Born to Dance. Jean Ure

just never know,” said Mum. “And think how happy it will make Miss Lucas!”

      I plucked some more at the sofa. “It won’t make her happy if I’m just, like, totally uninspired.”

      “I should certainly hope you won’t be totally uninspired!”

      “But I don’t know how long she wants it to be! I don’t even have any music! I—”

      “So find some,” snapped Mum “Heaven knows your dad has a large enough collection. And stop pulling the furniture to pieces!”

      I said, “Sorry! But honestly I can’t see there’s any point in having a dance interlude.”

      “Why not?” said Mum. “If that’s what Miss Lucas wants … It’s her show. And you are a dancer, so why not make use of you?”

      “But Mum, she wants me to be a fairy!” I said.

      “So? What’s wrong with that? I’ll have you know,” said Mum, “that the Lilac Fairy was one of my very first solo roles!”

      I said, “That’s different. That’s in Sleeping Beauty. That’s a classic! This is just soppy.”

      “It doesn’t have to be,” said Mum. “You’re the one doing the choreography; it’s up to you. You can’t have it both ways! You complain when you’re asked to do it yourself and you complain when Miss Lucas does it for you. All that fuss last year at having to do that pathetic little dance she’d made up!”

      I said, “Yes, cos it was tacky. You said so.”

      “Well, all right, it was. But Miss Lucas is not a professional dancer: you are. Or at least you’re aiming to be. I would expect you to do a bit better than Miss Lucas. This is an opportunity, Maddy! Make the most of it. You could start by finding some suitable music. That’s always your dad’s way in. Find the music and let it inspire you.”

      I heaved a sigh. I had so wanted, this one time, to have a proper speaking part! Just to show what I could do. Everybody knew I could dance. I wanted to show them I could act as well!

      “Music!” said Mum.

      I said, “Yes. All right.”

      I supposed it would have to be something slow and mournful. I would obviously have to waft about the stage looking pathetic, with lyrical arm movements and maybe the occasional arabesque. Nothing in the least bit exciting. Certainly no fouettés or pirouettes. Just boring adage. Slow, slow, slow. Exactly what I am least good at!

      I went through Dad’s music collection and found some slow, sad music and waited for it to inspire me. But it didn’t! There are some dancers who are just naturally gifted at adage. They have beautiful lines and what Mum calls “poise and serenity”. Then there are others – like me – who shine at allegro. We leap, we spin, we turn, we dazzle. But how could a broken-down fairy do any of that?

      And then, as I sat on the floor, brooding over the slow, sad music and waiting for inspiration, I remembered something Miss Lucas had said. She’d remember the old days, when she was young … She might even do a few steps, trying to recapture the magic of her youth.

      Yesss! I sprang up, suddenly excited. That would be my way in! The fairy leaping and spinning, just as she had when she was young. Now I was inspired! All I had to do was find some music. Something fast and zingy. Of course it would only be a dream. An old, tired fairy wouldn’t really have the energy to perform fouettées and entrechats and grands jetés all over the place. But that was all right: she would be remembering. It would be a dream sequence. Dad had a dream sequence in one of his ballets; there wasn’t anything wrong with it. It wouldn’t be showing off. It wouldn’t be cheating. It would show the audience what the fairy had once been capable of. And, of course, to show them what I was capable of. Why not? I was the choreographer!

      

      Now that I’d decided what to do I found myself fizzing with enthusiasm. I wondered if this was how Dad felt when he began working on a new ballet. It was exciting! Especially once I’d found the right music, all zippy and fast-moving, with sudden trumpet blasts and spiky rhythms. Mum was right: music was the starting point! My head was a whirl of steps and sequences; I just needed space to try them out.

      I did consider asking Mum if I could borrow one of her studios, but then I thought maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Mum would always be looking in on me to see how I was getting on and to offer advice. I didn’t want that! This was going to be my choreography, done entirely by me. So then I had the much better idea of asking Miss Lucas if I could use the gym.

      She was delighted. I knew she would be!

      “Maddy,” she said, “I’m so happy that you’re doing this! By all means use the gym. Do you want it before school or after?”

      I said that it would have to be before cos of after-school lessons with Mum.

      “But if I could come in really early in the morning? Like half past seven maybe?”

      “No problem,” said Miss Lucas. “There’s always someone around. I’ll arrange it with Mrs Betts. Just remember to sign in at the Office so we know you’re here.”

      Mum was quite impressed when I told her I’d need to be leaving an hour earlier every morning. She even said she’d give me a lift.

      “I don’t mind getting to the studio a bit earlier. It’ll give me a chance to catch up with myself.”

      School was very strange and deserted so early in the morning, though Mrs Betts was there, and some of the teachers. I could also see a group of Year Twelves practising on the netball court and hear the tinkling of someone having a piano lesson in one of the music rooms. I was already wearing my leotard and tights under my coat, so I went straight up to the gym with my shoes and a couple of CDs I’d brought with me. One of them was my lovely zingy music, the other was a CD Mum had put together for workouts. My plan was to work out for fifteen minutes then spend the rest of the time getting the jumble of steps out of my brain and into my feet. I was itching to try them out!

      And then, as I reached the gym, I stopped. What was going on in there? I could hear what sounded like someone moving about. Not loud enough to be an actual noise: more like the sliding of feet on the gym floor, followed by a soft thunk.

      I opened the door, very gently, and peered through. What I saw was such a shock that I almost let the door go thudding shut again. A small figure, dressed like me in leotard and tights, was dancing in the centre of the gym. It was Caitlyn!

      She seemed to be attempting pirouettes, though not very successfully. Not very successfully at all. I could see at once what the problem was: she was so busy concentrating on the position of her arms and legs that she was forgetting to find a spot to fix her eyes on. You can’t do turns without spotting! Surely whoever her teacher was must have told her?

      “’Scuse me!”

      I’d gone racing into the gym before I could stop myself. I could see, afterwards, that it would have been more diplomatic to stay outside and clear my throat or rattle the door handle, to give her some warning. But I was just so surprised!

      Caitlyn spun around, startled, as I burst in.

      “Are you trying to practise pirouettes?” I said.

      “No!” Her face immediately turned crimson. “It was just … just something I …”

      What? Something she what? She didn’t stay long enough to say. Just gave a little gasp and scuttled for the door.

      “I’m