by Sarah Webb
“Oh, no,” Clover says, trying to drag me past it.
But I give her my best puppy-dog eyes. “Pwetty pwease?” I beg her.
She sighs. “Just a quick look.”
I spot a snow globe with a tiny ballerina perched on her tippy-toes in it. It’s perfect for Mills. Then I remember that she’s not exactly speaking to me at the moment. But I buy it anyway.
As we make our way back to the hotel, the snow starts falling thick and fast, covering the footpath with a layer of what looks like fresh icing sugar. By the time we get to Balzac House, it’s a couple of inches thick.
Clover throws herself on the ground and moves her arms up and down. “Snow angels. Come on, Beanie.”
So, laughing, I lie down beside her, snow falling on my face, and make a snow angel too.
The perfect end to a perfect day.
Clover has another bath before bed, just because she can. I tell her she’s going to shrivel up like a prune, but she says she doesn’t care. “I never have time for a bath at home. Hotels are for pampering yourself, Beanie. And the best thing is, you don’t even have to clean up afterward.” With the mess Clover makes when she stays over at our house, sloshing bubbles all over the floor, it’s probably just as well.
“Clover, can I use your laptop? I want to finish reading Claire’s diary before we see her tomorrow.”
There’s a slight pause. “If you think it would be helpful, Beanie, then sure, fire ahead. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that. Let me know if you find out anything else about the bullying.”
So while she drifts away to bathe, I flip through the rest of Claire’s diary entries. Most of them are short and more factual, and she doesn’t mention Zsuzsanna again until the final entry. It was written just before she traveled to Dublin two weeks ago.
Dear Diary,
I wish things were different. I wish I could dance without worrying myself sick about everyone’s reaction. I wish I could be with Péter properly, as his girlfriend, not just his friend. I wish I didn’t feel the weight of this whole Irish production on my shoulders. But most of all, I wish Zsuzsanna would leave me the hell alone and stop tormenting me. The kicking, the hair pulling, the pushing in the corridors, the constant whispers and nasty rumors — it’s driving me crazy!
I can’t go on like this. It’s destroying me. I used to be so strong and self-confident, and now look at me. I’m a nervous wreck! I have no nails because I’ve bitten them so much, and there are huge black bags under my eyes. I look ancient, not seventeen! Why is Zsuzsanna doing this? Why does she hate me so much? All I ever wanted to do was dance. It’s not fair!
Am I even good enough to dance Juliet? Or to be in the company at all? I’m starting to seriously doubt myself. Zsuzsanna has told everyone that I was picked to be the lead just because I’m Irish and it will please the home crowd. She says I’m not up to the role and she should be dancing Juliet instead. Péter keeps telling me that Zsuzsanna’s jealous and to pay no attention, but what if she’s right? What if I’m not up to it? What if I make a complete fool of myself on the Dublin stage? I’ll die!!!
I’m in such a state about everything that I can’t eat or sleep. I really need to talk to someone, but Lana’s gone and I can’t say anything to Mills or Mum or Dad. They wouldn’t understand. I’ve told Péter about my nerves but not about Zsuzsanna. If she knew I was telling tales behind her back, she’d have even more reason to hate me.
If it wasn’t for Péter and his encouragement, I think I would have backed out of dancing Juliet weeks ago. Maybe I should just let Zsuzsanna have the role, as she seems to want it so badly. Maybe then she’d get off my back and just leave me be.
I can’t bear to think of a life without ballet, but as with Lana, maybe it’s just not for me. I thought I was strong enough, but what if I was wrong? Maybe Juliet will be my swan song. I’ll dance Juliet and then . . . and then . . .
The writing stops abruptly. I peel my eyes from the screen. My heart is beating fast. Claire sounds like she’s in such distress, and I desperately want to help her. She can’t stop dancing. She just can’t! She’s too good, and she’s worked too hard to throw it all away.
Originally maybe I was hoping that if I fixed things for Claire, Mills might forgive me, but it has gone way past all that now. If the bullying doesn’t stop, if it continues to grind Claire into the ground and she’s forced to throw away the one thing she loves most in the whole wide world, then what? I dread to think. I can’t let that happen. I have to help her, but how?
“Now, that is a stunning swimsuit,” I say. “It really suits you.” I’m trying to keep a straight face, but it’s difficult. Clover is standing in front of me in the weirdest swimsuit I’ve ever seen. It’s fluorescent orange and slashed to the belly button. A large gold ring holds together the two thin strips of fabric covering Clover’s breasts. It was that or a leopard-skin microbikini. The shop in the baths wasn’t exactly well stocked.
We’re in the Gellért Baths, housed in a huge old gray hotel on the side of Gellért Hill, and it’s pretty chic in an Addams Family kind of way: murky, with lots of big ferny potted plants, stained-glass windows, and funny little stairways leading off the main hall. The changing rooms are pretty normal, though: clammy tiled floors and lots of primary colors, like in a nursery school.
We’re here for the photo shoot that Clover set up for Claire and some of the other dancers. Saffy wants some interesting photos in an “exotic” Hungarian location, and the baths with their aquamarine tiles, gold pillars, and palm trees are certainly exotic.
Clover puts her hands on her hips and pouts. “Why, thank you, darling. I hope the ballerinas appreciate it. To be honest, I’m spitting mad. I found this amazing white Chanel one-piece in the fashion cupboard. Beautifully cut. What a waste! I hope Sylvie managed to find my bag.” Clover rang Mum yesterday and asked her to track down the missing wheelie case. Mum promised to do her best, but we haven’t heard anything from her yet.
After locking up our changing rooms, we walk out into the deliciously warm air of the baths. “Race you,” Clover says, running toward the palm-lined central swimming pool. She cannonballs in, making a big splash. Several old men mutter and wave their arms in protest at the lifeguard, a dark-haired boy of about eighteen. The lifeguard starts yabbering crossly at her in Hungarian.
Clover shakes the water off her head and gives him a big smile. “So sorry,” she says. “Do forgive me, to be sure, to be sure. I’m Irish, ya see. We don’t have baths like this in Ireland. Just wee concrete puddles that we have to share with the leprechauns and the donkeys. Tragic, really.”
He looks at her crookedly as though trying to make out if she’s serious. She gives him another wide smile, and this time he smiles back. “No jumping, OK?” he says. “Just swimming.”
“I’ll tóg go bog é, I promise.” Clover gives him a big wink and a thumbs-up, and he wanders back to his plastic chair, looking confused.
I use the tiled steps to walk slowly into the pool until the water’s up to my waist. It’s not exactly warm and I shiver a little before forcing myself to get fully immersed, and then I swim toward Clover.
“Clover, you nearly got us thrown out,” I tell her. “And what does ‘tóg go bog é’ mean?”
She grins. “‘Take it easy.’ Do you not listen in Irish class, Beanie? And it was so worth it. Now let’s explore before Roland and the girls arrive.” Roland is the Hungarian photographer. It was cheaper to hire him here than to fly someone over.
As we swim back toward the steps, a tall, dark-haired girl lifts her leg in the water and places it on the edge of the pool. Then she leans forward slowly until her head is touching her knee.
“Must be a dancer,” Clover whispers. “Claire says they come here a lot to relax and stretch.”
We climb out of the pool and stand on the edge for a few seconds, dripping water onto the tiles.
“Ready for something a little more hot and steamy, Bean Machine?” Clover asks. She points
at a doorway.
I nod. “Sure.”
I follow her down a short corridor and through another arched doorway. Beyond, there are two large pools, steam wafting off both of them. Women of all shapes, sizes, and ages are draped about on marble seats and benches. Most of them are completely naked! I blush deeply.
“Are you sure we’re supposed to be in here, Clover?”
“We’re women, aren’t we?”
“Speak for yourself. I’m only thirteen, remember? All this uncovered flesh is freaking me out. Can we go back to the other pool? Please?”
“Just one quick dip, Beanie. We may never be in Budapest again, and this is part of the whole experience. Be brave, Baby Bean. Come on.”
So I follow her into one of the pools. It’s swelteringly hot, but it feels surprisingly good. We wade toward one of the walls and sit on the smooth marble seat under a steady flow of warm water, letting it pour deliciously on our necks and backs. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see any of the naked ladies.
“That’s so good,” Clover purrs. “The water’s full of mineral salts. Very good for the skin, according to Saffy. She’s obsessed with her skin. She’s always sneaking out of the office for weird oxygen facials. Tell me you’re not enjoying this too, Beanie.”
“It’s all right.” I pause. “OK, it’s pretty good. In fact, I think I could get used to it.”
And that’s where Claire finds us half an hour later. She’s wearing a black ballet leotard and white footless tights, and her hair is slicked back into a high bun. She’s getting a few funny looks from the naked ladies, but she seems oblivious.
“Hey, girls. I’ve been looking all over for you. Never thought I’d catch you in here with the nudie babushkas. Quite something, aren’t they?” She nods at a group of voluptuous older ladies who are gathered at the far end of the pool, chatting away, all completely naked.
“Your photographer’s at the swimming pool,” Claire continues. “He’s a little overwhelmed, I think. The other dancers can be a bit intimidating sometimes. Scary, in fact.” She nibbles at the edge of a nail. Remembering what she said about her nails in her diary entry, I look at her hands, and sure enough, they’re bitten to the quick, and the skin around them is red and raw.
“Sorry about all this photo-shoot business,” Clover says. “I’m sure you have better things to do, but I hope the interview will help ticket sales back in Dublin. And you look perfect, by the way. The image of a successful ballerina. And check out those arms. I bet you could lift an elephant with those babies.”
Claire shrugs. “I guess they are pretty big for a girl, but most dancers have them. Ballet’s a very demanding discipline. I don’t think people realize how fit we have to be and how hard we have to train.” She seems uneasy talking about herself and quickly changes the subject. “Anyway, how was your flight? And what’s your hotel like?”
As we walk toward the pool, Clover tells Claire all about her luggage fiasco. I follow a little behind them, trying to keep my gaze straight ahead. I get enough nakedness at home. Alex loves stripping and running around the house in the nude. But toddler flesh isn’t as scary as Budapest babushka flesh.
Claire, with her toned back and long, elegant neck, looks every inch the ballerina. She even moves like a dancer; each step is graceful, like she’s flowing rather than walking. But there’s also a deep sadness in her somehow that never seems to go away, even when she smiles.
Claire is right about Roland. He’s totally out of his depth and completely in awe of the dancers. He seems too scared to tell them how to pose or to give them any direction at all. Luckily, Clover knows precisely what type of shots Saffy is after, and Roland seems happy to be bossed around. My nutty aunt stands there, her towel tucked around her body, telling him exactly what he’s doing wrong. I did suggest she get changed first, but she pooh-poohed the idea. “No point. I’m so going back to that dreamy-steamy hot tub as soon as this is wrapped up. It’s heaven on a biscuit.”
She is snapping her fingers at the photographer now. “Roland, mush, we don’t have all day. They’re dancers, not models. Let them move and use their bodies. We’re looking for action, power. Think gladiators, not beauty queens.”
“Warriors, yes?” he asks.
“Exactly. Powerful, strong, but edgy, like panthers. Claire, can you do a warrior-type pose, please? Pretend Roland is the enemy and you want to kill him. Lean forward and glare at the camera. Amazing, Claire, that’s perfect!”
Clover is right: if looks could kill, Roland would be stone dead.
“Now flex the muscles in your arms and neck, Claire. Brilliant!” Clover continues. “Right, girls, can you stand behind Claire and try some similar expressions? Think fierce thoughts, get it? And put some movement into the poses. Excellent!”
Roland quickly fires off a barrage of shots, capturing Claire and some of the other dancers as they glare at the camera while twisting and spinning their amazingly toned bodies around the pillars of the baths and around one another.
All the way through the photo shoot, Claire’s eyes burn, like she really does want to kill someone. I begin to wonder if the enemy Claire is imagining as she stares angrily at Roland is in fact Zsuzsanna.
After the shoot, we soak in the baths for another hour, until our fingertips really do look like prunes, and then hole up in a café that Claire recommended that has wifi so that Clover can check her e-mail.
After licking the last crumbs of Domino chocolate cake off her fingers (another of Claire’s suggestions and superdelicious), Clover passes me her laptop. “Here, Beanie, sing for your supper. You work on this agony-aunt letter while I start on my piece for Saffy. It’s time to fly solo, little swallow.”
“Are you sure?” I ask her.
“Sure as eggs is eggs. Get cracking. Cracking? Get it — eggs? God, I crack myself up sometimes.”
Dear Clover and Amy,
I’m thirteen and I’m really into swimming. I’ve recently joined a swim club, which means getting up at five and training from six until seven thirty four mornings a week. It’s a killer, but it’s worth it. My times have improved so much, and I have a real chance of winning nationals this year.
But there’s a slight hitch. At the pool I used to go to, there were individual cubicles to change in, but at the new place, there’s only one changing area and everyone strips together. I HATE it! I get so embarrassed. I wear my suit to the pool, but I can’t wear my wet suit home! I get so embarrassed when I’m getting changed that I can feel my cheeks go scarlet. I get all clumsy. Plus, it takes me ages to dry off and put my clothes on, as I’m trying to keep everything covered up the whole time.
Some of the girls stand around chatting in their bras and knickers, or even worse, in the nude. I try not to look, but it’s really hard. They all have boobs, and some of them have to shave under their arms and have hair you know where. I’m skinny with really wide shoulders and no boobs or hips, and I look more like a boy than a girl.
Sometimes I catch one of the girls staring at me, and it’s so humiliating. I know they’re thinking, “Shouldn’t he be in the boys’ changing room?” It makes it hard to concentrate in the pool, knowing I have to climb out and face the dreaded scramble into my clothes. And I’m concerned it will start affecting my times if I can’t stop worrying about it. I’ve tried changing in the toilet cubicle, but there’s only one and I was holding everyone up.
I know in the larger scheme of things that this is probably a very small dilemma, but if there’s anything you can suggest that might help, I’d be very grateful. I love your problem pages in the Goss. You give such cool advice, and you’re always so honest with people.
Bye,
Hannah in Dalkey
I get started straightaway.
Dear Hannah,
I know exactly how you feel! I hate changing in front of other people after field hockey. It’s cringe-a-rama to the max. But I’ve had to get used to it. It’s part of being on the team. One thing that has helped — and I
know it probably sounds like a bit of a quick fix, but believe me, it works — is having nice underwear. I have a really fabarooney aunt and recently she bought me some très cool bras and knickers. If you don’t have much to put in a bra — and I’m your sister there — try a padded one.
Now, you say you’re tall and slim. Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your shoes? No wonder they’re staring at you! You’d love boobs and hips? Well, I bet some of the more curvy girls would love a teeny waist and slim hips. And everyone worries about their body a bit, even grown-ups like my mum. I certainly do. It’s normal. But remember, it’s who you are on the inside that counts. I know that’s easy to say, but it’s the truth.
If swimming is your passion, and it sounds like it is, don’t let anything stand in the way of going for gold. Especially your own inner critic.
Here’s my advice: Step one, go underwear shopping; and Step two, try telling yourself, “I love my body,” every single day. One day you might just convince yourself!
And good luck at nationals, Hannah. I hope you smash it!
Yours,
Amy, also 13 xxx
I decided not to include Clover’s name this time, as she’s curves-and-boobs central. This one’s especially to Hannah from me. I read over my answer, make a few tweaks, and then, satisfied, sit back in my seat.
Clover looks up from her notebook. “Finished, Bean Machine?”
“Yep. Will you read it over, Clover? In case I’ve made any mistakes.”
“Sure thing, Beanie, old girl.”
“Perfecto,” she says after a few minutes. “Couldn’t have done better myself. And you’ll have super boobs one day, Beanie, never fear. I’m stacked and Sylvie’s no slouch in the hubba-hubba department.”