All my life I’ve liked routine. One egg, one banana, one tub low-fat yoghurt for breakfast. Followed by forty minutes cardio and fifty minutes Pilates, warm up, lengthen quads and strengthen feet. It’s all part of the plan. The plan I made with my mother when I was seven. ‘To be the best’. I like the plan, only now a tiny voice in my head is asking ‘to be the best … what?’
I can’t believe that I, Abigail Armstrong, am cutting ballet classes to rehearse a musical, and loving it. I’m probably the only student that can get away with saying I’ve got a dentist appointment several days in a row. Perfect Abigail wouldn’t skip class.
But even I can’t get away with it indefinitely. I make it clear to Finn I can’t do any more daytime rehearsal. This can’t interfere with ballet. Nothing has ever been allowed to do that. But I like acting. I enjoy the sensation of singing while I dance. I love how naturally it comes, like suddenly, I’m myself.
Let me have a voice.
Let me speak and be heard.
Let my spirit be stirred
With each line, with each word …
When I get back to the Academy after my rehearsal, I’m afraid the secret might be out. It’s taken six dental appointments for anyone to notice, but now they have. In the corridor, Kat claims she can ‘smell a boy’. Then Miss Raine tells me to go and wait in her office to ‘discuss’ my recent attendance.
I wait for her, surrounded by all the ballet trophies and memorabilia, wondering what I’m going to say. I think it’s an ‘apologise and promise it won’t happen again situation’. That’s what Kat would do isn’t it? Miss Raine takes her time so I wander round her office, look at the photo of her with Grace on the shelf behind her desk. As I turn round I see Miss Raine’s laptop on her desk. There’s an email open and I catch my name on a list. At the Academy we live by lists. Where we placed in class, who made it through an audition, who made the cast. We spend our entire lives waiting to see where we are on lists. This is a list of how the teachers think we’ll place in the Prix de Fonteyn. You’re either a ‘tick’ for definitely getting through, a ‘question mark’ for doubtful and a ‘cross’ for definitely not. There’s a cross by my name. Abigail Armstrong, a cross.
After all the years of dedication, hard work, relentless routine and complete obedience to ballet, I’m down as ‘definitely not’. Judged, before I’ve even walked out in front of the Prix judges. This is so not fair. Everyone deserves to know exactly what the Academy staff think of them so I forward the email to the entire second year.
The next day at the start of Prix de Fonteyn class, Miss Raine has joined Zach.
‘It is reprehensible that a student would violate a teacher’s personal property,’ she says. Half the class is standing in T-shirts that Ben’s made up for us with a tick, question mark or cross. I am not wearing a cross, I refuse to accept that status.
Zach and Miss Raine are trying to defend their pre-judging, embarrassed at being caught out. It’s pathetic and I really don’t have time for them. I’ve caught the stinking cold that’s going round the Academy. My nose is blocked, I’ve got a headache and now I have to listen to their pompous outrage and pathetic justifications.
‘A lot can change between now and the Nationals,’ Zach says. I’ve heard enough. All I’ve had at the Academy recently is criticism and complaint. I want to be somewhere I’m appreciated.
‘Abigail. You have class in five minutes,’ Miss Raine snaps at me.
‘What’s the point?’ I snap back. ‘You’ve written me off already.’
I head out of the Academy and leave Finn a message saying that I can make rehearsal today after all. ‘I’m on my way now,’ I manage to get out before sneezing again.
‘Abigail Elizabeth. You’re not sick again are you sweetheart?’ I turn round. That voice, the cheap suit that’s a size too small, that big embarrassing handbag. They all mean one thing. My mother.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘I’m here, standing by, to do whatever you need between now and the Nationals. Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere. Just the chemist,’ I stammer. There’s no way I can go to rehearsal now. Mum puts her arm through mine and wants an update on the competition.
‘How’s Tara? And her back?’
‘Fully recovered.’
‘Could she be any more annoying?’ That’s Mum, fiercely supportive.
After the inevitable checks that I’m eating properly, ‘not too much’ of course, she starts taking over my preparation for the Prix de Fonteyn. I have to show her the new solo that Zach’s approved for me. She isn’t impressed.
‘This solo isn’t doing you justice, unlike …’ She reaches into her bag and I know exactly what’s coming out. ‘… Helen Keller. People still stop me in the street about your interpretation. Blind, deaf, mute. That poor, poor girl.’
Mum still lives for the days when I was the star pupil in her ballet school on the Sunshine Coast. To her, the Prix de Fonteyn is no different than a regional Eisteddfod. How do I tell her I’ve moved on from Helen Keller, moved on from her teaching and that I’m a cross on the Prix de Fonteyn prospects list?
The next day I have to enlist Kat’s help in distracting Mum while I get to rehearsal. ‘Mum’s had me doing Helen Keller since six a.m.’
‘That solo gives me nightmares, not to mention your mother,’ Kat agrees to help, thinking I’m sneaking off to see some boy.
At rehearsal, my voice isn’t up to singing thanks to this stupid cold. Finn makes me talk through the lines instead. As I’m speaking the words, my mother appears at the door. I pause, but perhaps if she hears me she’ll understand that right now this is where I want to be. I’m not burning my tutu but, for now, I want to do this, not be told my solos are deficient and certainly not do a deaf, dumb and blind interpretation for Sunshine Coast ballet mums. I speak the lines.
Well listen through me
See into me.
This is where it starts.
Let me have a voice.
Let me speak and be heard.
Let my spirit be stirred
With each line, with each word.
When I finish Finn is amazed. I’m hoping Mum will get the message, but she doesn’t. She just looks betrayed and drags me out of there, like I’ve been caught playing with the naughty kids.
She has me back rehearsing Helen Keller, criticising me.
‘Your arabesques en tournant in en dehors are too low. Get it up higher.’
‘It’s dehor, no s. And I’m pretty sure it’s meant to be at forty-five degrees,’ I correct her. I’m tired, I’m sick and I really don’t want to be here.
‘I’ve been teaching ballet since before you were born,’ she starts on me.
‘You’ve been teaching it wrong. No one notices in your studio in the garage but I’m at the National Academy. And the Prix isn’t some regional Eisteddfod. I’m not dancing this.’
‘You’re tired and run down from wasting time on that ridiculous musical.’
‘It’s not ridiculous, Mum. It makes me happy. Look, thanks for coming but I don’t need you here. Go home. I’ll call you in a few days.’
Then she tells me the real reason she’s here. Dad’s selling our home. Their ‘giving it another go’ hasn’t worked. And now, my sister wants to live with Dad instead of Mum. No one told me. My family’s breaking up and nobody thought to fill me in.
‘You have your training, and the Nationals to focus on,’ Mum says defensively.
I’ve got no choice, now. Mum’s sacrificed too much for me to let her down. Who am I fooling? The plan was always to be the best ballet dancer, nothing else. I call Finn and let him know he needs to find a replacement.
When the Nationals begin, all the ticks, crosses and question marks count for nothing. In the first round, the judges are marking the dancers from the Academy down. No one scores as high as an 8, not Tara, not me, not even Grace. I’m trying to help Finn and Mistii as much as I can via text. Mistii’s taken over my role. She’s a good actor. I know, I fell for her performance, but playing the two main roles herself is a real stretch. Mum doesn’t care. She’s got her eye firmly on the Prix. Even my score of 7.4 doesn’t put her off talking about which ballet school I’ll go to ‘when’ I win. The winner of the Prix can attend the ballet school of their choice, anywhere in the world.
When Sammy comes to me to ask for a favour, it’s a welcome distraction. In true Sammy style it’s a complex knot of lies, fudges and emotional issues. He’s told his father he has a girlfriend and committed to introducing this imaginary girlfriend to him.
‘All you have to do is shoot me adoring looks. And when I say something witty be like – Sammy, you’re such a character.’
‘As my entire life has become about pleasing other people. Why not.’ Anything would be better than another dose of my mother’s cheery steel-like support.
We meet Sammy’s father and his young brother, Ari, for lunch at Darling Harbour. It’s a sunny day, an outdoor setting and more enjoyable than the Prix de Fonteyn massacre taking place at the Opera House. I know Sammy’s father has been tough on him, trying to force him out of the Academy and into becoming a doctor, but he’s making an effort now. He’s going to watch Sammy compete in the Prix, the first time he’ll see his son dance.
Sammy’s not eating his food. He must be anxious, he’s never off his food.
‘Don’t be nervous about your performance on my account,’ Mr Lieberman tries some reassurance. ‘I’m not expecting anything today. Just seeing how my money is spent.’ It’s a joke, but Sammy doesn’t get it.
‘Make sure you’re not wasting it … So how bad do you think I’m going to be, exactly?’
‘Honey. Tone warning.’ I drop him a hint but there’s no stopping his ‘we’re basically strangers’ rant and then he storms off.
Like any dutiful fake girlfriend would, I go after him and catch up by the fountains, long pools of water set low in the ground with jets of water in neat rows of arcs.
‘Did you hear that? It doesn’t matter how I do. I’ll be a disappointment regardless. That’s it, I’m out. I can’t get up there and prove him right.’
Total histrionics. He needs to cool down fast, so I choose the easy option. One push and he’s sprawling in the fountain.
‘What was that for?’ he splutters, as he climbs out.
‘Stop complaining about your dad’s low expectations. Do you know what I’d give for low expectations? And why does it matter if he thinks you’re good? You’re not dancing in this competition because of him.’
Now it’s my turn to storm off. I swear he is the single most irritating person on the planet.
‘Right … So why am I dancing again?’ he calls after me, drawing me back.
‘Because this is where you want to be more than anywhere else. You want to be on that stage, doing what makes you happy.’
That evening at the Prix de Fonteyn there’s a bouquet of flowers in the dressing room for me from Mistii and Finn. I’ve let them down completely and they still wish me the best. Mum snatches the enclosed card and tuts when she sees who it’s from. The click from her mouth goes off in my head like a switch. I’m in the wrong dressing room, this isn’t the stage I want to perform on tonight. I’m not turning my back on ballet, not for good, but right now I have to do something else. Something for me.
‘Mum, I have to go. I know how much you want this and you could be right. I might win the Prix. And I might not. The thing is, I don’t care either way.’
I gather my things. If I leave now I can get to the theatre in time for the start of the musical and play my role.
‘I can’t breathe.’ My mother panics. ‘I physically can’t breathe.’
‘Mum, I can’t be responsible for making you breathe.’ I walk out leaving the Opera House, the Prix and living to please other people. I’m going to use my voice.