meathead?’

  Ethan steps in. ‘If you had brains you’d back off.’

  Ethan and Ollie size each other up. Jai and his mates move round.

  ‘Yeah, what are you going to do? Sparkle fingers me to death?’ Ollie says.

  More laughing.

  ‘It’s spirit fingers,’ says Sean.

  That doesn’t really help our masculine image. Jai incorporates spirit fingers into his dance.

  Ethan flicks a look at him and then back at his main competition, Ollie. ‘Your little buddy seems to like that dance. Girl parts suit him.’

  It’s wall-to-wall testosterone. We’re glowering at them. They’re practically forming a pack, or a scrum, or whatever it is that football players do, behind Ollie when Patrick enters.

  ‘What’s the issue?’ he asks Ethan.

  ‘What? Apart from football getting all the funding and all the press? They wouldn’t know real work if it smacked them in the face,’ Ethan answers.