3: Chocolate Box Girls: Summer's Dream by Cathy Cassidy

woozy a few minutes earlier.
    I hope Alfie understands that, come to think of it.

18
    I head to the dance studio – maybe there I’ll remember who I’m meant to be. After losing my cool earlier with Aaron and making an idiot of myself with Alfie, I am not sure I recognize myself. I am not the kind of person who loses the plot in public, who runs away from an ex-boyfriend and ends up sharing my secret fears with the most annoying boy in school … except that now I am.
    Dancing might not be going as well as I’d like it to, but it helps, all the same. My body feels stretched and worked and the guilt of missing yesterday’s practice is a little less sharp, the memories of this afternoon’s embarrassment less shameful. I am still no further forward with my set piece, though. I have two weeks to come up with something creative and dramatic, something that will wow Sylvie Rochelle,yet I cannot seem to dredge up even the tiniest spark of originality.
    Then, coming out of a pirouette spin, the room tilts suddenly and I lose my footing and fall. For a second or two I lie still, crumpled on the floor, my head whirling, the music swooping on in the background; then the fog lifts and I sit up, a little shakily.
    I switch off the CD and pad softly through to the changing rooms. My left side is a little sore and bruised, but my pride has taken the biggest knock. At least nobody was around to see my fall this time, but two faints in one day? That can’t be coincidence. Could Alfie be right about the skipping meals and eating properly thing? I frown. Suppose I fainted and fell in an actual dance lesson? Or, worse still, during my audition? I can’t risk that, no way.
    I get changed quickly. I want to get away, out of the dance school, away from the studio, but I can’t go home yet. I don’t want to face my sisters, or their questions. I head for the library and sit for a while in the quiet, using the computer to google dance audition tips. Be prepared, the websites suggest. Practise hard. There are no tips for producing an expressive dance out of thin air … I guess that would beasking too much. I google ‘Firebird’, and watch online clips of slim, beautiful ballerinas pushing themselves to the limit. If they can do it, why can’t I?
    Because you’re weak , the voice in my head says smugly. Weak and lazy and greedy .
    I wince. I don’t want to be any of those things, of course, but I don’t want to faint in class either … maybe there are smarter ways to cut back on calories. I check out a couple of books on diet and healthy eating, promising myself I’ll read up on nutrition, then catch the late bus home. As it chugs along, I check my mobile, expecting texts from Skye, Tia and Millie asking if I’m OK. Nothing. Did they miss me at all? Or maybe they’re still filming? I try not to mind.
    There is one from Mum at least – telling me that she and Paddy are now in Cuzco, getting used to the higher altitudes before trekking up to Machu Picchu. I want to call her right now and ask her to jump on a plane and come home because I need her, need to talk, need a hug. I don’t, of course. Instead, I tap out a chirpy message telling her I’m fine, that practice is going well. It wouldn’t do to let the mask slip, would it?
    When I get home, my sisters – and Finch – are loafingon the squashy blue sofas, eating takeaway pizzas and endlessly rerunning the day. They can’t shut up about the fairground scene and the filming, the costumes and the candyfloss, the thrill of it all.
    ‘You’re back!’ Skye says as I come in. ‘Honestly, Summer, you should have stayed – you missed the most amazing day!’
    ‘Tia and Millie said you changed your mind,’ Finch says. ‘Got bored and decided to practise instead …’
    That’s why Skye didn’t text then. I suppose I should be grateful that Tia and Millie covered for me.
    ‘It’s important,’ I say, squeezing on to the end of one sofa. ‘This