Born to Dance. Jean Ure

      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 sorry! I know I shouldn’t be here!”

      “You can be here!” I cried. But too late: she was already on her way out.

      In her rush I saw that she’d left her outdoor shoes behind. I snatched them up and ran after her.

      “Caitlyn!” I called out, over the banisters. She paused, and glanced up. “Here!” I tossed the shoes down to her. “You don’t have to go,” I said.

      For a moment she hesitated, but then violently shook her head and scurried on her way.

      Slowly I went back into the gym. I put on Mum’s CD and dutifully did my fifteen minutes of workout, but my brain was now buzzing with so many unanswered questions that I found it almost impossible to concentrate. Why was Caitlyn practising pirouettes in the gym? Why hadn’t she been taught how to spot when doing turns? Why, after all, did she persist in saying she didn’t do ballet when she quite obviously did?

      All the rest of the day she kept away from me. At breaktime she stuck closely with the other two new girls: the tall one, Astrid, and the tiny one, Ava. I didn’t want to barge in and start questioning her in front of other people. I’d already embarrassed her once, bulldozing my way into the gym. But I was just dying to get to the bottom of the mystery!

      It wasn’t till going-home time that I managed to get her on her own. I could see Mum waiting in the car outside the school gates, but I could also see Caitlyn just ahead of me. I raced after her.

      “Hey, Caitlyn!”

      She half turned. For a minute I thought she was going to take off, but reluctantly she waited for me.

      “I don’t mean to be nosy,” I said, “but do tell me who your teacher is!”

      “I don’t have one.” She said it almost desperately, like, Please, please, just go away and leave me alone!

      I don’t enjoy upsetting people. In spite of what Mum says, I am not