Dancing Daze Read online

  I’m in my best friend Mills’s ultratidy bedroom when her mum, Sue, walks in, a huge grin on her face. “There’s someone here who wants to speak to you,” she says, handing the house phone to Mills.

  “Hello?” Mills says into the receiver, and then her eyes light up. “Claire!” she squeals. “You haven’t rung for ages and ages. How’s your toe? Has the nail dropped off yet? Is there still loads of snow in Budapest?”

  Claire is Mills’s big sister, and she moved to Budapest when she was fifteen to study ballet at the Budapest Ballet Academy. She’s now a soloist, and the company is dancing Romeo and Juliet in a big theater in Dublin just before Christmas, and Claire is playing Juliet! Dad’s bank is sponsoring the event, so he’s already booked us all tickets to see her.

  “When will you be home for Romeo and Juliet?” Mills is asking now. (Claire may be a brilliant dancer, but she’s hopeless at keeping in touch with her family, and I know Mills misses her horribly.)

  Mills’s eyes widen. “Holy Moly!” she shrieks, bouncing up and down on the bed with excitement. “That’s brilliant news. And I can’t believe you’ll be on the telly.” There’s a pause. “Oh, OK. I’ll tell Mum. Love you too!” Mills clicks the phone off and hands it back to Sue. “Claire said to say bye and that she’ll e-mail you her flight details. Did you know about the publicity trip, Mum?”

  Sue shakes her head. “I had no idea. Isn’t it brilliant? I can’t wait to see her. Now, Amy looks like she’s about to explode with curiosity, so I’ll leave you to tell her the news.” She leans over and gives Mills a hug. “My two girls, back under the same roof.” Her eyes water and she waves a hand in front of her face. “Sorry, I just miss her so much.”

  “Me too, Mum,” Mills says.

  Sue was right. I am dying to know the news, so as soon as she’s out the door, I turn to Mills. “What’s happening? Sounds pretty exciting.”

  “Claire’s coming home next Thursday to do some preshow publicity for Romeo and Juliet. She’ll be here for only a couple of days, but she’s going to be on the Late Late Show on Friday night with the Hungarian dancer who plays Romeo. She wants us to come to the airport to collect her. You too, if you like.”

  “No way!” I say. “That’s fantastic. All the olds in Ireland watch that show. She’s going to be mega-famous after it. And yes, please. I do love a good airport reunion. Count me in.”

  On the way to Dublin airport the following Thursday evening, Mills and I take one final look at Ballet Barbie, the book I helped Mills create for her sister. Mills wanted to make a special scrapbook to celebrate Claire’s homecoming, and with my aunt Clover’s assistance, I found this amazing website called makeabook.com. Clover knows everything about everything, and at eighteen, with her long white-blond hair, rock-star boyfriend, and job at the Goss teen magazine, she’s the coolest aunt around.

  The makeabook site allows you to pick a style, then scan in photos (and anything else you’d like to see on the pages), add text, and preview it carefully (checking for any spelling mistakes). You press “print”— and voilà: two days later, a rather fabulous one-of-a-kind book arrives in the post. (Clover very sweetly paid for the book on her credit card and refused to let Mills pay her back.)

  Mills carefully opens the ballet-shoe-pink hardcover. “‘To Ballet Barbie, Lots and lots of love, Mills,’” she reads. “Ballet Barbie” is Mills’s nickname for her big sis.

  “‘Chapter One,’” she continues. “‘The Early Days. From the very beginning, Claire Starr was born to dance. Her mum, Sue, says Claire was bopping along to the radio as soon as she could stand. As a tiny tot, Claire especially loved dancing to the Spice Girls.’”

  Sue laughs from the front passenger seat. “She certainly did. I used to call her ‘Dancing Spice.’”

  “That’s true,” Mills’s dad agrees quietly. I like Allan Starr, but he is very, very normal. Some people may even call him boring. . . . I’ve only ever seen him in a checked shirt and beige chinos. Clover says the most exciting thing about him is the unusual spelling of his name.

  Mills points to one of the photos in chapter one, an adorable image of Claire as a little girl wearing a tiny white tutu, both hands over her head, fingers touching, like a real ballerina.

  “Already performing at three,” Mills says.

  I smile. “That’s such a cute shot.”

  “She started at Miss Smitten’s School of Dance just after that,” Sue says. “By the time she was five, she insisted on going to two classes a week. Remember, Allan?”

  Allan laughs heartily and slaps the steering wheel. “Do I ever. When I told her it was too expensive, she said it could be her birthday present and her Christmas present. I nearly fell off my chair. Imagine being that smart and determined at five!” He shakes his head. “But I guess all that determination has paid off.”

  We flick through the rest of the book: Claire, age six, dressed in rags as the Little Match Girl for one of her ballet school’s shows; Claire, age eleven, doing an elegant arabesque in a plain pink cross-backed leotard.

  We also added her ballet exam reports, all glowing, and some old cuttings from the Irish newspapers, including the front-page photograph of Claire in a full-length white tutu just after she’d been accepted at the Budapest Ballet Academy. Her dark brown eyes are staring proud and strong at the camera.

  After we’ve studied the final page, an Irish Times piece about her upcoming starring role as Juliet in Dublin that calls her the “Irish Ballerina,” Mills closes the book carefully and runs her hands over the front cover. “Do you think she’ll like it?” she asks, biting her lower lip nervously.

  “She’ll adore it,” I say. “I promise.”

  Mills smiles at me gratefully. She seems mega-nervous about seeing Claire again. Claire’s been home only once since she left for Budapest two years ago, and I know Mills and her parents find it hard to see her so rarely. Sue and Allan weren’t at all keen on her going in the first place, but Claire dug her heels in. She was determined to go, and that was that.

  As soon as we get to Dublin airport, Allan heads for the huge flight-information board with its flickering yellow numbers and letters. He sighs. “Sheesh, that’s just typical. Delayed by twenty minutes. The parking’s going to cost me a fortune.”

  Sue pats his arm. “Not to worry, dear. Let’s get a coffee and then we can all wait in the arrivals area. It won’t be long now.”

  Mills and I have a mooch around the shop, checking out the magazines, before joining the older Starrs again. Sue has brought her knitting and is clicking away while Mr. Starr sits slumped in his seat, his arms crossed, scowling up at the arrivals board.

  Our bums are almost numb from the plastic seats when Mills jumps to her feet half an hour later. “There she is, Ames. It’s Claire! Look!” She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the metal barrier to greet her. Claire is bumping shoulders with a boy who looks about nineteen or twenty years old. He has a mop of dark-blond curly hair, chestnut eyes, full, pouty lips, and the cheekiest expression I’ve ever seen. He must be the boy playing Romeo. Lucky Claire!

  “Claire!” Mills waves her arm frantically at her sister. “Over here.”

  Claire’s head whips around. She looks different from how I remember her — taller and more angular. Her face is definitely thinner. Her cheekbones are more pronounced, making her stunning eyes look like two huge pools of chocolate. Her hair is pulled back into a high, swishy ponytail, and she’s wearing a pearl-gray crewneck sweater, black-leather jacket, black skinny jeans, and black biker boots. She looks impossibly cool, like a movie star.

  Claire beams at Mills, drops her silver wheelie bag at her feet, and runs toward her sister. She swings herself over the barrier and throws herself into Mills’s arms.

  “Mills!” she sa
ys, jumping up and down on the spot and hugging her close. “It’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you so much, baby sis.”

  “I’ve missed you too.” Mills’s eyes are sparkling with happy tears, and from the wobble in her voice, I can tell she’s choking up.

  Claire puts her hands on Mills’s shoulders and takes a good look at her. She sighs and shakes her head. “Look at you, all grown up. You look amazing. That boyfriend you’ve been telling me about in your e-mails is one lucky boy.”

  Mills’s cheeks go pink. “Claire! Stop embarrassing me.”

  “Embarrassing you is my job, sis. And hiya, Amy.” Claire smiles at me. “Good to see you. . . . And there you are, Mum,” she says to Sue, who has been waiting patiently beside Mills. “Looking gorgeous, as always.” Claire gives her mum a warm hug.

  “Gosh, you’re very bony,” Sue says as she draws away. She touches Claire’s cheek. “Have you been eating enough? Are you taking those supplements I sent over? And you look a little . . . tired. Is everything all right?”

  For a second a shadow passes over Claire’s face. Then she says, “Stop fretting, Mum. I’ve only just got here.” She smiles again. “I know you’re dying to feed me, and I can’t wait. I’ve seriously missed your cooking. And Dad. Hello.” She gives him a hug too. “Thanks for coming to collect me.”

  “My pleasure, pet,” Allan says. “We’re all delighted to have you home. But I think you may be forgetting something. Or someone.” He nods at Romeo.

  “Oh, that’s Péter, my dance partner,” Claire explains. She pronounces the name with a lilt in the middle — P-eh-ter — and for a second, she sounds more Hungarian than Irish. “I told you about him, right?”

  “Isn’t he your Romeo?” Mills asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Claire goes a little red. “Yes. But it’s not like that, believe me. Can we give him a lift to the Merrion Hotel, Dad? That’s where we’re staying.”

  Mills’s face drops. “I thought you were staying with us.”

  Claire shrugs. “I’m sorry. It’s all been set up by the theater’s PR people over here. We have a packed schedule. It’s booked solid with interviews and photo shoots to promote the show in December. I’m here for three nights only. I’m sorry. I thought you knew, sis . . .” She trails off and looks at Sue. “Didn’t you tell her, Mum? I’m sure I put it in the e-mail. Maybe I didn’t. I have a lot on my mind and sometimes I forget things.”

  Mr. Starr pats Claire’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry, pet, you didn’t forget, but I rang the theater’s publicity department and sorted it all out. They said that of course you should stay with your family. You have a photo shoot at the theater in the morning, followed by some interviews, so they’re going to send a taxi over to collect you from home at nine. But they don’t need you in the afternoon, so if we can get you to RTÉ for the Late Late Show rehearsal by seven, you’re all ours for a while. Your mum and I thought we could do something together as a family tomorrow. Maybe go for a walk up Killiney Hill and have an early dinner in Dalkey. Plus, the theater’s publicity manager has arranged two tickets to the telly show for us. Isn’t that great? Sadly, she wasn’t able to get a third one for Mills, but she and Amy are going to watch it at home.”

  “I’m not sure you should have done that, Dad,” Claire says.

  “What?” Allan looks flabbergasted.

  “Ringing the PR department like that is a bit unprofessional. This is my career, and I don’t want everyone back in Budapest thinking I’m some sort of soft Irish girl who has to go home to her mummy and daddy for some home cooking and hugs whenever she’s in Dublin.”

  “Claire Starr, your dad meant well,” Sue says, looking taken aback. “He didn’t mean to annoy you. And it was my idea to ring the PR manager, so I think you owe him an apology.” Her voice softens. “I know your career means the world to you, but we’ve all missed you, pet, very much. And any time we can spend with you is very precious. We’d love you to stay at home with us, but if you can’t, you can’t. We understand, don’t we, Allan?”

  Allan nods but doesn’t say anything. Mills is biting down so hard on her lip that it’s almost white.

  Claire notices Mills’s expression and backs down immediately. “I’m sorry, Dad, OK? I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just wiped out from traveling. And I’ve missed you all too. I’d love to stay at home.”

  “Good. Thank you, darling,” Sue says with a relieved smile. “That’s all settled, then.”

  Péter is still waiting patiently on the far side of the barrier. “Apologies, Péter,” Claire says, calling him over. He makes his way toward us, pulling Claire’s wheelie bag behind him like a puppy. His own bag is slung over one of his strong-looking shoulders.

  “I was just sorting something out with my family,” Claire explains. “Dad’s going to drop you at your hotel, but I’m going to stay at home. This is Péter Bako, everyone, one of the best dancers in Hungary.”

  “The best dancer in Hungary,” Péter says, correcting Claire in perfect English. “Charmed to meet you all.” The awkward atmosphere lifts as he grins and gives a flamboyant bow. And, boy, is he good-looking up close and personal.

  He chats away easily to Allan and Sue about the flight. Mills nudges me in the side. “Wowzers!” she whispers, fanning her face with her hand.

  “No kidding,” I whisper back. “Who knew ballet boys were so hot?” I smile at her. “Happy?”

  She nods eagerly. “Very. And I can’t wait to give Claire her book. I think I’ll wait until tomorrow afternoon, when she isn’t so exhausted.”

  Then she hooks my arm with hers and we follow the Starr family and Péter out of the arrivals hall and toward the car park, trying very hard not to stare at Péter’s perfectly formed bum.

  “Amy, I think there’s something wrong with Claire.” Mills shifts around uneasily on the couch. It’s Friday night and I’ve just gotten to her house. We’re waiting to watch Claire’s Late Late Show appearance together.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “Well, we were supposed to be going for a walk up Killiney Hill this afternoon, but she said she was too tired. And she didn’t want to go out for dinner tonight either. Said she wasn’t hungry and asked Mum to make her something to eat in her room instead.”

  “She flew back only last night, Mills,” I say gently. (Mills does tend to overreact sometimes.) “Maybe she’s just exhausted and nervous about the Late Late Show.”

  “It’s more than that. She just had some coffee and toast for breakfast this morning, even though Mum had made pancakes. Usually she wolfs down Mum’s food. She has a huge appetite. Says she needs extra fuel for all her dance practice. She isn’t sleeping either. Last night I woke up at three and heard a noise coming from her room, so I went in to check that she was all right, and she was wide awake. I asked her if everything was OK, and she admitted that she’s seriously worried about dancing Juliet in front of a home crowd. It’s her first big role, you see, and she wants it to be perfect. She thinks that’s what’s keeping her awake.”

  Ah, the Starr perfection curse.

  “That would explain the insomnia, all right,” I say. “Most performers get nervous before important shows, though. I’m sure it’s perfectly normal.”

  “I guess.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Mills pauses. “Look, Ames, I swore I’d keep it to myself, but this afternoon, after I gave Claire the scrapbook and we looked through it together — she loved it, by the way, especially all the old photos — she said, ‘Be careful what you wish for, eh?’ Then she told me about all the hours of ballet practice she has to do every day — and it sounds pretty grueling — and then she started to cry. She tried to cover it up by saying she was still out of whack from the flight and that was why her eyes kept watering, but they were definitely tears.”

  Claire Starr, crying about dance practice? That doesn’t sound right. She’s always been such a tough nut, taking pride in showing us her broken toenails
and bruised feet from spending so much time in her pointe shoes.

  Mills looks stricken. “I don’t know what to do, Ames. If I tell Mum and Dad, they might stop her from dancing or something, and that would destroy her. I just want her to be happy again.”

  “Maybe it was just a blip,” I suggest. “I’m sure she’ll bounce back. This is Claire we’re talking about, right? Miss Tough As Nails. Let’s watch the show, and if you think she’s acting strangely or out of character in any way, then we’ll do something about it. Maybe we can ask Clover for help and come up with a plan. If Claire’s back to her old sparkling self on the telly and you’re not worried about her anymore, we won’t. Does that make sense?”

  “Perfect sense.” Mills sighs happily. “You always know the right thing to do, Amy Green. I do love being your best friend.”

  I smile to myself. Mills really is a sweetie. “Thanks, Mills. Love you too, babes. Now, who else is on the Late Late, do you know?” I’m hoping to change the subject and cheer her up a bit. I check my watch. “It’s on any minute now. Anyone famous? Johnny Depp?”

  “You wish.” She laughs. “Billy Brady from Coast is on just before Claire and Péter.” She clutches her heart and makes a funny little squee noise that makes me smile. (Coast is a new Irish boy band, a younger version of Westlife, and their lead singer, Billy Brady, looks like Zac Efron. I’m not really a fan — their music is too vanilla for me — but Mills is right. Billy’s cute.)

  The show’s opening credits start rolling, and Mills turns up the sound so loud that the theme song blasts out, making my ears ring.

  “Mills! Are you trying to deafen me?”

  “Sorry.” She lowers the volume.

  “Welcome to the Late Late Show,” the presenter, Renee O’Reilly, a tall blond woman with huge green eyes, says. “And do we have a show for you tonight. Coming up in a moment we have Claire Starr, the Irish Ballerina, and her dance partner and Romeo, Péter Bako.”

  Mills grabs my arm in excitement and squeals. “Yeah!”

  “We also have the California relationship guru they call the Heart Whisperer,” Renee continues, “and a brilliant sketch from the Comedy Chicks. But first, to kick off the show, the latest single from Coast . . .”