Chocolates and Flowers

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Of course you haven’t!’ I protest. ‘Don’t talk like that!’

  Summer squeezes my hand. ‘It’s true,’ she says, and her blue eyes brim with tears again. ‘I have, Alfie. Ballet’s not a forgiving career. I messed up, blew my chance of dance school. Not once, but twice. You don’t get third chances in a game like this. I have to face it – I’m not well enough for dance school, and I’m not strong enough to work with a professional dance company. The pressure of it is too much – I can’t handle it. It makes me panic, it makes me ill. And sometimes I’m scared that this … this illness … will eat me up, every last bit of me, until there’s nothing left at all.’

  The thought of that makes me go cold all over.

  ‘You’ll get better,’ I argue. ‘This is just a blip. You’ll get well again, and then …’

  ‘Then it will be too late,’ Summer says. ‘Too late for the dream. I wanted to dance onstage at the Royal Opera House, but I might as well have asked for the moon. It’s never going to happen. Not your fault, Alfie … I’m so happy to be here, I promise I am.’

  She wipes her eyes again, holds her head high, and I look down across the empty auditorium where the cleaners are working quietly, moving around us, aware that something’s going on, something sad and personal and awkward.

  ‘Dreams can come true,’ I say rashly. ‘Just not always the way you imagine they will.’

  ‘Not all dreams,’ she says. ‘Not mine.’

  ‘Do you trust me?’ I ask, and Summer looks up and her blue eyes hold mine, steady, still.

  ‘Always,’ she says. ‘You know that.’

  It’s all I need to know. I jump up, grabbing her hand, pulling her behind me along the row of seats, into the aisle, up the steps and out into the corridor. Finch and Skye are there, leaning against the wall; we fly past them, taking the stairs two at a time, heading downwards.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Finch yells after us.

  I look at Summer. As we run, her mouth twitches into a curve and then she’s laughing, really laughing, and I’m laughing too as we tumble into the foyer outside the fancy doors that lead into the stalls.

  ‘Dreams,’ I yell back up the stairs to Finch and Skye. ‘We’re making dreams …’

  6

  I am about to push the doors to the lower auditorium open when they swing open anyway, releasing a small crew of cleaners in smart uniform. Three of them vanish along the corridor with their cleaning kits and Hoovers, but one turns back to lock the doors.

  ‘You can’t,’ I say and the woman looks up, startled. ‘I’ve left my mobile in there. It’s very expensive – my dad’ll kill me if I lose it!’

  ‘There are no mobile phones in there,’ she says. ‘Everything is cleaned, everything is checked. Sorry.’

  ‘I know exactly where it is,’ I argue. ‘It was silly of me, but I sort of hid it, pushed it underneath the seat in front. So if you’ll just let us in … seriously, it will take about a minute, that’s all.’

  ‘Please?’ Summer begs. ‘He’ll be in so much trouble otherwise. His dad is so strict. Please?’

  The woman is wavering. She almost believes us – almost decides to risk letting us in. But she’s clearly the boss cleaner, the one with the keys, and that’s quite a responsibility. She shakes her head.

  ‘I can’t let you in there now,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s more than my job’s worth. You’ll have to ask at the desk, report it missing. They will send someone to search. If anyone hands it in, you’ll be informed.’

  My heart sinks. I see Finch and Skye walking down the stairs towards us; it is time to give up, time to leave.

  That’s when Finch launches himself forward, shouting loud enough to bring the whole place down.

  ‘Help! Help!’ he cries. ‘There’s an elderly gentleman on the top floor having some kind of seizure. He’s gasping for air … very pale … quick, come with me!’

  Finch has dreams of a career in acting, and now I can see why.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ he is saying to the cleaner. ‘But hurry, it could be a matter of life and death!’

  ‘I can’t –’ the woman starts to argue, but Finch has her by the hand, pulling her up the stairs, and in that moment I push open the door and Summer and I slip into the auditorium.

  It’s empty, of course, quiet and dark with the lights all dimmed. We walk along the aisle and right up to the orchestra pit, deserted now. And then I see steps to one side.

  I lead Summer forward, hold her hand as she walks slowly up the stairs, on to the stage.

  She looks anxiously around her in case the cleaner should suddenly burst in through the doors at the back, or in case a siren might suddenly sound to tell the world that the best-behaved girl in the whole of Somerset is breaking the rules, big style.

  Neither of those things happens.

  ‘Go on,’ I say quietly. ‘This is it. This is your moment!’

  Summer looks at me for a second. I wonder if she’s going to bottle it, but after a moment she unzips her boots and throws them through the air at me, then shrugs off her cardigan and stands shivering in a pink slip dress with a floaty, gauzy skirt.

  She looks uncertain, lost, and for a moment I panic. Maybe this is another mistake?

  Summer’s eyes catch on to mine, then drift away, out to the auditorium behind me, as though scanning an invisible crowd. Her chin tilts higher, and she smiles, as if she can see and hear something I can’t.

  Then, as I watch, Summer rises up on to her toes and begins to dance. She is slow and soft at first, wary. She only has a thin strip of stage to work with, the narrow area in front of the theatre curtains, but as her confidence grows she takes possession of it as if she dances there every day, her skirt flying out around her, arms stretching upwards and then outwards as she begins to twirl and spin.

  It’s beautiful. It begins as a slow, gentle, ghost-girl dance, then builds and builds into something free, frenzied. Although there’s no music I can almost hear the beat inside my head, the wild crescendo as she leaps and whirls and pirouettes, each step so sure, so strong, so perfect. There’s an ache of pride and love inside me as I watch, and even in the half-light I am certain Summer is dancing better than anyone else has … ever. Better than Juliet, better than the Firebird in the piece she learnt for her audition, better than the white swan in her favourite ballet. She’s just pure magic. She is dancing her own story, straight from the heart, and I’m feeling every emotion along with her. I think I might burst with happiness.

  I am watching a dream, and I really don’t want to wake up.

  Without warning, a spotlight turns on. Summer doesn’t falter, though. She turns her face up to the light as if it finally dawns on her that she is really here, in London, dancing onstage at the Royal Opera House. She has come a long, long way from being the little girl dancing alone in the school hall, her plaits flying out around her, but this dance has the same spirit, the same joy.

  Dreams can come true.

  When she sinks down into a final curtsey, I realize my own cheeks are wet with tears, but boys don’t cry so I wipe them away and start to clap. The sound of clapping comes from the amphitheatre above too, and when I look up I can see Finch, Skye and a bunch of cleaners applauding from on high. There is muffled clapping from the wings, and a whistle from above as the spotlight is turned off again.

  And then the most amazing thing happens.

  A figure appears in the wings, a dancer in leotard and legwarmers, her fair hair pinned back into an intricate arrangement of braids, face still painted with the exaggerated stage make-up from the ballet. I recognize her at once as the dancer who played Juliet, the ballerina I thought looked like Summer. The breath catches in my throat.

  Behind her, a handful of other dancers appear, smiling, clapping.

  ‘That was wonderful,’ the first dancer is saying. ‘It is not every day somebody dances for us, and with such feeling. It was beautiful.’

  Summer’s face lights up from inside, he
r eyes bright. The fire I’ve longed to see there for so long is back.

  ‘You were Juliet,’ she says to the woman. ‘You were amazing …’

  The dancer turns back to the little group behind her and lifts a bouquet from the arms of one of them, the beautiful bouquet of crimson and white roses she was given at the end of the ballet.

  ‘You were amazing,’ she says to Summer. ‘Really. I’d like you to have these.’ She walks forward and holds the flowers out to Summer, who takes them carefully, her eyes wide with awe. The dancer enfolds Summer in a brief hug, then laughs and runs back into the wings.

  Summer is alone in the shadows once more, her arms filled with crimson and white roses, her smile a mile wide. I guess she knows that she may never dance on this stage again, never get the chance to be given a dancer’s bouquet … but right here, right now, she’s living her dream.

  By the time the doors burst open as Finch, Skye and the cleaner come in, she is sitting on the edge of the steps, pulling on her boots, shrugging on her cardigan.

  ‘We’re going, we’re going,’ I say, bowing low to the cleaning lady as I usher Summer past. ‘It was all a mistake, I think I left my mobile at home after all, but thank you …’

  But the woman has nothing to say to me. Her eyes are fixed on Summer. She touches her arm. ‘Lovely,’ she says. ‘Just lovely.’

  And then we are out of there, collecting our coats, spilling out into the darkening afternoon. Covent Garden is bright with fairy lights but it has nothing on Summer, burning with life, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

  ‘I take it all back, Alfie,’ Skye is saying. ‘You are a genius. I will never doubt you again.’

  ‘Nice one, mate,’ Finch agrees. ‘That was epic.’

  Summer doesn’t say anything at all. She just holds my hand tightly and runs out into the plaza, twirling round, dragging me with her. Finch and Skye laugh and join in, and we are still spinning and dipping and whirling around, laughing like crazy people, when Finch’s mum turns up to take us to Victoria Coach Station.

  On the way home, Summer cradles the bouquet of flowers, breathing in their sweet scent.

  ‘I can honestly say these are the best Valentine’s flowers I have ever had,’ she tells me. ‘Or ever will, come to that. So cool!’

  ‘Top marks for your method of delivery,’ Skye chips in. ‘Original, Alfie. I’m impressed.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ I quip. ‘What can I say? I have friends in high places.’

  I can’t help smiling. Sometimes, the unplanned, unexpected stuff works out a whole lot better than anything you’ve actually arranged.

  As the coach rolls slowly out of London, Skye falls asleep with her head against the window and Summer presses her face against my neck and tells me she’s had the best birthday ever, and the best Valentine’s Day too. I slide an arm round her shoulders, and somehow she feels stronger, warmer than before; less fragile, and maybe a little less lost.

  It crosses my mind that I am the luckiest boy alive.

  ‘You have hidden depths, Alfie Anderson,’ she whispers. ‘You can make dreams come true.’

  ‘Not guilty,’ I protest. ‘You did that all by yourself. I just staged a small diversion – with Finch’s help, of course!’

  ‘Still,’ she says, ‘you made it happen. You’re the best boyfriend in the world. Guess I’d better hang on to you.’

  ‘Guess you had,’ I say.

  Summer puts her head on my shoulder and I rest my cheek against her hair, and we stay like that all the way home.

  shy, quiet, always on the outside … sometimes finds it hard to separate truth from fiction

  14 years old

  Born: Glasgow

  Mum: Kiko

  Dad: Paddy

  Looks: small; slim; coffee-coloured skin; straight, dark hair with a fringe, often worn in little bunches

  Style: bright skinny jeans, T-shirts, anything with a Japanese theme

  Loves: dreaming, stories, cherry blossom, Irn-Bru, gypsy caravans

  Prize possessions: kimono, parasol, Japanese fan, photo of her mum from long ago

  Dreams: of being part of a family

  www.cathycassidy.com

  friendly, eccentric, individual, imaginative

  13 years old – Summer’s identical twin

  Born: Kitnor

  Mum: Charlotte

  Dad: Greg

  Looks: shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes, big grin

  Style: floppy hats and vintage dresses, scarves and shoes

  Loves: history, horoscopes, dreaming, drawing

  Prize possessions: her collection of vintage dresses and the fossil she once found on the beach

  Dreams: of travelling back in time to see what the past was really like …

  www.cathycassidy.com

  quiet, confident, pretty, popular, and very serious about dance

  13 years old – Skye’s identical twin

  Born: Kitnor

  Mum: Charlotte

  Dad: Greg

  Looks: long blonde hair, always tied back in braids or a neat ballerina bun; blue eyes; moves gracefully

  Style: anything pink … neat, pretty, fashionable clothes and dance-wear

  Loves: dancing, especially ballet

  Prize possessions: pointe shoes and tutu

  Dreams: of going to the Royal Ballet School, becoming a professional dancer and one day running her own ballet school

  www.cathycassidy.com

  cheeky, energetic, friendly, adventurous, crazy about animals

  12 years old

  Born: Kitnor

  Mum: Charlotte

  Dad: Greg

  Looks: chin-length wavy blonde hair, always tangled; blue eyes; freckles; big grin

  Style: tomboy: jeans, T-shirt, always messy and dishevelled

  Loves: animals, climbing trees, swimming in the sea

  Prize possessions: Fred the dog and the ducks

  Dreams: of having a Ilama, a donkey and a parrot

  www.cathycassidy.com

  a drama queen: moody, selfish, often sad … but also bright, charming, organized and sweet

  15 years old

  Born: London

  Mum: Charlotte

  Dad: Gerg

  Looks: long, ringletty blonde hair that reaches to her waist; blue eyes; creamy skin; tall; slim

  Style: cool: little print dresses, strappy sandals, shades, shorts and T-shirts

  Loves: drawing, painting, fashion, music … and Shay Fletcher

  Prize possessions: hair, diary, sketchbook, turret bedroom

  Dreams: of being a model, actress or fashion designer

  www.cathycassidy.com

  Which Chocolate Box Girl Are you?

  Your perfect day would be spent …

  a) visiting a busy vintage market

  b) with your favourite canine companion on a long walk in the countryside

  c) curled up on the sofa watching black-and-white movies with your boyfriend

  d) window-shopping with your BFF

  e) sipping frappuccinos in a hip city cafe

  Your ideal boy is …

  a) arty and sensitive

  b) boy? No thanks!

  c) a good listener … and a little bit quirky

  d) polite and clever

  e) good looking and popular – what other kind of boy is there?

  Who’s the first person you would tell about your new crush?

  a) your sister – she knows everything about you

  b) your pet cat … animals are great listeners

  c) your BFF

  d) your mum – she always has the best advice

  e) no one. It’s best not to trust anyone with a secret

  Your favourite subject is …

  a) history

  b) science

  c) creative writing

  d) French

  e) drama

  Your school books are …

  a) covered in paisley-print fabric

  b) a bit muddy


  c) filled with doodles

  d) neat, tidy and full of good grades

  e) rarely handed in on time

  When you grow up you want to be …

  a) an interior designer

  b) a vet

  c) a writer

  d) a prima ballerina

  e) famous

  People always compliment your …

  a) individuality. If anyone can pull it off you can!

  b) caring nature – every creature deserves a bit of love

  c) wild imagination … although it can get you into trouble sometimes

  d) determination. Practice makes perfect