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First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2018
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
HarperCollins Publishers
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London SE1 9GF
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Text copyright © Jean Ure 2018
All rights reserved.
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Jean Ure asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008164539
Ebook Edition © 2018 ISBN: 9780008174842
Version: 2017-10-18
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Books by Jean Ure
About the Publisher
“Honestly,” squealed Caitlyn, “I nearly died!”
“I know, I know!” That was Roz, also screaming. “I just wanted to bury myself under the floorboards!”
“Me, too!” Alex rolled her eyes, rather wildly. “I thought I was going to pass out on the spot!”
“That moment when she walked in …”
“Omigod!”
Now they were all squealing. A woman walking past gave us a very odd look. I wasn’t surprised! They sounded like a load of fingernails scraping down a blackboard. All high-pitched and shrill. Quite painful, really. And all because – shock, horror! – Madam had suddenly appeared in the middle of class!
I gave a little squeak, just to show that I was sympathetic. I didn’t want to seem stand-offish; they were, after all, my friends. Caitlyn was actually my best friend. We’d spent most of the day together, taking our final audition for the City Ballet School – including the class that Madam had walked in on.
I expect most people would have thought it was a bit stressful. Even the class itself, with or without Madam’s laser-like presence. Just knowing all the time that you were being assessed, like “Is she musical enough? Is she supple enough? Has she got what it takes?” Though to be honest, it wasn’t so very different from what we were used to. The four of us had been taking special classes at the school every Saturday morning for the past year. Extension classes they called them, for people who were hoping to join the school as full-time students. We’d already got through the preliminary auditions so we’d known what to expect. Class the same as usual; just a bit more demanding. More stretches and jumps, more complicated series of steps. It was what we’d been working towards. Miss Jackson, who’d taken us on Saturday mornings, had prepared us well. Once we’d started and I’d got over any jitters I might have had, I’d actually enjoyed myself. I think it was because it was a challenge. I do like to be challenged! I sometimes get bored otherwise and find it difficult to concentrate.
Following on from class we’d had a series of intelligence tests. I don’t think any of us had been specially bothered about those. After all, it’s not like they expect you to be a genius or anything. Just so long as you have some kind of a brain. And imagination. It’s good to have imagination. Better really, if you ask me, than being able to do square roots and equations and stuff. (I probably just say that because I personally can’t do them. But I have got imagination!)
After the intelligence tests we’d all had to have a medical exam, to check our bones were OK. Nothing really to worry about cos surely by now if there was anything wrong they’d have found out? Well, you’d think so, considering they’d already been teaching us for a year, though it’s true that sometimes odd things can be discovered and people are told they’re not physically right for a dancing career. Still, I’m what Dad calls “an incurable optimist”. I don’t believe in torturing myself by imagining all the things that could go wrong. Even the dreaded interview at the end with Miss Hickman, the Head of Dance Studies, hadn’t really held any fears. I’d felt sure I’d think of something to say. I usually do!
It was true, on the other hand, that I had a bit of an unfair advantage. When you come from a ballet family – when your mum and dad, your brother, your sister, are all dancers – you tend to kind of take things for granted. Ballet just becomes an accepted
