by Adele Geras
“So do I,” said Weezer. “And hot. And cold.”
“You can’t feel hot and cold both at once,” I said. “It’s impossible.”
“No, it’s not,” said Weezer. “My face feels hot and my feet feel cold. And I think I’ve forgotten how to dance.”
“Hello, ladies,” said Miss Matting, coming into the room. “I see you’ve all settled in. Keep your things in good order. We don’t want everyone going home with the wrong make-up. Now don’t forget . . . lots of white powder and pink lips. I hope no one has brought dark red lipstick.”
Elizabeth had.
Miss Matting said: “That’s much too dark, sweetheart. Borrow Louisa’s. It’s just the right colour.” Weezer was pleased.
“When can we put on our costumes, Miss Matting?”
“Wait a while, dear. Everything is clean and stiff now. The tulle will go all limp and floppy if you sit about in it for ages. Now I must go and visit the boys.”
The boys were getting ready to perform their snowman dance. “I don’t know why she’s going to see them,” said Sharon. “They’re not nervous.”
“Maybe they’re as nervous as we are,” said Tricia. “They just don’t like to show it, so they rush about.”
“They’re silly,” said Lauren. “They won’t have any energy left to dance with.”
“Yes, they will. They always rush about,” said Chantelle. “They’re used to it.”
The girls sat on their chairs and passed the time by telling ballet horror stories.
“Once, Margaret’s ribbons came undone. She fell over them and broke her ankle,” said one girl.
“I heard about a girl who was fine in rehearsal. Then she went on stage and started dancing all the wrong steps,” said another.
“Stop!” I said. “You’re all mad. You’ll be perfect. You’re just nervous. You should go and put your costumes on now.”
Weezer grinned. “You sound just like a proper wardrobe mistress.”
Louisa had just got her costume on when there was a knock at the door. “Who’s that?” said Maisie. “No one’s allowed backstage before the show.” There was more knocking.
“Come in,” I called. A young man came in. He was holding an enormous box made of pink-and-white striped cardboard.
“Is there a Miss Weezer Blair here?” he asked. “I have a delivery for a Miss Weezer Blair from the Blissful Bites Bakery.”
“I’m Weezer,” said Weezer.
“Then I think this is for you.”
“WHAT IS IT?” asked Tricia.
“Who sent it?” Chantelle wanted to know.
“Where should I put it?” asked the young man from the bakery.
“There’s a table over here,” said Weezer, hugging herself. “Who do you think it’s from, Annie? And what is it?”
“Open it and have a look,” I said. The young man put the box down. Then he almost ran towards the door as a crowd of girls gathered round the table. There was a gold envelope sellotaped to the lid.
“I’m going to read the card first,” said Weezer. Nobody said a word.
“It’s from Dad,” she told us at last. Her smile was the widest I’d ever seen. “He says, ‘I know you will be a tremendous success. After the show, please share this cake with all the other swans, big and little. Make sure to give some to Annie and your mum and anyone else who’s around.’ Oh, Annie, Dad’s sent a cake! Take the lid off and let’s see it.”
The cake was huge and round. The sides were covered in white icing. Pale blue icing over the top of the cake had been shaped into waves and ripples.
“It’s a lake,” said Weezer. “It’s Swan Lake, look! There are the swans . . . eight of them. And they’ve put trees all around the water, too. This is the best cake I’ve ever seen. What are the swans made of, Annie? Can you eat them?” I touched one to see.
“No, they’re plastic,” I said.
“Great!” said Weezer.
While everyone was admiring the cake, she whispered in my ear, “I’m going to give a swan to everyone who’s in my dance. And to the understudies. Isn’t it lucky they put eight swans on the cake?”
“Very lucky,” I said.
Just at that moment, Miss Matting came in. She said, “Louisa, is that your cake?”
“Yes, Miss Matting.”
“How beautiful!” She looked around the dressing room.
“Is everyone ready to go on? Yes, I can see that you are. Good. Now we have a special visitor. I know that you’ll all want to hear what this person has to say. Please, everyone, sit down quietly.”
For one instant, I thought: maybe it’s Dad. Maybe he came, after all. But it wasn’t Dad. It was the last person I expected to see backstage.
“Mrs Posnansky!” Weezer jumped up. “What are you doing here! Why aren’t you with Mum?”
“Ssh, dear,” said Miss Matting. “Sit down and listen. Children, this is a friend and neighbour of the Blairs’. Her name is Nina Posnansky, and she has a very interesting story to tell.”
I hardly recognized Mrs Posnansky. She usually wore dark, shapeless clothes, but she had put on her best outfit for Weezer’s show. It was a purple silk dress. She had a sequinned scarf around her neck. She smiled at us. In her hand she held a paper shopping bag.
“Good evening, girls,” she said. “My English is so bad, but you forgive. I come from Russia. My mother was a ballet dancer long ago. Her name was Natasha Arlosorovska. Before I am born, she dances in Paris. She dances Swan Lake in corps de ballet. This I already tell Weezer and Annie.”
Weezer nodded. “That’s right. I’m going to Mrs Posnansky’s house to look at her photo albums.”
“I bring here one picture,” said Mrs Posnansky. She took a photograph in a silver frame out of her paper bag. “This is my mama. She does the Dance of the Little Swans. Is second from right.”
The girls passed the photograph from hand to hand. Four beautiful dancers stood in front of a backcloth painted with dark trees and a moonlit lake. Their dresses were old-fashioned, but you could see exactly what they were meant to be.
“Imagine!” said Miss Matting. “This photo was taken eighty-four years ago, and yet the dancers look just like our own Little Swans.”
“They’re beautiful,” said Weezer, going up to Mrs Posnansky and giving her back the photo. “Your mother is the prettiest.”
“Wait,” said Mrs Posnansky. “I have for you something very special. You come to see me. You offer me ticket. After you go home, I think. I think a lot. I remember suitcase of Mama. Is under bed. I pull out suitcase. I think, maybe is still there, the special surprise. I look, I look. Is much old clothes, old shoes. Is jewels and scarves. Then I find . . .” She reached into the paper bag. “The headdress of my mother. This is what I seek for Weezer. This is what I wish to give a new Little Swan.”
Weezer’s eyes were shining. “Oh, my goodness!” she breathed. “Real feathers! Is this the one your mother is wearing in the picture?”
“Oh, yes, same one,” said Mrs Posnansky.
“And you’ll let me wear it for the show?”
“Yes, for the show,” said Mrs Posnansky. “But you keep forever. For gift. Is good luck for the ballet. Come. I put it on.”
Weezer ran to Mrs Posnansky. She flung her arms around her. She hugged her. Weezer hardly ever hugs anybody.
“It’s the best present ever,” she said. Mrs Posnansky arranged the white feathered headdress on Weezer’s head. Everyone started clapping. Weezer blushed and smiled.
“Well,” said Miss Matting. “I’ve been putting on shows for years, but I’ve never been so thrilled. Thank you so much, Mrs Posnansky.”
“Yes, thank you!” everyone else called out. Mrs Posnansky turned to leave the room.
“I wish you all wonderful dance,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
“I’ve got to go now, too,” I told Weezer. “I have to get to my place before the show starts. Good luck, Weezer. You look just like a proper ballerina.”
“That’s
what I feel like,” she said, pointing her toe and lifting her arms gracefully into the air. “A really, truly, proper one.”
THE THEATRE OF Fairvale High was full. The parents and families of all the dancers had crowded in to see the show. Mum and Mrs Posnansky had listened to Weezer. They’d arrived early and found seats in the front row. Mrs Posnansky’s sequined scarf glittered and sparkled. She and Mum were studying the programme when I came to sit down.
“Weezer is so happy with your present,” I said to Mrs Posnansky. “She was nervous before you came, but she’s fine now. She says she feels like a real dancer.”
“I’m not fine,” said Mum. “I’m nervous for her. She’s so hard on herself – just imagine if she does something wrong.”
“She won’t,” I said. “She’s known every single step for weeks. She thinks of nothing but this dance. She even dreams about it at night.”
“Ssh!” said Mrs Posnansky. “Is beginning. Yes.” The theatre grew darker and darker.
The Swan Lake music filled the air. A thin line of blue light showed under the velvet curtains. They slid open, and the dance began.
The backcloth was painted with a picture of rocks and trees. Everyone clapped when they saw it. Then the girls came on as swans. They looked pretty. They danced well.
“They’re so sweet,” Mum whispered to me, and I was just about to agree when I heard the introduction to Weezer’s dance.
The four Little Swans came to the front of the stage. The white tulle of their tutus fluffed up like feathers. They started to dance. I couldn’t stop watching Weezer. She floated through the music as if she were weightless. She bent and turned as though she had no bones in her body. The feathered headdress made her carry her head as gracefully as a real swan. I couldn’t believe this was my stubborn, moody, uppity little sister. She had become magical up there on the stage under the blue light. I didn’t recognize her. I wanted to watch her dancing forever. When the music stopped, I glanced at Mrs Posnansky. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She must have felt my eyes on her, because she turned to face me.
“I cry because dancing is so beautiful. Your sister, she is ballerina.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, she is.”
After the show, dancers and parents and friends filled the dressing room. It was like a party. Miss Matting cut Dad’s cake into tiny pieces so that everyone could have a mouthful. Weezer collected the eight plastic swans and gave them out. All the adults kissed the girls and told them how wonderful the show had been and how well they’d danced.
At last it was time to go home. Weezer had packed her suitcase. Mum and Mrs Posnansky had left already. They were waiting for us in the car park. On the way out to the car, I said, “You’re still wearing your headdress.”
“There’s no room in the case,” Weezer said. “I don’t want it to get squashed.”
“Weezer, listen.” I felt embarrassed. I wanted to tell her how beautifully she’d danced. I couldn’t find the right words. I said, “You were the best Little Swan. Maybe it was the Russian headdress that did it. You looked like a real ballet dancer, Weezer.”
“Louisa,” said Weezer. “I think I should be called Louisa. Weezer isn’t the kind of name a ballet dancer has, is it?”
“Right,” I said. “Louisa from now on.”
Almost as soon as we got home, the phone rang. I answered.
“It’s some chap wanting to talk to a person called Weezer,” I said. She took the phone out of my hand.
“Is that you, Dad?” she said. “This is Louisa speaking.”
About the Author
Adèle Geras was born in Jerusalem and travelled widely as a child. She started writing over twenty-five years ago and is the author of many titles for young readers, including one previous title for the Corgi Pups list, Chalk and Cheese and the four Cats of Cuckoo Square titles for Young Corgi. Married with two daughters, she lives in Manchester.
LITTLE SWAN BALLET BOOKS
Little Swan
Louisa’s Secret
Louisa in the Wings
A Rival for Louisa
Good Luck Louisa
Louisa on Screen
LITTLE SWAN
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 446 45388 9
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company
This ebook edition published 2011
Copyright © Adèle Geras, 2011
Illustrations copyright © Karen Popham, 2011
First Published in Great Britain
Red Fox 9780099218227 2011
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