Hopes and Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page B

to dance them free.
    Music is the key, of course. It connects with a place much deeper than my mind – heart and soul, I guess.
    And now I am listening to the music properly, I dance with everything I have. Even Grace has started to look at me with a new kind of respect.
    In contemporary dance class, I finally understand what I am supposed to be doing; it’s all about feeling the music, reacting, responding, expressing, interpreting. It makes sense now, and I wonder how I ever managed all these years without making the connection. It’s like I have been dancing in my sleep, just going through the motions.
    ‘Excellent, excellent,’ Sylvie Rochelle says, a few weeks into the new term. ‘You have woken up at last! I knew you could do it, Jodie!’
    Joe Nash is even happier. ‘Yes!’ he yells as I partner Sebastien in an improvised dance about walking up from a long winter sleep. ‘Let your body tell the story … it’s your musical instrument, your paint and canvas! Forget about traditional dance moves, forget what they’ve taught you in classical ballet; feel it, live it … fantastic, Jodie!’
    It’s easy enough to dance a story about waking up from a long sleep, of course, because it’s exactly how I feel. As I dance, I can feel the wonder of it all right down to my fingertips. It’s there in every heartbeat, in every breath I take, and that knowledge is exhilarating.
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I ask Sebastien, after class. ‘Why didn’t you say I was doing it all wrong? I’ve wasted years hiding in the shadows, going through the motions, thinking that was enough. Why didn’t somebody TELL me?’
    ‘You weren’t ready to hear,’ Sebastien says.
    Of course, Sebastien had told me, and Sylvie, and even Summer; and in the end I understood. It’s not just true for dance, either. Whatever you care about in life, you have to give it everything – heart and soul.
    Joe Nash is working with our class to create a whole story around the theme of coming back to life, and so our
Spring Awakening
performance is born, with Sebastien and me taking the main roles. Joe is steering the storyline, choosing the music and helping us to create responses that work well, but much of the work is down to us. The result is far less structured than any classical ballet might be; it’s like creating an expressive, abstract painting as opposed to painting by numbers.
    It’s all about freedom, letting go, but instead of making me feel weaker, more vulnerable, it makes me feel stronger than before. It makes me feel like
me
.
    On the afternoon of the performance, I sit in the communal dressing room at the theatre in Plymouth, dressed in a green tutu with a skirt of layered chiffon, green footless tights and a ragged white velvet cloak hung with ribbons of icy blue satin. Tasha is dabbing my face and arms with a base of soft spring green, then painting on curving tendrils of emerald that spiral around my arms and snake up around my neck to flower on my cheeks.
    ‘You’re a work of art,’ Tasha says. ‘Awesome!’
    I look in the mirror, shaking my hair free from its ponytail. There will be no tightly wound ballerina bun for this production. Naomi backcombs my hair to make it bigger, wilder, and Niamh threads it with green ribbons and tiny flowers.
    It feels strange to be the focus of so much attention; for years I have been a shadow girl, waiting in the wings, keeping out of the limelight. Today, that will change. Today, I will be centre stage.
    The thought pours icy water over my confidence, makes my belly curdle with fear. Is this why I held back for so long? Did I know that fear would unravel me at the last minute? Even my hands are shaking.
    ‘I can’t,’ I whisper, but Tasha just laughs and Naomi rolls her eyes and everyone else is too busy putting last minute touches to their own costumes. Panic floods through me, and my mind goes blank; I cannot remember what I am supposed to do, and this time there are no classical