Hopes and Dreams Read Free Page A

lots,
    Jodie
    xxx

3
    I thought that ballet was second nature to me already, but after weeks of daily practice, it becomes as instinctive as breathing. Moves that were challenging to me a couple of months ago come easily now, but my teachers raise the bar higher ever week; they want us to push harder and harder, reach for some impossible, invisible goal. We keep pushing, keep reaching.
    I can feel my body getting leaner, stronger; my muscles ache from hard work, and my toes are bruised from hours and hours of pointe work. At Rochelle Academy, you live and breathe dance. It’s part of the deal.
    And all of us are waiting to find out what the Christmas production will be, and whether we might have a chance of a solo. The first week after half term, Sylvie Rochelle calls an assembly in Dance Studio One to announce that we will be working on a production of
The Nutcracker
, to be staged the week before Christmas at the theatre in nearby Plymouth. Every student at the academy will take part.
    I look at Sparks, to my right, his fingers crossed, his face hopeful; Tasha, to my left, chewing her lip. A metre away, Grace is sitting rigid with anxiety, her forehead creased, her eyes bright with a mixture of fear and longing. All around the studio, the students are pensive, wound up, daring to dream that it could be them. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.
    I am careful to stay guarded, my face a mask of careless nonchalance. A girl who knows she is second best cannot afford to hope too much, or to care. I am not hoping for a solo … the chorus line will be good enough for me. I am not ready to be centre stage.
    The leading roles go to Annabel, who’ll be playing Clara, and Grace, who gets the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy. When Madame Rochelle tells us that Sparks will be playing the Nutcracker Prince, he lets loose a whoop of pure joy, hugging everyone in sight. The rest of us get smaller roles, short solos from the second act of the ballet when Clara is in the land of the sweets. I’m given the part of ‘Hot Coco’ who does a Spanish flamenco-style solo, and I don’t know whether to be terrified or happy. Naomi, Priya, Niamh, Tasha and some of the others all land similar cameos, and then Madame Rochelle reads out the parts for the younger students who will make up the chorus, doubling up as party guests and snowflakes and mice. Relief rushes through me, joyful, intense; I have a solo, a respectable role, a part worth having. Then the doubts crowd in, sucking all the joy out of the moment. A solo. I’m not ready for this, not brave enough, not good enough. And everyone will see that.
    ‘A-mazing,’ Tasha whispers, beside me. ‘We got solos! How cool?’
    ‘Cool,’ I agree.
    Beside me, Sparks is fizzing with glee and Grace’s face is radiant at the news that she has a major part. I know how much this means to her, and I try to be glad.
    ‘We will begin working on the production tomorrow,’ Sylvie Rochelle says. ‘Well done, everybody – I know you will do your best. For now,
mes chéris
, you are dismissed!’
    We stand to go, but as I file past Madame Rochelle with Naomi, Tasha and Sparks, she reaches out and touches my arm.
    ‘Jodie?’ she says. ‘I wish to speak with you a moment. You ’ave five minutes?’
    My heart thumps, and my mouth is suddenly dry; is something wrong? Am I in trouble?
    ‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘No problem …’
    ‘Shall I wait?’ Tasha whispers.
    ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll find you,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll be fine.’
    I follow Sylvie Rochelle to the side of the studio as the last of the students leave. I have attended ballet lessons every day for six weeks with her; she is a strict and exacting teacher, but inspiring. She looks at each one of us and sees our strong and weak points. Has she seen mine?
    She smoothes back her neat, greying hair, tilts her elegant chin. Her blue eyes, sharp and bright, seem to see right into my soul.
    ‘I ’ave been watching you very