Attitude Read online

  Attitude

  Robin Stevenson

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2013 Robin Stevenson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and

  retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Stevenson, Robin, 1968-

  Attitude [electronic resource] / Robin Stevenson.

  (Orca limelights)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0383-1 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0384-8 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights (Online)

  PS8637.T487A77 2013 jC813’.6 C2013-901909-X

  First published in the United States, 2013

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935387

  Summary: Fitting in at her new ballet school turns out to be more painful

  for Cassie than breaking in a pair of pointe shoes.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for

  its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:

  the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the

  Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia

  through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Dreamstime

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, STN. B PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1

  Dedicated, with much gratitude, to three

  inspiring young dancers: Sasha Beardmore,

  Alyssa Beattie and Sophia Harrington.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Acknowledgments

  One

  For as long as I can remember, ballet has been the center of my life. On our living room wall, there’s a photo of me clutching the barre at my first class—a scrawny red-headed four-year-old in a black leotard, squinting out from behind blue plastic glasses. Since then, I’ve worked and sweated and stretched and strained through thousands of lessons and endless hours of practice. There is nothing in this world I want more than to be a dancer. What I’m doing right now should be—no, it is—a dream come true.

  So why am I so scared?

  I wrap my arms around myself, shivering under the thin gray airplane blanket, and tell myself sternly to smarten up.

  Be strong, Cassandra, Peter told me at the end of class three nights ago.

  You’ll be fine, my mom said as she hugged me goodbye at the airport.

  Better than fine, Dad said, winking at me. Cassie’s going to show those Canadian girls that Australians can dance. And he cracked me up by attempting to do an arabesque and falling over right there in the departures area.

  But now, as the plane bumps down onto the runway, a cold, empty feeling settles in the pit of my stomach, and I have to blink away my tears. I turn my face toward the window so the man in the next seat won’t see me crying. The plane slows, turns and finally comes to a stop. I pretend to be very interested in the gray sky and the rain. It doesn’t look much like summer.

  I’m just arriving and already I am homesick. How am I going to cope with four weeks of this?

  * * *

  I’ve never traveled alone before, and I’m scared I will lose my passport or get lost, but I manage to get off the plane and find the baggage-claim area without any disasters. I had three stops on the way from my home in Adelaide, Australia, to my destination in Vancouver, Canada, so I’m getting used to airports. I feel numb and a little sick, but I’m not sure if it’s from excitement or jet lag. I watch the suitcases and backpacks glide past on the conveyor belt and wish I could lie down on the floor and go to sleep right here.

  I spot my blue duffel bag and heave it onto my shoulder. The weight of it is comforting—my dance clothes, three pairs of ballet slippers, my just-broken-in pointe shoes, my new jeans, a few photos of my friends and parents, and Jackie, my old stuffed bear. I wasn’t going to bring him, but at the last minute I changed my mind and squeezed him in. I head through customs, scanning the crowd of people milling around the arrivals area, and it suddenly occurs to me that although my host family is supposed to be here to meet me, I have no idea how we will find each other. I hesitate, trying not to panic, and then I hear someone call my name.

  I turn and see a tall dark-haired woman waving at me. The sign she is holding reads WELCOME CASSANDRA JORDAN. I blow out a tiny breath of relief and cross the short distance between us. Mrs. Harrison looks just like she did in the family photograph she emailed to us, slender and elegant in a flowing skirt and short fitted jacket. The long-haired girl standing beside her must be her daughter, Edie, who is fourteen—the same age as me.

  “Cassandra. Welcome.” Mrs. Harrison gives me a quick hug before leaning away and studying me, laughing. “We would have recognized you anywhere, wouldn’t we, Edie?”

  “You don’t look much like your photograph,” Edie says.

  “I bet,” I say ruefully. My photo is a glossy head shot—we had to send pictures as part of our application package to the school. “I’m a mess.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Edie says, her cheeks turning pink.

  “You look fine,” Mrs. Harrison says briskly. “And I’d have spotted you even without that photograph. You look like a dancer, doesn’t she, Edie?”

  Edie nods but doesn’t say anything.

  Mrs. Harrison gives a short laugh. “Well, you do, Cassandra. It’s the way you hold yourself. Lovely posture.” She takes my duffel bag from me. “Come on. I bet you’re dying for a hot shower.”

  “Dying to go to bed, actually,” I admit. “I’ve never been so tired in my life.”

  I follow them to the parking lot and slide into the back seat of their white minivan. Only twenty minutes to their house, Mrs. Harrison tells me. I sneak a glance at Edie’s profile. She’s pretty, with creamy skin and glossy dark hair like her mother, but she’s not exactly chatty. She seems really shy. My thoughts are disjointed, dream-like. Mrs. Harrison is beautiful. I wonder if my new host family has a dog. Dad looked so funny doing that arabesque at the airport, with his big belly sticking out. Classes start on Monday. I hope I like Canada…

  Next thing I know, Mrs. Harrison is touching my shoulder. “Cassandra? We’re here.”

  I struggle out of a thick, heavy sleep. “Here?”

  “Our house. Your new home for the summer.” She smiles. “You were asleep before we hit the highway. You poor thing. I hated to wake you, but you can’t sleep out in the driveway.”

  My curiosity about this place pushes the fog of sleep away like a strong breeze clearing clouds from the sky. I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car. Everything is green: the grass, the tidy bushes in the front yard, the tall trees that line the street. It is the beginning of July, which means it is summer here, but the sky is gray and the air is cool. Two days ago, when I left Australia, it was winter, but the weather was much the same: chilly, gray and raining
.

  No wonder I feel disoriented.

  I follow Mrs. Harrison into the house, which is big and spotlessly clean but kind of boring—beige carpets and glass shelves and nature photographs on the off-white walls. “We’ve fixed up the spare room for you,” she says, walking up the stairs. “Let’s put your bag in there. David will be home from work soon and we’ll have dinner. Do you feel like joining us, or do you really want to go to bed?”

  “Probably better if I try and stay up, right?” I actually am kind of hungry.

  “If you can bear it. You’ll get over the jet lag faster that way.” She puts my duffel bag on the floor at the foot of the bed. “There’s a dresser for your clothes, and we put in a small bookshelf for you. I’m sorry it’s such a small room.”

  “No, it’s fine.” There’s a smooth wooden floor and enough room between the bed and dresser for me to do my stretches, and the bookshelf is the right height to use for balance. The walls are a soft pale blue, and a Degas ballerina print hangs above the bed. “Really.” I smile at her. “It’s great.”

  Mrs. Harrison gestures down the hallway. “If you want to freshen up, there’s a bathroom on the right. Come on downstairs when you’re ready. We’ll eat in half an hour or so.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I watch her leave, and as she closes the door behind her, my reflection swings into the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I stand and stare at myself for a minute. “This is it, Cassie,” I whisper. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

  I stand tall, head lifted, back straight, shoulders down and back, and meet my eyes in the mirror. Underneath the messy dark hair, the tired pale face, the rumpled shirt, I can see her—the dancer I am going to be. Even though I am so tired I can barely stand up, I lift my arms and step into fifth position, and I feel strength and energy flooding through my limbs.

  When I dance, I feel as if anything is possible.

  Two

  When I had first brought up the idea of applying to the Pacific Coast Ballet Academy, my parents hadn’t liked the plan at all.

  “You’re only fourteen,” Mom said. “Far too young to be away from home. And we’d miss you terribly.” She reached across the table to put her hand on my arm, but I pulled away.

  “Peter thinks I’d be a good candidate,” I said. “And he thinks I’d learn a lot. Can’t I at least audition for the summer program? I might not be accepted anyway.”

  “In Canada? That’s awfully far away,” Dad said.

  “I know where Canada is.” I made a face at him. “Can you at least look at the academy website? If I got accepted for the Summer Intensive, I’d be staying with a host family. And…” I take a deep breath. “If I did well…if they think I have potential…I could get invited to stay.”

  “What do you mean, stay? For how long?”

  I looked down at my plate. “Um…a year.”

  “Cassie! A year?” Mom sounded like I had slapped her.

  “What about school?” Dad asked.

  “They set it all up for you.” My words tumbled out in a rush of hope and excitement and guilt. “They’ve got it all worked out. I’d go to a regular high school all day, and then go to dance classes at the academy after school. If I got accepted, I mean. Which I probably wouldn’t.”

  He shook his head. “Are you sure you want that? I know you love dancing, but that sounds like a tough workload. Anyway, why are they down here recruiting Australian dancers? Can’t they find dancers in Canada?”

  “Dad. Come on. It’s an international school. I’d meet people—dancers—from all over the world. And they have a totally famous ballet company, and lots of their students end up joining it.”

  “But you wouldn’t want to live there, would you? It’s so far away…”

  Canada might be far away, but the possibility of joining a ballet company felt even more distant. “I wouldn’t have to,” I said. “Seriously, their graduates get into all the best companies. I bet I could get into an Australian ballet company.”

  Mom leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “That does sound interesting,” she admitted. “But it’s probably too expensive. And you’ve never really been away from home at all.”

  “I did that Girl Guide camp last summer,” I said.

  “And you hated it,” Dad pointed out. “By the second day, you were begging to come home.”

  “This’d be different,” I said. “None of my friends at school here understand why I even care about ballet so much. At the academy, we’d all be dancing together every day. We’d get to know each other. I’d make friends. And I’d be studying with great teachers.” I squeezed my hands together, fingers laced, under my chin. “Please think about it?”

  “It’s not that we don’t support you,” Dad said. “You’re a wonderful dancer. I just don’t think your whole life should revolve around that one thing.”

  Mom nodded. “That’s right. We want you to enjoy being a kid.”

  “I enjoy dancing,” I said, fighting back tears. “And if I want to dance professionally, I can’t wait until I’m older. It’ll be too late.”

  They looked at each other. Mom sighed. Dad shrugged. “We’ll think about it,” they said, more or less in unison.

  The next morning, Mom told me that they’d decided it was my choice. If I did the audition and got accepted for the Summer Intensive, I could go. ust for the summer. As for staying on in the fall, they said we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. I think maybe they expected me to change my mind, but I never even considered it. I knew what I wanted. I’m not usually overconfident, but somehow I knew it would happen. It just felt like it was meant to be.

  And now, here I am, in my own room in a strange Canadian house with a family that I am going to be living with for four weeks. Four weeks! It sounds like forever. I change into a clean shirt, wash my face and brush my teeth, and head downstairs to join them for dinner.

  The Harrisons are much more formal than my family. At home, we usually eat in the living room, in front of the TV, with our plates on our laps. Here, we sit at a table with a white tablecloth and pale-green place mats, and we have separate plates for salad and for the rest of our dinner, which is grilled fish and asparagus. I’ve never had asparagus before.

  “So Cassandra,” Mr. Harrison says, “I bet you have lots of questions for Edie.”

  He is smiling at me, and there is a glint of sympathy in his eye, like he understands how overwhelming this all is. I swallow a mouthful of food. “Um, yeah, I do, actually.” I shift in my seat to face Edie, who is sitting beside me. “Have you been at the academy for a long time?”

  “Since I was six,” she says. Her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper. “I’m hoping to start PTP this fall.”

  “That’s the Professional Training Program,” Mrs. Harrison explains.

  “That’d be amazing,” I say. “You’re lucky to live so close to such a great school.”

  She nods. “Are you just here for the summer? Or are you hoping to get into PTP?”

  “I’d love to get in,” I say. “But I don’t know if my parents would let me stay. They might not want me to be away for that long.” I look around the dining room, with its crystal chandelier and artwork on the walls, and think of my own comfy but slightly scruffy home. I can see it all so clearly in my mind—Muffin, my fat gray cat, curled up on Mom’s lap; Dad dozing in his big chair in front of the TV; the enormous jigsaw puzzle we were working on still half-finished on the coffee table. There’s a sudden ache in my throat. “A year’s a really long time,” I say.

  I can see Edie relax as I say this. She actually smiles at me. “Well, the summer should be good,” she says. “Hard work, but good.”

  “It’ll be cool to meet other girls who love ballet as much as I do,” I tell her. “Most of my friends back home thought I was crazy to spend so much time dancing.”

  “I dance ten hours a week,” she says.

  “Same here, I guess. Ballet three times a week, and tap
and jazz once each.”

  Edie takes a sip of water. “My best friend at the school—Melissa—she’s going to get into PTP for sure. She’s an incredible dancer. The teachers all love her. Her mom was a dancer, a famous one. She danced the lead parts in Swan Lake, Giselle, Romeo and Juliet…practically every ballet you can think of.”

  “That’s amazing.” I smile at her. Now that we’re talking about ballet, Edie is like a different person.

  “Edie’s mother used to dance too,” Mr. Harrison tells me. “When she and the girls get talking about ballet, it’s like they’re speaking another language.”

  Mrs. Harrison laughs. “I took some lessons as a kid,” she says. “I didn’t ever get close to the level you girls are at now.”

  Edie nods. “Melissa’s mother was in a whole other league. Like, a prima ballerina.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That’d be so cool, to have a famous ballet dancer for a mom.”

  Mrs. Harrison slides a bowl of whole-grain rolls toward me. “A lot to live up to, I would imagine.”

  “I guess so.” My mom says she dances like a chicken with two left feet. No pressure there. Quite the opposite, actually. She thinks I’m crazy for wanting to dance as much as I do. “Tell me more about the Professional Training Program,” I say.

  Edie balances her chin on her fingertips. “In PTP, you dance, like, twenty hours a week. The academy has this arrangement with the high schools so you get to leave early and dance every day for at least four hours. And that’s not including rehearsal for recitals and festivals and stuff like that. That’s just your regular dance classes.”

  “Edie, elbows off the table,” Mrs. Harrison says.

  I realize my own elbows are on the table too and hastily sit back and place my hands in my lap. “How many girls will get in?”

  Edie shrugs. “Not as many as are hoping to. It’s probably a good thing you’re planning to go home at the end of the summer session.”

  I nod and grin, but inside me, hope and ambition are leaping up and dancing a crazy pas de deux.

  “It can get a bit intense,” Mrs. Harrison says. “The summer session is really a four-week-long audition, isn’t it, Edie? Especially for the new girls. It gives the teachers a chance to really assess who has the potential for a career as a dancer. Physically and mentally.”