Two minutes later I’m sitting in her office, telling Miss Raine everything I’ve done.
‘You didn’t just maliciously attack Saskia,’ she tells me, her voice laced with fury. ‘You attacked the school. A board member just rang me, wanting to know if the students were waging a war against the teachers.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ I plead, trying to make her understand. ‘I just wanted you to know …’
Miss Raine slams her diary down on the table. ‘What I don’t understand is when you got so thin-skinned. This is a competitive environment. All the teachers are tough. I’m tough on you.’
‘Yes,’ I jump in, ‘but when you’re tough on me I know why. I don’t always like it but it’s to make me a better dancer.’ I pause, determined to make my point. ‘With Saskia, that’s not the reason.’
Miss Raine stares at me for a moment, then flicks her eyes back to the video playing quietly on the screen. Have I done enough to make her understand my point of view on this? I hope so …
As soon as Saskia’s class finishes Miss Raine leads me back into the studio to apologise. ‘Tara and I have had a long talk,’ Miss Raine tells Saskia, ‘and she knows how wrongly she acted.
I bite my lip. ‘I shouldn’t have done that to you, Saskia,’ I tell her, meaning it. ‘It was … cowardly.’
Saskia’s eyes bore into mine. ‘I had no idea you were so sensitive. I’ve only ever tried to help you.’
Yup, I think. She’s good. She’s definitely got Miss Raine fooled anyway. But at least now everything’s sorted. Or maybe not …
Miss Raine turns to leave. ‘Miss Raine?’ I call after her. She turns back to face me. I take a deep breath. ‘I’d very much like to dance The Red Shoes in the Prix if that’s okay with you?’
Beside me, I feel Saskia stiffen.
Miss Raine nods slowly. ‘I don’t see why not. From what I saw it looks promising.’
I turn back to Saskia, unable to completely hide the victory smile bubbling up inside me.
‘I guess we should get started then,’ Saskia pouts. ‘If it’s all right with you.’
But I can’t quite shake the feeling, as my feet glide across the floor in their red shoes, that even though I’ve won the battle, the war is only just beginning.
CHAPTER 10
My first pair of pointe shoes lasted a year. When they finally died I buried them in the top paddock. These days, I’m dancing so much they’re lucky to make it through a week.
You want pointe shoes to be soft because that’s when your feet look best, but not so unsupportive that you could injure yourself. The problem, I think, as I stretch my bloodied toes before I strap on yet another pair for my rehearsal with Saskia, is that there’s only a few degrees between worn in, worn down and worn out. I guess everything, like everyone, has its breaking point.
‘Sweetie,’ Saskia comments as I pirouette past her, ‘I know you have a problem with criticism but if you can’t maintain your turn out, the extensions will have to be lower.’
‘Really?’ I say sweetly, continuing with my legs at exactly the same height. ‘I don’t understand your correction, Saskia. It looks turned out to me.’
‘That’s because you’re cheating your line,’ she counters. ‘And fishing your foot.’
Behind her, Ben, who’s come to watch my rehearsal, breaks out into a grin, impressed by the attitude I’ve suddenly developed.
Saskia flicks off the music. ‘Come over to the barre,’ she says, tapping it imperiously. ‘Arabesque.’
I lean forward, extending my left leg. Saskia grabs my foot and rotates it outwards. ‘See how tight she is in the hips?’ she tells Ben.
‘Looks pretty flexy to me,’ Ben shrugs.
‘I know it’s a little embarrassing,’ Saskia continues, yanking my leg downwards, ‘but this is all you can control.’
‘I can control it higher,’ I say stubbornly.
Saskia pushes my leg up even further. ‘Really? How’s that?’
‘Fine,’ I mutter. ‘Fantastic.’
‘And this?’
She jerks my leg even higher. Ouch. ‘Never felt better,’ I lie.
‘And this?’
Pain shoots across my spine. ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ I wince. ‘Stop.’
‘Saskia …’ Ben warns nervously.
‘Are you teaching this class?’ she snaps at him. Then she jerks my leg up again, way beyond my limit.
Blood rushes to my face as I cry out in pain. I straighten up, my hand on my lower back.
‘She’s fine,’ Saskia tells Ben defensively. ‘My teachers used to do that to me all the time.’
Ben ignores her, slipping a comforting arm around my shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Just a little bit shaky.’
I slowly stretch my back out. Everything seems to be moving okay.
So why does it hurt so much?
I lie on my bed, trying to find a comfortable position. It doesn’t matter how much heat cream I put on, my muscles are constantly in spasm. My dancing’s really suffering.
Grace looks up from the headless doll chandelier she’s constructing.
‘You need to do something about that, toots.’
I shake my head. ‘Doctor Wicks will make me take time off, which will give Saskia way too much satisfaction with the Prix coming up.’
‘Then go further afield,’ she advises. ‘There’s got to be a young, hot sports doctor dying for your business.’
I pull myself up, wincing as a twinge of pain flares across my back. ‘You know the most sacred of Academy rules: “Thou shalt not see an outside doctor”.’
Grace shrugs. ‘Sure. But isn’t it pointless to jeopardise the Prix when you probably just need some anti-inflammatories?’
Maybe she’s right.
I lie on the examination table in the Sports Medicine Centre while Doctor Dave stretches my leg above my head.
‘All right,’ he tells me, ‘you’re very mobile, but your left leg is tighter.’
I frown. ‘That’s usually my good side.’
Doctor Dave runs a pin back and forth across my leg, asking me to let him know if the sensation changes at any point. The first few passes are sharp – which is what he told me to expect. The next one is different.
‘That’s a bit duller,’ I tell him.
‘Where? Here?’ he asks, running the pin across just below my shin.
‘Yep. Do you think I might need some anti-inflammatories?’
‘I tell you what,’ Doctor Dave says, trying to keep his voice light. It’s always a dead giveaway when people do that. ‘While you’re here let’s get you in for an MRI.’
I sit up, worried now. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Probably not,’ he reassures me. ‘I’d just like to have a look around.’
But the look in his eyes tells me something different.
Come on, I think, as the dial tone runs on and on. Pick up.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, it’s me,’ I say quickly. Christian’s the first person I thought to call when the doctor told me I was going to need an MRI, though he’s probably a strange choice. Apart from a few awkward moments when he offered to rub some heat cream on my back, we’ve barely spoken to each other in days.
‘What’s up?’ he asks, his voice measured.
I hate this. Hate what we’re doing to each other.
‘So I know we’ve only just started talking again,’ I say carefully, ‘but I’m about to have this scan. To do with my back?’
Silence. Is he going to hang up on me? I thought things were starting to improve between us, but maybe I was wrong.
‘And it’s going to be fine,’ I plough on, ‘but …’
‘Where are you?’ Christian asks quickly.
I give him the address then hang up. There’s nothing I can do now except wait.
Christian jogs up the steps of the centre, his face worried.
‘So it’s serious?’
I shrug. �
��I don’t know yet.’
‘If it is, you can’t dance,’ Christian tells me.
‘I know.’
‘It’s just a competition,’ he says, his voice rising. ‘It’s not worth hurting yourself over.’
‘I know, Christian,’ I sigh. Does he think I haven’t worked that out for myself?
‘Sorry,’ he tells me, easing himself down beside me. His voice softens. ‘So what does it feel like?’
‘Scary,’ I admit, blinking back tears. ‘It’s like there are all of these bricks inside my back.’
Christian’s arm slips around my shoulders. ‘It’s probably just a dodgy muscle,’ he reassures me, pulling me into a hug. ‘Give it a couple of day’s rest and you’ll top the preliminaries.’
I lean into his shoulder, where the world is safe and warm. ‘Thanks.’
Then I pull away again. There’s something I have to find out.
‘Hi,’ I say, looking deep into his eyes.
Christian returns my gaze. ‘Hey,’ he answers.
He does care about me. I know he does. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.
I lean back in towards him and kiss him softly on the lips. He doesn’t properly kiss me back, but he doesn’t pull away either. That tells me all I need to know.
‘At least one good thing came out of this,’ I tell him.
‘Sorry?’
I smile at him. He knows exactly what I mean.
‘Is that why you asked me to come down here?’ Christian asks angrily, pulling away from me.
‘No,’ I stammer, confused.
‘So why didn’t you call Sammy? Or Kat.’
‘Because you were the one I thought of,’ I explain. ‘Who I always think of.’
Christian hauls himself up from the steps. ‘You know, you can’t guilt me into getting back together with you.’
I stare at him. ‘I’m not trying to!’
‘Because it’s not going to happen,’ Christian tells me, pacing up and down. ‘I’ve already told you that.’
‘Why not?’ I say finally, my voice tiny.
‘Tara?’
I spin round. It’s Doctor Dave. Great timing.
‘I’ve got your test results. Do you want to come inside?’
This whole thing has turned out a mess. ‘Go,’ I tell Christian. ‘I’m just being dramatic.’
‘I’ll wait here,’ he insists.
I shake my head. ‘No, really, I’m fine on my own.’
Then, shoulders straight, I follow the doctor inside.
Fifteen minutes later I’m back on the steps, Doctor Dave’s words ringing dully in my ears. My back is broken. Well, not broken exactly. Cracked. Recently, Doctor Dave says. Which means it must have happened in the studio when Saskia jerked my leg up so high.
The crack runs right down an important vertebra, making my muscles work overtime. There’s no need for surgery, he says, and I haven’t done any nerve damage. But there’s to be no dancing – none at all – for six weeks.
Six weeks! Impossible. The Prix preliminaries start in a couple of days. No way am I going to miss those. I check the area around the centre entrance, in case Christian decided to stay after all. But apart from a couple of guys hobbling past on crutches, it’s empty.
I get back to school just in time to wish Kat luck. Even though she blew her chance to go to Paris with the Moulin Rouge people, she realised she really does want to be a dancer. I guess it’s in her blood.
It’s taken her all week, but she’s finally persuaded Miss Raine to let her audition again for the Academy. I hope she makes it. Somebody needs some good news for a change.
CHAPTER 11
When you dance, you can have ‘good pain’ – the kind that’s supposed to make you a better dancer. Or you can have pain that niggles, that you hope will go away. And then there’s bad pain – pain that you should be scared of. Pain that could stop you dancing.
This last kind is the type that I have. I know if I keep dancing I might make the crack in my vertebra worse. But the alternative is too scary to think about. If I don’t keep dancing, I’ll miss the Prix de Fonteyn preliminaries, and the chance to prove to the world – and myself – that the path I’ve chosen is the right one.
The theatre where the preliminaries are being held is buzzing by the time Grace, Abigail and I arrive. There are dancers here from all over the state. We quickly change into our ballet gear and join the others on stage, ready to begin warming up.
I swing my leg back and forth, testing for any niggles of pain. So far so good. Over at the next barre, Christian’s laughing about something with Ben. Laughing? When his heart is supposed to be broken?
Grace follows my gaze, then nudges me meaningfully. ‘Today, he doesn’t exist.’
She’s right. There’s too much at stake here today for me to be mooning over Christian. I swing my leg back again, a little higher this time, then wince as a sharp stab of pain courses through my lower back. It’s going to take every last shred of will power I have to get through this.
The excited chatter around me dies down as a tall dancer arrives on stage. He tells us his name, and that he’s to be one of the judges today, but there’s no need. Everyone knows that he’s Stephen Heathcote – star of the National Ballet, who has been a principal dancer for twenty years. And here I am – Tara Webster from Patchewalling – on the same stage with him.
Stephen runs through our schedule for the day. We’re going to start with a typical ballet class, then move on to showing the judges our classical solos after lunch. But first he wants us to start at the barre.
I line up with the others, my arms rising and falling, biting back pain as I force my legs into places they don’t want to go.
One hand on the barre, I lean forward into a deep arabesque, trying to keep my face a mask as I attempt to deal with the pain. I can hear Stephen’s voice as he moves along the lines, checking out each dancer’s performance. He’ll catch me out, I know it. He’s coming closer, closer …
‘Aah … choo!!’
Stephen’s head whips around to see where the sneeze has come from.
Beside me, Grace mops at her nose, then apologises for interrupting his critique. Successfully distracted, Stephen gives me a quick smile, then moves on.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper gratefully to Grace, then return to my exercises. I’m safe.
For now.
The punishment continues all morning. Allegro, pirouette, grand jeté. Every step brings a new wave of pain. Eventually Stephen calls a halt. We’re all to meet him back here after lunch to dance our solos.
Grace slips her arm around me as I shuffle off stage. ‘It’s worse, isn’t it?’
I nod, hoping no one else has noticed the tears in my eyes.
‘Come on, let’s get you out of here.’
Five minutes later I’m standing out the front of the theatre, waiting while Grace calls a taxi to take us to the Sports Medicine Centre. The door swings open, revealing Abigail. She’s been watching me suspiciously all morning. I guess she’s finally twigged.
‘Where are you kids off to?’ Abigail asks.
‘I’m hurt,’ I confess. ‘I need to get a massage or a painkiller before my solo.’
Abigail stares at me. ‘Doctor Wicks won’t let you dance if you’re injured.’
I look down at my feet. I can’t answer that without giving away where I’m going.
Abigail’s eyes widen. ‘You’re going to see a doctor outside the Academy? Tara, that’s the most fundamental rule.’
I look around nervously, paranoid that someone might have overheard our conversation. ‘Please don’t say anything.’
Abigail keeps staring. She’s going to dob me in. I have to do something to stop her.
‘You want to beat me, don’t you?’
Abigail snorts. ‘I am going to beat you.’
‘So won’t it count more if I’m actually dancing?’
Abigail’s wavering, I can tell. I just hope I’ve said enough to stop her
from going to Miss Raine.
‘Tara’s disabled,’ Grace butts in, before she can answer. ‘And you still think you’ll be upstaged?’
Sometimes Grace goes too far. I shoot Abigail an apologetic look, then climb into the taxi Grace has finally managed to flag down. All I can think about now is somehow getting the pain to stop.
I lie face down on the sports clinic bed, wincing in pain as Doctor Dave works his way along the muscles of my back.
‘You’ve danced on this,’ he says disapprovingly. ‘Tara, if you keep going, there’s a good chance you could break the other side, and that’s going to require surgery.’
‘But if I stop,’ I say, hauling myself up to face him, ‘is it definitely going to heal? Because I read that sometimes these sorts of fractures never get better.’
‘Sometimes,’ he agrees. ‘But we won’t know for about six weeks.’
Grace stares at him. ‘Hang on, you mean either way she might never dance again?’
Doctor Dave shakes his head. He can’t answer that yet, he tells us. He offers to give me a local anaesthetic to relieve the pain, but makes me promise not to do any more dancing.
‘I promise,’ I say, not totally sure yet whether or not I mean it.
Kat’s at the theatre when I get back, practically doing cartwheels with happiness. She passed her audition with Miss Raine. She’s back in! After she’s caught up with the rest of the gang, I steal her away to a quiet spot on the theatre roof, anxious to get her opinion on what I should do.
Her eyes widen as I fill her in on everything. ‘Tara. It is lunacy to even think about dancing. What if you make it worse?’
I bite my lip. ‘And what if I don’t dance and my back still doesn’t get better? This could be my last chance to perform on stage.’
But Kat isn’t swayed. She sits me down and does her best to convince me that dancing on an injury as bad as mine is the last thing I should do. And that, now she’s back at the Academy, she’s going to be there to help me rest up and get through it all. Twenty-four seven.
Tara: Everything to Lose Page 6