to think about it, it does seem rather cruel, the way we treat our shoes. We snip off bits of the satin, we glue and we darn and we batter and bash. Sometimes we even cut the backs to make them fit properly. What Chloe was doing was breaking the shank and softening the block so that her shoes wouldn’t make loud clopping noises as she danced. We all do it; you have to. Imagine a whole corps de ballet clip-clopping about like carthorses! And if we didn’t darn the toes we wouldn’t have a good grip when we went on pointe and would most likely end up on our backs with our legs in the air. But even then, after all our hard work, one pair of shoes would hardly last a full performance. Certainly not in a long ballet like Swan Lake or Giselle. Not that any of us had reached that stage yet. When we did – if we did, fingers tightly crossed – it would mean having several pairs of shoes all prepared and ready to go, and that would mean forever having to darn and hammer and sew on ribbons. As I once bitterly remarked to Sean, it was so much easier for him. Of course he just laughed. This is what I mean about not always taking me seriously.
“If you want to know,” said Chloe, pausing for a moment in her labours, “I’m not just bashing my shoes, I’m bashing somebody.”
Amber said, “Ooh! Who?”
“Just somebody,” said Chloe. “Actually, if you really want to know, a boy.”
“Oh?”
That got everyone’s attention, including mine. Heads shot up all over the room.
“Tell, tell!” said Tiffany. “What boy?”
“Boy called Dominic.”
“So who is he and why are you bashing him?”
“Cos he’s an idiot! I’ve known him, like, forever. Our mums are best friends and him and me were at primary school together.”
“And you’re bashing him because …?”
“Cos, like I said, he’s an idiot! I bumped into him yesterday and he told me –” Chloe bashed with renewed vigour – “he actually told me, he was very sorry but he just didn’t get it with ballet … he said he found it boring.”
“Has he ever actually seen any?” said Roz.
“Yes. He tried watching Fille mal on television.”
“He doesn’t even like Fille mal?” Caitlyn’s voice rose to a high-pitched squeak of disbelief. “It’s one of my favourite ballets!”
“It’s everyone’s favourite ballet,” I said. “Well, after Swan Lake and Giselle. And maybe Nutcracker.” How could it not be? It’s so happy and funny and romantic, all at the same time. You’d have to have a heart of stone not to enjoy Fille mal gardée. Or, maybe, just be a boy. Caitlyn might squeak, but on the whole, it has to be said, most boys aren’t into ballet.
“What about the Clog Dance?” said Roz.
Amber said, “Yes! What about the Clog Dance?”
Someone started humming the music, which had me on my feet in an instant. (To be honest, I don’t need much encouragement!) Chloe immediately joined me. Together, we clog-danced happily across the floor. The ballet is so familiar that we pretty well know it step by step, though in fact the Clog Dance is actually danced by a man dressed up as a woman (the Widow Simone). It’s one of the funniest things in ballet, I think.
“I just don’t see,” said Alex, “how anyone can say they don’t love the Clog Dance!”
To be fair, Chloe said, he hadn’t minded that bit so much. “He thought it was like pantomime.”
There was a moment of silence while we wondered whether or not we should be offended. Then Caitlyn gave a sigh and said, “I suppose he’s right, in a way. It’s not my most favourite part.”
Kindly I said, “No, cos you like the romantic bits.”
She was happy to admit it. “I love the romantic bits! I think they’re really touching.”
“He doesn’t,” said Chloe. “He says for him it’s all too pink and pretty.”
Loud groans filled the room. Eyes rolled.
Apologetically Chloe said, “He’s actually quite nice. He only tried watching cos he wanted to be able to talk to me about it.”
Tiffany tossed her head. “Just a pity he couldn’t find anything sensible to say!”
I don’t very often agree with Tiffany, but on this occasion I did. I don’t mind people not liking ballet; I don’t like lots of things. Opera, for instance, and golf. How my dad can sit for hours watching golf on television I really don’t know. Boring, boring, boring! So I reckon it’s OK if some people are bored by ballet. But pink and pretty… that is so insulting!
It was just as well, I thought, that the boys weren’t yet here. It would have made some of them really angry. Josh and Carlo for sure. It didn’t take much to get them going! Finn and Oliver, and maybe Kanye, might have just shrugged it off. They’re not as hot-headed as the other two. I was really glad that Nico hadn’t heard, though. Nico was my partner – for pas de deux, that is. Not all of the time, cos they like to switch us about a bit, but mostly we danced together. It had made us quite close; we often confided in each other. I knew, for instance, that Nico had had to fight really hard to become a dancer. Not only had his dad been dead set against the idea but he’d also been bullied quite badly at school because of it. He’d once told me that I didn’t know how lucky I was, coming from a ballet family.
It’s true that I’ve lived and breathed ballet for just about as long as I can remember. Mum and Dad both used to dance with City Ballet, Mum being specially famous for her Firebird and Princess Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, Dad being more of a character dancer. Dad has always been more interested in choreography than in actual dancing, which is why he now flies all over the world, to America, Australia, and even once to Russia, to put on his ballets. Mum, meanwhile, runs her own ballet school, which she rules with a rod of iron, almost worse even than Ms Hickman. I know, cos she was the one that trained me! She trained Jen and Sean too. If Jen hadn’t given up her career to be a full-time mum, she’d still be with the company today. Sean, of course, still is.
When I come to think about it, Sean has really had it easy. Certainly compared with Nico. I’m sure nobody has ever given Sean a hard time. I’d like to see them try!
The boys, by now, were starting to arrive.
“What are we waiting for?” said Josh. “Is someone still in there?”
I explained that it was members of the company. The Millennium Hall, where City Ballet performs, is only a few minutes away from the school – just a short walk down the Cut, near Waterloo station – so if they run out of rehearsal space they tend to come and use one of our studios, instead.
“It’s about time they were out! What are they rehearsing, anyway?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s go take a look.”
We clustered outside the studio door, gazing through the glass panel. I could see Sean and Sergei Ivanov, another of the company’s leading dancers. They were moving energetically about the studio, ducking and dodging and every now and again lunging at each other. I couldn’t hear any music but I knew at once what they were doing.
“It’s Romeo and Juliet,” I said. The death of Mercutio. Very dramatic! “I’d forgotten they were bringing that back. It hasn’t been in the repertoire for ages.”
The others jostled to get a better look.
“Who’s dancing what?”
“Sean’s Mercutio, Sergei’s Tybalt.”
“I hate Tybalt,” said Caitlyn. “I can’t ever forgive him for killing Mercutio. Mercutio