Attitude (7 page)

“Edie's favorite is the spaghetti and meatballs,” Mr. Harrison says. “Right, Edie?”

“It used to be,” she says. “When I was about ten.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say. Actually, it sounds great. I'm starving.

We make polite conversation while we eat, but it's strained. I'm sure Edie's parents can tell that things between the two of us are tense. When I get up to use the washroom, Edie follows me.

“We have to talk,” she says, leaning against the counter.

“We do?” I raise my eyebrows. “You ignored me all day.”

“I know, but it doesn't have to be like this.” Her eyes meet mine. “If you would apologize to Melissa—”

I cut her off. “Apologize to her? You're kidding me.”

Her cheeks flush. “She's really mad, Cassandra.”

“She's the one who should apologize,” I say. “To me and Iako and Cam.”

“You don't understand.”

“I understand plenty,” I say. “Melissa's crazy, Edie. Either that or she's just nasty. I don't get why you don't stand up to her.”

“She's my best friend,” Edie says.

“So be a friend to her, then. Tell her to quit being such a bully.” I study Edie's expression, wondering what she's thinking. “She's a good dancer,” I say. “She doesn't need to do this stuff.”

“I know,” Edie says. There's a catch in her voice. “Please tell her you're sorry, Cassandra.”

“Not a chance,” I say. “The only thing I'm sorry about is not standing up to her earlier.”

“I don't know what she's going to do.” Her shoulders slump. “And I don't know what she'll make
me
do.”

“She can't
make
you do anything,” I say a little scornfully. “You don't have to go along with her.”

“Yes, I do,” Edie says. “I'm not like you and Cam.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Like, not caring what people think.”

“I care,” I say, surprised.

She shakes her head. “Maybe. But you didn't vote for Cam, did you? You just said no. I couldn't do that. Melissa would be furious.”

“You're scared of her? Some friendship.”

“We've been friends since we were ten,” Edie says. “There's lots about Melissa that you don't understand.”

I walk away from her, heading back out the bathroom door. “That's for sure,” I say over my shoulder.

Edie is just standing there, staring at herself in the mirror.

Eleven

The next few days pass uneventfully. We dance all day—ballet, modern, jazz—and I spend my evenings reading, stretching, practicing. Sometimes I talk to Cam on the phone, or I borrow Edie's computer and check Facebook or email my friends back home. The audition is getting closer, and although the divide between the new girls and Melissa's gang is as obvious as ever, nothing awful has happened.

I start to relax a little. I start to think that maybe Melissa has given up on her scheming.

And then the poop hits the fan.

When Edie and I arrive at school on Friday morning, Diana confronts me in the hallway. “Cassandra, come with me to the office, please.”

“What is it?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”

“Just come with me.” Diana's face is grim, her lips set in a thin, straight line.

I turn to Edie, but she won't look at me. “What's wrong?” I ask again, quickening my steps to keep up with Diana as she marches down the hall.

“I think you know,” she says curtly.

“But I don't!” Her coldness—and the unexpectedness of it—feels like a slap to the face. My eyes are stinging, and I have to blink away tears. “I haven't done anything.”

She opens the office door and steps back to let me go in ahead of her. Mrs. Hoffman is already there, sitting stiff and straight-backed behind a desk. She gestures for me to take a seat on a couch across from her, and I sink into it, feeling small and scared. Diana perches on the arm of the couch as if she doesn't want to be any closer to me than she has to.

“What is going on?” I ask. My heart is racing.

Mrs. Hoffman takes off her reading glasses and lets them dangle around her neck. Then she turns her laptop around to face me. I lean forward, confused, and start reading what's on the screen.

I recognize the image immediately. “The school's Facebook page?” I say, puzzled. Then I look more closely at where Mrs. Hoffman's finger is pointing. There's a post from the ballet school:
Congratulations to our dancers who are auditioning for The Nutcracker! Good luck to you all!

And underneath it, in the comments, is my name. My face. And a comment—apparently my comment:
Ya, cuz they're gonna need it! especially Miss floppy-foot Edie and spaghetti-arms Melissa!! lmao!!

The air rushes out of my lungs in a whoosh. I can't catch my breath. “I…that wasn't…I didn't…” I can barely form the words in my mouth. Mrs. Hoffman and Diana are both looking at me, their faces grave. “I didn't write that,” I say. “I wouldn't ever say that.” For a second, it seems so absurd that it's almost funny. I can't believe anyone would think I'd write that.

“There's nothing to smile about,” Mrs. Hoffman says coldly.

“I'm not—I just—it's so ridiculous! You can't really believe I'd write that.”

Diana and Mrs. Hoffman exchange glances and say nothing, and a panicky feeling starts to build in my chest.

“Honestly,” I say. “It wasn't me. I swear.”

“How do you think this happened, then?” Diana asks, and her voice is surprisingly gentle.

“I don't know,” I say. “No one knows my password, so I don't see…unless…”

“Unless?” She leans closer to me. “Unless what, Cassandra?”

I'm remembering last night. I borrowed Edie's computer, tried unsuccessfully to Skype my folks, emailed a friend, checked Facebook. Did I log out? I can't remember. Would Edie have posted as me, deliberately, to get me in trouble?

I don't want to believe it.

“I don't know,” I say. “But I know I didn't post that comment. So I don't know how—but someone else must have done it.” I can't decide if I should mention Edie or not. I remember her following me to the restaurant bathroom, trying to get me to apologize to Melissa.
I don't know what she'll make me do,
she said.

I don't see how anyone other than Edie could have done this—but I don't know for sure, and I don't want to accuse her if there's even a small chance that I'm wrong.

“Cassandra, please tell the truth,” Mrs. Hoffman puts in. “People make mistakes, but lying only makes matters worse.”

I start to cry—I can't help it. “I'm not lying,” I say. “I think I must have forgotten to sign out of Facebook and—well, someone else—posted in my name.” Even as I say it, I know how unlikely it must sound.

The two of them exchange glances again.

“I personally think we should withdraw her from the audition,” Mrs. Hoffman says. “At the very least.”

“No, please,” I say. I wipe the tears from my eyes and try to steady my voice. “I don't know how this happened, but I swear I didn't post that comment. I don't even think that way.”

Diana looks thoughtful. “I must admit I was surprised when I saw this.” She looks at Mrs. Hoffman. “Cassandra has always seemed supportive of other girls in class.”

“It is very disappointing behavior,” Mrs. Hoffman says.

Diana nods. “Yes, it is. Inexcusable behavior.”

Mrs. Hoffman sighs heavily. “We'll have to discuss this further and decide on an appropriate consequence,” she says. “In the meantime, I'd suggest that you delete that comment.”

My face burning, I sign in to Facebook, delete the awful words beside my name and log out again. “I hope no one else has seen it,” I say.

“So do I,” Diana says. “I suspect you'll find out soon enough.” She stands up. “Go ahead. You'd better get to class. I'll be there shortly.”

Twelve

I walk through the door and into the dance studio and instantly the movement and chatter stops dead. Nine girls freeze midstretch, mid-sentence, mid-laugh. Nine faces turn toward me. Nine pairs of eyes study my face. The silence hangs in the air like a thick fog. I look at Edie, but she drops her eyes. Beside her, Melissa smirks, eyes hard and challenging. My cheeks are ablaze and I feel a sick rush of shame, as if I really have done something horrible. I lift my chin, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing how upset I am, and walk through the figures like they are statues—this one in the splits, that one lacing a shoe, this one stretching her hamstrings. Gradually they all resume their movement, and I take a spot in the middle of the room, near Cam and Mackenzie. I sit down and take my shoes out of my bag.

“Cassandra,” Cam whispers, “everyone's saying you posted something on Facebook. I haven't seen it, but…” She trails off.

“I saw it,” Mackenzie says. “The school posted good luck to the girls who were auditioning—and you said we were going to need it.”

At least they're still talking to me. “I didn't post it,” I say, too quickly.

Cam looks relieved. “Good. It didn't seem like something you'd say. But then…well, who did?”

“Edie, maybe,” I say. “I might've left my Facebook page open on her laptop.” I turn to Mackenzie. “I'd never do anything like that. I hope you didn't believe it.”

She shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I didn't know what to think.” She doesn't meet my eyes, and I suspect she still isn't convinced.

“Diana and Mrs. Hoffman are talking about not letting me audition,” I say.

“That's probably exactly what Edie and Melissa hoped would happen,” Cam says. “Mackenzie, you'd better be careful between now and the audition next Thursday. You'll be next, you know.”

Mackenzie looks at Cam and me, her Bambi eyes wide and hurt. “You think they don't like me?”

Cam snorts. “Where've you been, Mackenzie? It's got nothing to do with liking you. You're auditioning for Clara, right? You're Melissa's competition.”

“What do you think she'll do to me?” she whispers.

“I don't know,” I say. “But if I were you, I'd watch your back.”

Cam nods. “Yeah, just stay well away from her. And don't leave your bag out of your sight.”

“Or your shoes,” I say, thinking of Iako.

“Or your lunch,” Cam adds.

“Or your laptop, or your phone—” I break off as Diana enters the studio.

“Yeah, okay. I got it.” Mackenzie finishes tying her shoes and we all take our positions at the barre. I'm near the front of the line, and I can feel the eyes of the other girls on me. I wonder how many of them think I posted that comment. In my mind, I can't stop replaying the conversation with Diana and Mrs. Hoffman, can't stop thinking of things I should have said, can't stop defending myself.

I remember what Cam and I told the other homestay girls:
Melissa only has as much power as we give her. It's what the teachers think that matters.

I've underestimated Melissa. She is well aware that the teachers have the final say in who will be asked to stay on in the fall.

And now, thanks to her and Edie, the teachers think I am an unprofessional, badly behaved, spoiled brat.

“First position,” Diana says curtly, skipping her usual words of welcome. “No talking, please. I expect to see some good effort from you all today.”

“Yes, Diana,” we chorus.

At the barre, I do my best to tune out the other girls. Instead, I find myself thinking about my parents. They wouldn't believe for one single second that I'd make that awful comment. They know I'm not like that. Peter knows it too, and so do all my friends back home, even the ones who don't understand why I care so much about dancing. They all believe in me, no matter what.

Again, my dad's words come back to me.
Just do what you know is right, Cassie.
I imagine my anger and anxiety as a red-hot ball of energy, and I channel it into my dancing, straining for better turnout and higher lifts, stretching every muscle to the limit.

Pliés. Relevés. Développés. Retirés.

I want so badly to show Diana—to show everyone—that I'm not the kind of person who would stoop to posting nasty comments online. I think about what Diana said in our first class, about dance being the hidden language of the soul. I wish she could see the truth in my dancing. I wish I could dance so beautifully that everyone watching would know that I don't have that kind of anger or jealousy or spitefulness inside me.

I dig deeper than ever, ignoring the fatigue in my muscles, tuning out the pain as I push myself to my limit and beyond.
I will be a dancer
, I whisper under my breath.
I will be a dancer, no matter what. Focus. Focus. Breathe
.

“Very nice, Cassandra,” Diana says as she passes me. Her hand touches my shoulder briefly, pushing it down and back, and my eyes meet hers. “Well done.”

I mumble, “Thank you,” and she continues on down the line.

Did she see?
I watch her walk away and find myself holding my breath, hoping. Could she see what I was trying to show her?

* * *

Cam and Mackenzie stand by me, but the rest of the girls cut me dead, ignoring me completely or, worse, making sharp little comments under their breath as I walk past. Even Julie and Iako turn away when they see me. The story seems to have spread beyond our class—girls I don't even know stare at me in the halls, give me dirty looks, whisper to each other and giggle. Maybe they saw the comment on Facebook before I deleted it. More likely, Melissa has done her best to spread the story.

It isn't until it's time to go home that I think of the Harrisons. My stomach knots and my mouth suddenly tastes sour. Will Edie tell them? And will they believe that I posted that comment?