You're So Sweet (8 page)

“No, really. You're going to be good in a few years. Don't underestimate yourself. To be honest, I think your biggest obstacle is lack of confidence.”

Julian frowned. He had never thought of himself as lacking in confidence. He knew he screwed stuff over for himself, but that was usually just a lack of work put in, or him psyching himself out. “Thanks.”

“Don't say thanks, work on it.”

Julian nodded. He looked at Cromwell Gilly's arm full of drums. “Want some help with that? You aren't bussing, are you?”

“No, I'm giving him a ride,” Leah answered for him.

“But if you could help me bring this stuff to the car, I'd appreciate it,” Cromwell Gilly said hurriedly.

Julian took half of Cromwell Gilly's armful and began to walk with them to the car, finding himself walking between them. “Where are you from, Julian?” Leah asked.

“The Island.”

“Where on the Island?”

“Valdez. It's not on Vancouver Island, it's one of the Gulf Islands — it's reeeeaaally small, you've probably never heard of it.”

“No, I've heard of it.” Leah pushed a button and her trunk popped open. Cromwell and Julian began to load the drums in the trunk. “So, where do you live here?” Leah asked.

“I homestay. With Mr. Yu. Do you know him?”

“Yes, of course.” Cromwell closed the trunk. Leah stepped around to the side of the car, and paused, digging around in her pockets for her keys. “Do you want a ride home?”

“It's sort of far …”

“I know where he lives, Julian. Come on, get in.”

Julian got in, moving aside a box of CDs, and putting it on top of a child's car seat. “You do?” He closed the car door behind him as Cromwell joined Leah in the front.

She began to pull out, peering backwards through the pile of drums in the backseat. “I used to go to the academy.”

Julian's mouth fell open. “What? Really?”

“Yes.”

“But — you — I mean, I thought you were all contemporary.”

“Things change, Julian.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, that's what I hate about the academy,” Leah said as she turned onto Granville Street Bridge. “They teach you all to be perfect little ballet students, and then you think you are a failure if that doesn't happen. Look at me, I didn't become a ballet dancer, and I'm fine.” Julian looked at her hands, white from the strength of her grip on the steering wheel.

Yeah, you seem fine — not.
“I guess, yeah. But, don't you sort of have to think like that to be driven enough to become a ballet dancer? Like, if you want to do other stuff, too, you probably don't like ballet enough.”

Leah stared through the window. “Julian, I have seen so many dancers go through that school, and yes, you are right — the ones that are really good, they do have that kind of insane focus, that kind of drive. But what about the ones that aren't like that? That might be good at something else, or better at contemporary? They come out of ballet, and they're brainwashed into thinking that they are a failure if they don't become a ballet dancer.”

“Well, yeah,” said Julian. “But technically, they are a failure then, aren't they? If they wanted to be a ballet dancer and then they aren't?”

Leah spun the wheel, heading up and east toward Mr. Yu's house. “No. They're not. I blame the academy for teaching you that.”

Julian decided it was in his best interests to drop the subject since Leah was driving him home and was his teacher. But she was wrong. He sat back in his seat. Beside Leah, Cromwell Gilly turned around and winked at Julian.

“I saw that,” Leah said dryly. “I know you all think I'm this crazy old woman who's always on your case, but I'm right. I'm always right.”

“Okay,” said Julian, laughing. He smiled as he stared out the window. It was so nice being driven home instead of taking the bus, his legs and back and arms and — okay, his whole body — ached. The combination of having ballet and contemporary class every day was giving him whole new muscles. The sun was beginning to set, and from the high street they were driving on he could see the streets below, all the cheap matched-set houses, gleaming in the orange light. “Cromwell Gilly,” Julian asked sleepily. “How come you like to be called by your full name? And is that your real name?”

“No,” said Cromwell Gilly dryly, “It is not my real name. But it will be my name. Someday you are going to pick up this perfect black jacket, and look in the inside tag, and it is going to say Cromwell Gilly. And then you are going to have to put it down, because you will be a ballet dancer so you will be far too poor to buy it, and I hope you aren't a thief.”

“Oh.” Julian nodded. “Cool.” Leah pulled to a stop in front of the Yu's house, and Julian climbed out. “Thanks, Leah,” he said.

“No problem.” Leah pulled off in a hurry, her old car making a screeching noise as she pulled away, racing along the quiet street.

Julian walked around the back of his homestay and went in through the back of the house, being careful not to set off any of the alarms. The Yus had two separate alarms, one for the downstairs where their homestay students stayed, and one for the upstairs where they lived. The downstairs kitchen was dark, and Julian didn't bother turning on the light, walking through and on to his room. He flung his bag down on the floor and lay down on the bed on his back. A heavy, furry shape crawled up and lay on his chest, digging its claws into Julian's chest. “Hey, Tigger,” Julian said, petting Mrs. Yu's large over-fed cat. Tigger purred. “Tigger,” said Julian, sitting him up and moving his paws, “would you make me really good please? Magically? I need to get stronger, and I need to get more flexible, and my musicality sucks, and my
pirouettes
aren't as good as Kageki's, and my jumps aren't as clean as Tristan's.” Tigger just purred, and Julian sighed, laying his head back down on the bed. He closed his eyes: he just wanted to lie there, for a minute …

“Julian!” Mao said in his ear.

Julian sat up suddenly, disoriented. “What? Huh?”

“Dinnertime.”

“Oh, yeah, okay, yeah …” Julian rubbed his eyes and stumbled out to the dining room where they always ate.

Leon, Keiko, and Mr. and Mrs. Yu were already sitting there. Mao and Julian sat down, Julian taking his usual seat in between Mao and Keiko and leaving Leon to talk to Mr. Yu. To his surprise, Mr. Yu suddenly spoke to him.

“Julie. How is Spring Seminar going?”

“Good,” said Julian. “It's — really fun.”

“Good. You going to win something?”

“Um, I don't know.”

“Should win something. Work harder, uh?”

“Yes,” Julian agreed. He reached out and began to fill his plate with white rice and stir-fry. “Um, Mr. Yu, I have a question …”

“Yes?” Mr. Yu lowered his eyebrows, frowning.

“Today we had Leah for contemporary, and she said she used to go to the academy.”

“Hm. Yes. I remember, she did. You ask her to do a contemporary solo for you?”

Julian shrugged. “Maybe,” he lied. He began to eat his dinner, Mao and Keiko watching him, ready to correct his use of chopsticks. He thought he was getting better, they felt that he still needed much improvement. He accidentally sprayed a piece of chicken into Keiko's hair. “Oh, sorry …”

“Use fork!” Mr. Yu demanded from the other side of the table. Julian kept using his chopsticks and pretended he didn't hear.

Kaitlyn Wardle

Everybody come and see the Spring Seminar show today!

Kaitlyn stood in the front line of her group, on the black floor of the small stage in Scotiabank Dance Centre. The stage was not raised from the ground, and the curtains were not drawn to form wings on the stage, so it was hard for Kaitlyn to feel like it was a proper performance. In any case, it wasn't really, it was just so the parents and the teachers who wished to attend and the ballet society members could all see what the students had been working on during Spring Break. Kaitlyn looked up: she could see Taylor's mother up in the middle sitting with Chloe's mother, and over in the corner was Grace's mother and Anna's dad, and there were Tristan's parents, and down, right in the front and middle, was her mother. Cecelia was sitting cross-legged, moving her foot back and forth. She saw Kaitlyn watching her and mouthed: “Smile!” Kaitlyn obeyed. Cecelia patted her stomach, and Kaitlyn sucked her stomach in farther.

Theresa and Leah walked out, and everyone started to clap. Beside Kaitlyn, Taylor whispered, “I just want to know who's going to get something! I'm so nervous — my mom really wants me to get something.”

“Mmm,” said Kaitlyn. “You should probably be quiet.” In the audience, Cecelia frowned at her to not talk.

“I just really hate waiting,” Taylor whispered, fidgeting. “I wish they would just tell us, and
then
they could like talk.” She looked at the podium and sighed: the board was still going through their annual meeting. “What are minutes, anyway?” Taylor asked.

“Taylor …” Kaitlyn whispered back.

“What? I'm not good at school, okay?”

Kaitlyn didn't answer her; she didn't know what minutes were, either. Finally they called Theresa and Leah up on stage to hand out the awards. Cecelia glared at Kaitlyn. “What?” Kaitlyn mouthed back at her. Cecelia pointed at her mouth, and Kaitlyn quickly began smiling again.

Leah stood up first to give out her awards. “I am afraid their original teacher, Kai, is still ill,” she explained. “But it has been my pleasure to teach these dancers this week. Each and every one of them is extremely talented. Now, let me call out some names for the awards which the Vancouver Ballet Society has so generously provided — Alexandra …” she said, smiling.

Alexandra got the biggest amount of money, Chloe Song and Michael Grant in the younger class both received a prize, Tristan and Julian each got something, Anna got a rather big scholarship, and a few dancers who didn't go to the academy got bursaries, and then Leah was finished. Kaitlyn didn't get anything.
But it's okay, it's just contemporary
, she told herself. She smiled harder, waiting. Beside her, she could feel Taylor fidgeting nervously.

Theresa stepped up to the podium next, smiling. She gave Leah a hug, and then took the small microphone. “It has been such a pleasure teaching these students,” she said brightly. “I don't know if they told you, but they have been my little guinea pigs! They've been amazing these few weeks, thank you for loaning them to me.” The audience clapped loudly. “Now to reward some of these students for their extraordinary work.” Theresa started from the smallest bursaries and moved upwards; Jessica got something, and Anna, who grabbed her rose and envelope with a dazzling smile and hugged Theresa, making everyone laugh; and Chloe and Michael each got something, and Grace. Kaitlyn waited patiently for the bigger, more important awards to be called.

“Kaitlyn Wardle.” Kaitlyn looked up, surprised. “Yes, you, dear,” Theresa said, laughing. Kaitlyn walked over, trying to look happy.
Maybe this doesn't mean I didn't get a big award
, she told herself quickly.
Maybe they're going to give me two
. Kaitlyn took the rose and envelope from Theresa and curtseyed politely. She walked to the line of dancers who had already gotten awards and waited to hear her name called again.

“Alexandra Dunstan,” Theresa called, and Alexandra walked down and received her award. She and Theresa smiled politely at each other. Kaitlyn couldn't decide if Theresa liked Alexandra or not. She corrected her a lot, but she didn't seem to like her.

“Tristan Patel.” Tristan walked confidently across the stage to get his award, and gave Theresa a hug. Kaitlyn rolled her eyes. He was so obviously just copying Anna.

“Taylor Audley.” Kaitlyn watched, horrified, as Taylor practically bounced across the stage to get her award, a huge grin on her face. Kaitlyn looked at Cecelia.
Oh no.
To Kaitlyn's horror, her mother appeared to be crying. The audience was hard to see from under the bright stage lights, but she could see her mother clearly in the front row as she was illuminated in the lights, and there were definitely tears running down her face. Kaitlyn quickly looked away, staring at Theresa. She crossed her fingers.
Please, please, let me get what I want ...

“And then, last, but certainly not least, Julian Reese!” Julian looked up. He had obviously been drifting off and not paying attention. He practically ran across the stage and awkwardly took his envelope and rose, looking more embarrassed than happy about his award. He shifted his envelope and rose to one hand, and ran his other hand through his hair. Theresa reached out a small, but strong hand and hooked her arm around his shoulder, pulling him in close to her. Julian was taken off guard and nearly fell over.

Kaitlyn looked over at her mother: she was still crying.

“This young man,” said Theresa, “is an excellent example of what this generation has to offer. He has so much talent, and I have not once seen him give less than 100 percent. Julian, there is no doubt in my mind that you deserve this scholarship.” Theresa wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. Julian tried to pull away, but she hugged him tighter. Finally she let him go, and he stepped away, his rose losing petals on the stage. One of the Vancouver Ballet Society ladies took over the podium, and that was it, the awards were over, and it was time go to the potluck.

Kaitlyn followed her mother out of the theatre, her
pointe
shoes making a clapping noise on the floor as she tried to keep up. Cecelia stopped in the hall. “I can't believe this!” she said loudly, tears pouring down her middle-aged face.

“Mom!” Kaitlyn hissed, looking around. She could see several mothers and students around who weren't from the academy. “There's a bathroom.”

Cecelia followed her into the bathroom. “Kaitlyn, what happened?” she asked, grabbing toilet paper and wiping her face. “Why didn't you tell me that Theresa hated you? I would have done something about it, I would have talked to someone, I would have
done
something!”

“Mom! I don't think Theresa hates me —”

“What are you talking about?! Of course she hates you, she gave you the same amount of money as Jessica!
Jessica!
And of course she likes Taylor better than you, that woman is a psycho. She clearly chose based on body type. What were you doing in class all week? Were you smiling? That woman is clearly off her rocker. And giving a scholarship to Taylor ahead of you — did she
see
Taylor's chest? Her breasts are going to be as big as her mother's. She's never going to get a job as a ballet dancer!”

“Mom!” Kaitlyn said, louder. A younger kid opened the door, and then quickly left again. “Please don't say
breasts
. Theresa doesn't hate me, I don't think, okay? Can you please just stop it?”

“Don't you dare use that tone with me. I don't want you going out there. Come on, I'll drive you to your private.”

Kaitlyn wavered. She didn't really want to leave right now; yeah, she was embarrassed about not winning, but she wanted to go to the potluck. Besides, it would look like she had left because she hadn't won if she left right away. “I have to go out. I — I told Taylor I would be right back.”

“Kaitlyn. We're leaving. Right now.” Kaitlyn followed Cecelia out of the bathroom, sulking, and went to go get her stuff.

The car was right where Mrs. Wardle had left it, parked beside apartment buildings on the west side of the Dance Centre. Kaitlyn climbed in the front, sitting beside Mrs. Wardle, and folded her arms. “I don't know what
you
have to be mad about,” Mrs. Wardle snapped. “You didn't have to sit and watch your daughter lose because she couldn't stop stuffing her fat face.”

Kaitlyn glared out the window and wiped her eyes. “I hate you.”

“You could have won everything,” Mrs. Wardle said, ignoring her. “You are a million times more talented than anyone in that room. You are almost fifteen years old now. You need to get your priorities in order.”

“I did work!” Kaitlyn exploded. “Okay? I don't know what happened, Theresa just doesn't like me.”

“That woman is a disgusting psycho,” Mrs. Wardle stated. “I can't believe that you didn't warn me about this earlier! Kaitlyn, even
Angela
is skinnier than you.”

Kaitlyn sat back in her chair, confused. “What?” She didn't even consider Angela competition. At five-foot-nothing with a soft body, a too-large head, and short legs, Angela was nobody's idea of a ballet dancer. In fact, Kaitlyn didn't even think she was doing festival at all.

“You need to work harder. You need to get your focus back. Concentrate on you, ignore everything else.”

Kaitlyn nodded.

“Don't just nod at me! I'm serious. You have been all over the place this year. Do you know what this is going to
do
to your reputation? What do you think everyone is going to say about this, Kaitlyn? You haven't lost
anything
before! I remember when you were three and you won first for that piece, the one where you were the little girl at a party, in that purple dress, do you remember?”

“Yeah.”

“You haven't gotten anything but first since! Do you have any idea how fast everyone is going to know that you lost today?”

“I know! I'm sorry, okay?”

“Well, fix it. Get in that studio and start working. Show them what you can do. Don't worry about trying to make friends with these people. They'll be friends with you if you are better than them.”

“I know!”

“Kaitlyn, I mean it. If you don't start getting better, what are you going to do? You've already lost Swanhilda and this, what more do you have to lose before you decide to work?”

“Mom! Stop it.”

Cecelia wiped her eyes. “I just don't know what to do anymore. Do you remember when you were young? You were so cute, and so skinny — that is who you are. You have to get that back.”

“I know.”

“Today is a new beginning, okay?”

“Fine.”

Mrs. Wardle pulled up in front of the academy. “Good luck.”

“Bye,” Kaitlyn mumbled, getting out of the car.

“Kaitlyn?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, sweetie.”

Kaitlyn turned and left, walking toward the studio. She looked at her cellphone — she had fifteen minutes to get changed and warmed up for her first private with Mr. Moretti.
I hate her. I wonder how many people saw her crying today? Why couldn't I have just gotten that scholarship?

Kaitlyn quickly got changed and then started to put on her
pointe
shoes. She tied her ribbons, tucked them in, and then stood up, rolling up and down to try and warm her feet. She felt her left foot crack and breathed a sigh of relief. One more — and yes, her right foot cracked, too. She slid into the splits and briefly did them all three ways before standing up and cracking her back. She looked up at the large clock in the academy's lobby. One minute. She grabbed her bag and went into the studio where her private had been scheduled. The studio was still empty, Mr. Moretti wasn't there yet. Kaitlyn stood at the side for a moment, basking in the feeling of having the large airy studio all to herself instead of being one of many sweaty bodies taking class in it. She walked over to the CD player and put her disc in, getting it set up, and then walked to the centre of the studio. She grinned and prepared;
“Ichi, ni, san!”
she counted herself off in Japanese. And then she was turning. She started off with a triple
pirouette
, and then began to
fouette,
doing a single
fouette
, then a double, repeating the pattern. She managed to continue the pattern for a full set of thirty-two, and then landed with a hop at the last second.

She grinned at her own reflection in the mirror. She couldn't wait until she was a principal with a ballet company and could do the black swan coda for real. Of course, she would be skinnier then. She glanced at the clock: Mr. Moretti should have been there already, it was seven minutes past. She went to the CD player and turned it on, beginning to run through her variation. She had decided that she wanted to do
Grande Pas Classique
. It had lots of turns, she liked it, and she knew that there was a beautiful tutu in the academy's costume room that she could rent for it. After she had run through her variation once, she looked up at the clock. Ten minutes past. Had he forgotten he was scheduled to coach her today?

Grace walked in, and paused, surprised. “Oh, sorry. Do you have a private here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kaitlyn said. “It says so on the schedule.”

“Oh. I didn't hear anything, so I thought it was just you practicing. Who's coaching you?”

“Mr. Moretti.”

“He's not here yet?”

“No.”

Grace looked up at the clock. It was twelve minutes past. “Well, mind if I rehearse in here until he gets here?” Without waiting for an answer, she set her bag at the side and walked over to the CD player, changing the music to her own. In a moment the sound of Swanhilda's first act variation from
Coppelia
started playing. Kaitlyn frowned, watching Grace run through the variation.