Born to Dance. Jean Ure

had turned bright pink. I wondered what Miss Lucas had meant when she’d said, “Not quite so clever but …” Like maybe clever wasn’t such a good thing?

      “Off you go,” said Miss Lucas.

      Caitlyn set off diagonally across the gym. We all watched, like in some kind of trance. You could almost feel the wire stretched taut beneath her feet, just as you could almost sense the gaping void beneath her. If she’d been in a film, instead of in the gym, it would have been enough to make you hold your breath. I think some people actually did hold their breath, cos the minute she reached the end and stepped off there was a loud burst of applause. Even Miss Lucas joined in. After a few seconds (to get over my surprise) I did, too.

      “So, there you are,” said Miss Lucas. “Two very different interpretations. Maddy used technique, Caitlyn her imagination. We laughed at one and held our breath with the other.”

      Liv and Jordan grumbled afterwards.

      “What on earth was she on about? You used your imagination just as much as she did!”

      But I hadn’t; Miss Lucas was right. I had relied on technique. If I’d used imagination, people wouldn’t have laughed: they would have been holding their breath, just as they had for Caitlyn.

      Why did I feel that I’d let myself down?

      

      Next morning I was told that Miss Lucas wanted to see me in the gym at lunchtime.

      “Wonder what that’s about?” said Livi.

      I pulled a face. She was probably going to talk to me about yesterday, about what Mum would have called my “antics” on the high wire. Mum doesn’t approve of antics; she says they are just a way of showing off. Mum’s pupils are not expected to show off. We leave all that sort of thing to Babette’s Babes, sashaying about the stage in their sparkly tiaras and pretty little pink tutus.

      Miss Lucas is softer than Mum, and a whole lot kinder. She wouldn’t fix me with a contemptuous stare and coldly ask me what on earth I thought I was doing. Mum would! Miss Lucas would just be very sad and reproachful, which in some ways was even worse as it would make me feel ashamed of myself, especially if she gazed at me with her sorrowful eyes. Like, How could you do that to me, Maddy? Like she knew I secretly considered myself too grand to go skipping and hopping and tiptoeing about on imaginary tightropes.

      I’d already made up my mind that I would apologise. I would admit that Mum is always accusing me of playing for laughs. I would be humble and meekly accept that it is one of my worst faults. I am never meek with Mum! She can sometimes make me quite defiant. But Miss Lucas is so gentle you almost feel the need to protect her.

      “Ah, Maddy,” she said, as I presented myself in the gym. “Thank you for coming! I’m so sorry to cut into your lunch hour.”

      I said, “That’s all right.” I was a bit taken aback, to tell the truth. I’d thought I was the one who was supposed to apologise!

      “I wanted to talk to you,” said Miss Lucas, “about the Christmas production.”

      “Oh?” I perked up. Maybe she was going to offer me one of the lead parts. Fingers crossed! After all, I was in senior school now, so she surely couldn’t expect me to do what I’d done last year, and the year before, when she’d wanted me to perform little soppy dances to steps that she’d made up. Not when I was in Year Seven!

      “Let’s sit down,” said Miss Lucas.

      We both sank down on to the coconut matting and sat with our legs crossed. I had to fight another of my horrible urges to giggle. Miss Lucas is older than my gran! I couldn’t imagine my gran sitting cross-legged on coconut matting. But I suppose Miss Lucas is still quite supple for an older person.

      “I thought that this year,” she said, her eyes gleaming with excitement, “we’d do a real play … a Christmas play. One that I’ve written myself.”

      I made a little noise like “Mm!” to show that I was impressed. Miss Lucas beamed.

      “Let me tell you what it’s about.”

      It was about a Christmas tree fairy who had become old and tattered. Once upon a time she had been young and beautiful. Every year she had been brought down from her box in the attic with all the rest of the Christmas decorations and placed at the top of the tree. Now the family who owned her didn’t want her any more.

      “Four little rich girls,” said Miss Lucas. “All horribly spoilt! ‘Ugh, Mum, look at it!’ they go.” Miss Lucas put on a little girly voice. Little rich girly voice. All shrill and shrieky. “‘You’ll have to get us a new one, Mum! We can’t invite all our friends to our Christmas party with that disgusting old thing at the top of the tree!’ And so,” continued Miss Lucas, “they take the poor fairy and they throw her out with the rubbish.” Miss Lucas made a throwing motion. “‘Tatty old thing!’”

      She leaned forward, very earnestly. “They’re not very nice girls, you see, but they don’t really know any better, poor things! They’ve been brought up to believe that the minute something becomes a bit worn or a bit dirty it’s no good any more.”

      I nodded, solemnly. I wasn’t going to tell her that last Christmas I’d begged Mum and Dad for new decorations cos ours were starting to look all old and shabby!

      “That poor fairy,” said Miss Lucas. “She’s so unhappy! Cast out of the only home she’s ever known … rejected by the family she loves. Can you imagine it, Maddy? Can you imagine how she must feel?”

      Miss Lucas fixed me with a tragic gaze. Her eyes were swimming. I made another encouraging “Mm!” sound. Maybe, I thought, I could play one of the spoilt little rich girls. I’d enjoy that! “So, there she is,” said Miss Lucas, “tossed out with the rubbish. All alone in the cold and the dark. But wait!” She flung up a hand. “What’s this sniffing around the bin? It’s a fox!” Miss Lucas clasped her hands to her bosom. I clasped mine as well, to show that I was living it with her. “He drags the poor fairy out and starts playing with her … tossing her about—”

      We both made tossing motions.

      “Until, in the end—” Miss Lucas sank back, “—he tires of the game. He drops her in the gutter – plosh! – and goes running off. The poor little soul is left there, face down—” Miss Lucas drooped. “She’s cold; she’s wet; her once beautiful skirt is torn and muddy. Her poor heart is broken.”

      I said, “That is really sad.” I wondered if it was a part that I would want to play. Being broken-hearted is not really my thing. I mean, I could be, obviously. But it’s not what I’m best at.

      “Anyway,” said Miss Lucas, “time passes and we cut to a different family … a mum and her three children. Two little girls, one little boy. Well! The boy isn’t that little. About your age, I’d say.”

      I sat up, bright and expectant. Maybe I could play the boy? I’d be good at playing a boy!

      “This is an underprivileged family,” said Miss Lucas. “Dad’s no longer around; Mum is on her own. They’re having to live in a B & B.”

      Excuse me? I obviously looked puzzled.

      “Bed and breakfast.” Miss Lucas whispered it, as if it was too dreadful to say out loud. “Sometimes they even have to visit a food bank. What kind of Christmas can they look forward to?”

      “Not a very nice one,” I said.

      “Not a very nice one at all! No tree, no fairy … hardly anything in the way of presents. One little