Patrick’s Day. Lana ordered some Cadbury’s chocolate for me on the Internet and gave it to me this morning over breakfast.
“Happy Paddy’s Day, Irish,” she said, and then proceeded to eat most of the bar herself. I didn’t mind, though. It was nice of her to remember. I wonder what Mills and Mum and Dad are doing today. They love Paddy’s Day. They always go to the parade and cheer on all the floats. I miss Mills. I must remember to ring her this week.
Anyway, back to my debut class. We had a full lesson of tendus. I did my best, but even with Lana’s coaching, I was way behind the other girls. But when Madame called me an unfit, flabby, lazy, rich girl, I remembered what Lana had said and didn’t say a word. I just took it all on the chin and stayed completely silent. It seemed to be the right thing to do. Madame stopped criticizing me when I didn’t flinch and moved on to pick holes in another girl’s technique instead.
As for smiling in class, there isn’t much to smile about, so I don’t need to remember to keep a straight face. It’s exhausting and soul destroying. Miss Smitten warned me that Hungarian teachers are not like Irish teachers. They believe in hard work and total 100 percent dedication to dance. I didn’t think it would be
this
bad. But I do know that I’m learning so much every day and taking baby steps toward becoming the dancer of my dreams. I know all the hard work will pay off in the end.
I’ve worked out that Madame Irina’s hardest on the girls she thinks have the most potential. That seems to be me and Zsuzsanna, one of the Hungarian girls. She pushes us to our limits. I hate it when she prods me with her stick or criticizes me, but I know she’s just trying to make me a better dancer, so I take it.
Today, Madame Irina moved me to the middle of the back barre, which is the best spot in the whole class. Nóra, one of the other Hungarian girls, had to give up her place and move to the side barre. If looks could kill, I’d be in a Hungarian morgue right now. But that’s OK. I’m here to work, not to make friends. Besides, I have Lana, who may be direct but is also funny and kind underneath her tough exterior.
And wonder of wonders! Madame finally said my tendus were “OK for a rich girl.”
I told her that my family was not rich, forgetting what Lana had said about not talking back. I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted to set the record straight. I said I came from a normal Dublin family and that my dad worked in a post office. He’s some sort of accountant for the postal service, so it’s kind of true.
Madame just gave a loud
pah,
and said I’d probably been spoiled all my life. Then she grabbed my arm and pinched my skin between her bony fingers and said, “Fat, fat, fat. Lazy, lazy, lazy.”
Now, OK, my arms aren’t as toned as the other girls’ yet, but they soon will be. Lana has me doing special exercises to strengthen all my muscles. And with that and the food in the cafeteria — which is basically different versions of goulash and cabbage every day, plus hard, chewy bread and odd fried-doughy things that taste of grease and I refuse to eat — I won’t be flabby for long.
I stuck out my chin and said I wasn’t lazy and I deserved to be here. I’ve been practicing every night after class until I drop, both with Lana and on my own, and “lazy” wasn’t fair.
Madame Irina’s eyebrows lifted at that, but she seemed amused rather than angry. “We shall see, Irish girl,” she said. Which was better than being called “rich girl,” I guess.
I knew better than to say anything else. I half expected her to move me back to a side barre, but she didn’t. As Lana said, maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Speaking of practice, I’d better run. Lana’s expecting me . . .
Until next time, Diary,
szia!
Claire Starr, future prima ballerina xxxxx
I wait by the letter box on Monday morning for Mills, but she doesn’t appear. She’s clearly avoiding me.
“Happy Paddy’s Day, Irish,” she said, and then proceeded to eat most of the bar herself. I didn’t mind, though. It was nice of her to remember. I wonder what Mills and Mum and Dad are doing today. They love Paddy’s Day. They always go to the parade and cheer on all the floats. I miss Mills. I must remember to ring her this week.
Anyway, back to my debut class. We had a full lesson of tendus. I did my best, but even with Lana’s coaching, I was way behind the other girls. But when Madame called me an unfit, flabby, lazy, rich girl, I remembered what Lana had said and didn’t say a word. I just took it all on the chin and stayed completely silent. It seemed to be the right thing to do. Madame stopped criticizing me when I didn’t flinch and moved on to pick holes in another girl’s technique instead.
As for smiling in class, there isn’t much to smile about, so I don’t need to remember to keep a straight face. It’s exhausting and soul destroying. Miss Smitten warned me that Hungarian teachers are not like Irish teachers. They believe in hard work and total 100 percent dedication to dance. I didn’t think it would be
this
bad. But I do know that I’m learning so much every day and taking baby steps toward becoming the dancer of my dreams. I know all the hard work will pay off in the end.
I’ve worked out that Madame Irina’s hardest on the girls she thinks have the most potential. That seems to be me and Zsuzsanna, one of the Hungarian girls. She pushes us to our limits. I hate it when she prods me with her stick or criticizes me, but I know she’s just trying to make me a better dancer, so I take it.
Today, Madame Irina moved me to the middle of the back barre, which is the best spot in the whole class. Nóra, one of the other Hungarian girls, had to give up her place and move to the side barre. If looks could kill, I’d be in a Hungarian morgue right now. But that’s OK. I’m here to work, not to make friends. Besides, I have Lana, who may be direct but is also funny and kind underneath her tough exterior.
And wonder of wonders! Madame finally said my tendus were “OK for a rich girl.”
I told her that my family was not rich, forgetting what Lana had said about not talking back. I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted to set the record straight. I said I came from a normal Dublin family and that my dad worked in a post office. He’s some sort of accountant for the postal service, so it’s kind of true.
Madame just gave a loud
pah,
and said I’d probably been spoiled all my life. Then she grabbed my arm and pinched my skin between her bony fingers and said, “Fat, fat, fat. Lazy, lazy, lazy.”
Now, OK, my arms aren’t as toned as the other girls’ yet, but they soon will be. Lana has me doing special exercises to strengthen all my muscles. And with that and the food in the cafeteria — which is basically different versions of goulash and cabbage every day, plus hard, chewy bread and odd fried-doughy things that taste of grease and I refuse to eat — I won’t be flabby for long.
I stuck out my chin and said I wasn’t lazy and I deserved to be here. I’ve been practicing every night after class until I drop, both with Lana and on my own, and “lazy” wasn’t fair.
Madame Irina’s eyebrows lifted at that, but she seemed amused rather than angry. “We shall see, Irish girl,” she said. Which was better than being called “rich girl,” I guess.
I knew better than to say anything else. I half expected her to move me back to a side barre, but she didn’t. As Lana said, maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Speaking of practice, I’d better run. Lana’s expecting me . . .
Until next time, Diary,
szia!
Claire Starr, future prima ballerina xxxxx
I wait by the letter box on Monday morning for Mills, but she doesn’t appear. She’s clearly avoiding me.
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