Life is Sweet

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘I can’t,’ I whisper, but Tasha just laughs and Naomi rolls her eyes and everyone else is too busy putting last minute touches to their own costumes. Panic floods through me, and my mind goes blank; I cannot remember what I am supposed to do, and this time there are no classical ballet moves to fall back on, to help me through.

  Someone is behind me suddenly, strong hands resting lightly on my waist, warm breath on my neck.

  ‘OK, Jodie?’ Sebastien asks. ‘Not long now!’

  I turn into his arms. ‘Not OK,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t do it, Sebastien … I’m frightened. I’ll mess up, forget my moves, fall, fail …’

  ‘No,’ he says into my hair. ‘No, Jodie, you won’t. This is just nerves … it will pass. You will be perfect, as always, I promise.’

  ‘Five minutes to curtain!’ Joe Nash calls, sweeping through the changing room, checking everyone is ready. ‘Prepare to be brilliant, guys! Sebastien, what are you doing here? You need to be onstage, ready for your cue; chorus girls, you need to be in position now too – we’re almost ready for curtain-up. Come on, come on, this way!’

  He ushers everyone out and I am left all alone except for Sylvie Rochelle, watching me quietly from across the dressing room.

  ‘Nerves?’ she asks, and I nod because my mouth is dry and I cannot trust myself to speak.

  ‘It is natural,’ Sylvie tells me. ‘The adrenalin, this small flutter of fear, it is what we need to keep us sharp …’

  I shake my head. ‘No, no, it’s more than that,’ I whisper. ‘I just can’t do it … I can’t! This is why I held back before. I understand now. I never wanted this!’

  Sylvie walks towards me, takes my hands in hers. Somehow, the shaking stops and I feel myself standing a little taller.

  ‘You do want this,’ she tells me. ‘You have wanted it all your life, Jodie, to be centre stage, and now it is happening. You are ready for this!’

  ‘But … I’m scared!’ I argue.

  ‘So? You think I have never been scared before a performance?’ she challenges me. ‘Every single time, Jodie. It is part of it all. Perhaps you are scared, but once that curtain opens you will forget everything but the dance. Trust me. Be scared, if you must; but dance anyway.’

  She is steering me towards the curtain at stage right, ready for my entrance, and suddenly the orchestra begins to play and I see the thick curtains sweeping back to reveal my classmates, curled as if sleeping, scattered across the stage. The performance has begun.

  ‘No,’ I protest again. ‘Madame Rochelle, I mean it, I really don’t think …’

  ‘Don’t think,’ she hisses. ‘Just dance. Yes?’

  I hear the swell of violin music that heralds my entrance and I move forward, running barefoot on to the stage. I catch sight of the audience, rows and rows of people sitting in the darkened auditorium, and I think I might falter. Instead I turn away, beginning my first solo. The music takes me by the hand, leading me out of danger, and soon I am lost in it all, heart and soul, loving every moment as I whirl about the stage, swishing my wintry cloak before finally discarding it as the music warms and works its way to a crescendo. I am springtime, the pulse of green running through me, wakening the chorus girls one by one from their winter sleep until all of us are dancing together.

  The music slows and the chorus girls move back, kneeling in a semicircle. A golden spotlight picks out Sebastien, curled up tight at the back of the stage, slowly stretching and standing tall, dressed in shades of orange and ochre to represent the sun. He walks towards me, takes my hand and pulls me close, and the two of us use every bit of space to dance out the joy of the music. As our duet finishes the first act with a swooping lift and an embrace that sinks down on to the floor, the audience is whooping and cheering and clapping for so long I think I must be dreaming.

  By the end of the third act, as spring fades gently away to a riot of summer colour from the chorus girls, I am exhausted, exhilarated, ecstatic. Behind the curtain we listen as the audience goes crazy, and then the lights come up and we run onstage again for a final bow. When I look up I can see my mum and dad and my little brothers in the front row of the theatre, and just behind them, Summer, Skye and Alfie with Charlotte and Paddy cheering louder than anyone else.

  I drop into another curtsy, my eyes wet with tears of happiness.

  The evening is crazy; that backstage buzz lasts right through a makeshift after-party in the theatre cafe, through hugs and praise and kind words from Mum and Dad and Summer, from Sylvie and Joe, from total strangers. The local newspaper takes photographs and promises a review, and I watch wide-eyed as the reporter scrawls ‘Jodie Rivers: exciting new talent’ in her notebook.

  ‘You were awesome,’ Summer tells me, and I hold her tight and tell her I did it for her too, for both of us, heart and soul.

  ‘I know,’ she whispers back, her eyes bright. ‘I know you did.’

  When everyone has gone, we travel back to Rochelle Academy in a couple of coaches, talking non-stop, laughing at the remnants of stage make-up still on our faces, outlandish false eyelashes, streaks of green around our hairlines, ribbons and flowers in our hair.

  ‘Epic stuff,’ Sparks declares. ‘We blew them away back there! With a little help from Jodie and Sebastien, of course …’

  ‘You were incredible,’ Tasha tells me.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Naomi agrees.

  Grace smiles and leans across the aisle. ‘I never really understood contemporary dance until tonight,’ she says. ‘You made it come to life, Jodie. You were great!’

  That is my favourite compliment of all.

  Back at the academy, the cooks have laid on a celebration buffet; we eat quiche and salad and cake while Sylvie and Joe tell us we were all amazing. We are even given an extended curfew because it’s clear that none of us will be in bed by ten-thirty, not on a night like this.

  Things are starting to break up by half eleven, and I am trying to sneak away quietly when Sylvie catches me by the wrist.

  ‘You see?’ she teases. ‘Centre stage is not such a scary place to be. Some of us were born to it, Jodie Rivers. And you cannot hide from your destiny.’

  I smile at her, and wonder how she seems to know me better than I know myself. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For giving me a chance!’

  ‘I was always willing to give you a chance,’ Sylvie replies. ‘You just had to find the courage to take it!’

  ‘How about me?’ Sebastien asks, coming up behind me. ‘Was I OK?’

  ‘You were excellent,’ Sylvie tells him. ‘Just as I knew you would be.’

  And then we are out of there, just the two of us, slipping down the empty corridors, grabbing jackets and sliding silently out of the kitchen door, the one that nobody ever remembers to lock. We walk across the moonlit grass, hand in hand, under the willow trees wearing their fresh green ribbons of leaves, down to the ruined summer house.

  And now we are sitting on the ramshackle steps together, just as we did in November, all those months ago.

  Sebastien’s mum did not come to the performance; it’s a long way, of course, from Paris, and he knew she wouldn’t make it, but I think he is sad all the same. When term finishes Mum and Dad have said he can come home to Minehead to stay with us. Who knows, maybe one day I will get to stay with him in Paris.

  I lean my head against Sebastien’s shoulder and he wraps his arms round me, and I know without any trace of a doubt that today has been the best day of my life. I danced centre stage, the star of the show, and I found reserves of courage I didn’t know I had. I danced better than I ever have before, heart and soul, and I loved every single second of it. Now, finally, I am here, in my f
avourite place, with my favourite person.

  The last minutes of the day slide through our fingers like sand, but it doesn’t matter; I have learnt so much today about courage and friendship and trust. I have learnt how to step out of the shadows and into the spotlight, and I won’t be going back.

  Lots of readers have been asking for a story from Jamie Finch’s point of view … this mysterious dream boy who first appeared in Marshmallow Skye has a lot of fans! When I began thinking about his story, I realized it might turn out a little differently to the way my readers imagined, but that seemed even more exciting somehow!

  Finch’s story takes place almost a year on from the events of Coco Caramel. It has a few twists and turns and a little bit of mystery too … I think you’ll like it! Finch is a bit of a charmer … but in ‘Moon and Stars’ he has a real dilemma. There’s even a little Halloween magic mixed into the story …

  1

  After a few warm-up exercises, Fitz gets us all to sit in a circle while he gives us some background on the character study he wants us to work on. It’s an improvisation, a two-person piece with one of us acting the part of a polite but exasperated shopkeeper, the other an angry customer with a grudge against the world.

  ‘If you are playing the role of the customer, I want you to get under his or her skin,’ Fitz is saying. ‘Imagine that life has dealt you some very bad cards … and now you always expect the worst. Your outlook on life is grim and grey and dismal. Be gloomy, be grumpy … imagine your life is a disaster, like you have your own personal raincloud following you around …’

  Fitz moves on to the other character in his improvisation set-up, but I’ve stopped listening. My gaze drifts up to the ceiling, as if a passing raincloud might be somehow visible, but all I can see are the fancy drama-studio stage lights pointing over towards the stage area. No rainclouds, and even if there was one, I bet I’d be able to find a silver lining.

  Or at least – the old Finch would have. Once upon a time my world outlook was rainbow bright. I always thought I was the luckiest boy alive.

  Some people see a glass as half full, some half empty; I usually feel like the glass is overflowing, full of fizz and fun. I look on the bright side and good stuff happens, and my life is mostly pretty awesome. I live in a tall Victorian terraced house in Islington, London, and my mum is a TV producer, which means we get to mix with some pretty cool people and do some pretty cool things. I have two older sisters, Talia and Lara, who are both at uni, and although my dad doesn’t live with us any more he is still a brilliant dad, and he and my mum get on great.

  I go to a good school, get good grades and have a whole bunch of amazing friends, and the summer before last I had a bit part in a TV film and fell head-over-heels with the coolest, cutest girl in the whole of Somerset.

  See what I mean? Luckiest boy alive.

  It drives my mates crazy.

  They think I lead a charmed life. ‘It’s uncanny. I swear, Jamie Finch,’ one said just last week, ‘if you fell right off the top of the London Eye you’d probably land on a feather mattress that just happened to be being driven past on the back of a flatbed truck. Being driven by … I dunno, Taylor Swift or someone. And she’d fall for you and the two of you would run off to Hollywood and you’d end up with a new career as a movie stuntman. You just always land on your feet. Lucky, lucky, lucky.’

  I’d laugh and roll my eyes, but I liked being lucky. I’d got used to it. I actually thought it might last forever.

  Then something happened, a small thing, an accidental thing … three or four months ago now.

  It was a mistake, and anyone can make a mistake, right? I didn’t plan it, I didn’t mean it, but I could tell right away that it was one of those things there is no going back from, one of those things that changes everything.

  And that’s a problem, because I don’t want things to change. I’ve been trying my hardest to pretend that nothing happened, that life’s just the way it’s always been, but I can’t do it. Like the imaginary character in Fitz’s drama scenario, nowadays my own personal raincloud is never far away, threatening to rain on my parade.

  I go to school, I go to drama club, I chill out with friends and go to parties and watch the new bands that play in the Camden clubs. I do the things I’ve always done, but all the time it feels like the raincloud is just waiting, and when the time is right it will pour down its icy cold rain all over me, drenching me to the skin.

  ‘Are you OK?’ the girl next to me asks, nudging me in the ribs. ‘Are you even listening?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ I say. ‘Just thinking about … stuff. Y’know. Nothing much.’

  She rolls her eyes. Her name is Ellie Powell and she is one of those infuriatingly enthusiastic, dedicated girls who expects everyone else to be just about as perfect as she is. I used to be enthusiastic and dedicated too, about my drama class at any rate, but that was before my raincloud appeared, squeezing the joy out of everything. Lately, I am just going through the motions, and Ellie has noticed.

  ‘Want to partner up?’ she asks. ‘I can fill you in on what you missed, because I know you weren’t listening. You never do these days. It kind of lets the whole team down when you obviously don’t care, Jamie.’

  I grit my teeth. ‘I do care,’ I insist. ‘I just have a lot on my mind.’

  ‘So, partner up?’

  ‘No thanks, Ellie,’ I say, casting my eyes around for another option. Any other option. I spot a small Year Seven boy who usually does the scenery painting, and breathe a sigh of relief. ‘I’m going to work with Kevin here. I’m going to be the mild-mannered shopkeeper and he’s going to be the raging customer. Right, Kev?’

  ‘It’s Kenneth, actually,’ the Year Seven boy scowls.

  See what I mean? I cannot get anything right lately. I drag the unwilling Kenneth off to plan our drama piece, leaving Ellie laughing at my discomfort. I do not like Ellie Powell at all. She has a way of looking at me as though she knows exactly what’s going on behind the confident, self-assured mask I show to the world. Ellie’s dark green eyes seem to have X-ray vision; the ability to sear right through several layers of skin and scrutinize what’s going on inside.

  It’s not a quality I admire.

  In the end, Kenneth and I manage a reasonable improvisation piece, but only because he insists on being the mild-mannered shopkeeper. I pretend he is Ellie Powell and blast him with all of the bottled-up anger I have been holding in for the last few months.

  Fitz, watching from the sidelines, comes over to intervene just at the point where I grab Kenneth by the collar and pretend to shove him up against the wall, growling a long litany of abuse right into his face. Kenneth is actually shaking. Maybe his acting skills are better than I thought?

  ‘Enough!’ Fitz says. ‘Drop him! Are you OK, Kenneth?’

  ‘Sure,’ the kid says, but it comes out kind of strangled and sad.

  ‘I was acting,’ I argue, but a little bit of me knows that I took things too far. ‘I … maybe I got carried away. Sorry, Kenneth. Sorry, Fitz.’

  I can sense Ellie Powell watching from the other side of the drama studio, where she’d just done a brilliant improv with Fitz’s little sister, who wasn’t a drama student at all but just came along to help out and make hot chocolate after the session. I bristle with annoyance at Ellie’s glance, my fists clenching.

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ Fitz is saying, and I know I’ve tuned out again and missed his sermon on why it’s not a good plan to grab a small, scene-painting student by the scruff of the neck during drama club.

  ‘Sorry, Fitz,’ I mumble.

  ‘Finch, your
heart’s just not in this right now,’ he says. ‘I need to find out why. See me after the class, OK? We need to talk.’

  After class, Fitz asks me if there’s anything bothering me; if anything’s wrong at home. My acting has been way off for weeks, he says.

  ‘You have masses of potential,’ he tells me. ‘But you’re an instinctive actor. If stuff is going on in your life, you need to get it sorted or it will spill over into your acting. I may have to rethink our casting for the end-of-year play unless you can get yourself on an even keel. I can’t have a lead actor who’s distracted and moody all the time.’

  The drama club is putting on a musical production of Bugsy Malone later in the year, and though the cast list hasn’t yet gone up, Fitz has mentioned a few times that I’d make a great Bugsy. Now he’s backtracking. I don’t even have to look up to glimpse my raincloud … it’s blotting out every bit of light right now.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist. ‘I’ll get it sorted, Fitz, I swear I will. It’s a blip.’

  ‘Hope so,’ he says. ‘I can’t cast you as Bugsy if your heart’s not in it. I need someone reliable.’

  ‘I know, I know. Leave it with me.’

  I used to be reliable; the most reliable kid in class. Not any more. I can feel Fitz’s disappointment soaking through me, but I don’t know how to find my way back to the boy I used to be.

  I promise myself I will try.

  Everybody’s gone by the time I walk out of the studio; everyone but Ellie. She’s sitting on the wall in the fading light, swinging her legs and sipping an iced mango smoothie from the coffee shop along the road.

  My jaw sets; I’m angry all over again.

  ‘What did Fitz say?’ she wants to know. ‘He mentioned last week that you were off your game – losing the plot. He kind of hinted that he wasn’t sure you’d be the right choice for the lead role in Bugsy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That makes me feel a whole lot better.’