The Other Me Read Online Free PDF

voice casual. ‘You could be the teacher. Show me some moves.’
    ‘Positions,’ she corrects, standing taller.
    We get a chair and arrange it in the middle of the floor. I place my hand on it and hold my other arm out to the side; Amber kneels at my feet, pulling my heels together and pushing my toes apart. It hurts. She makes tut-tut noises when I complain, standing to demonstrate how I should be doing it.
    ‘Come along,’ she says in a strict voice. ‘Stomach in. Chin up.’
    She teaches me five different positions. She prods my tummy and smacks my arm with my ruler if I drop my hand.
    ‘Dance teachers are always mean,’ she explains. ‘Otherwise you never learn anything.’
    She yawns as I fail to master an arabesque, her mouth opening so wide I hear her jaw crack. I wobble lopsidedly. She fidgets, tapping her fingers on her folded arms while I struggle to stand on one leg with the other pointing out behind me. My ankle trembles as I flail my arms like a dying crow, flapping to stay upright.
    Amber sighs, collapsing onto the bed. ‘Have you got any music?’ She pushes her hair behind her ears. ‘I want to do some dancing too.’
    I’m not allowed to touch my father’s opera records, or the record player. But he’s not here and Mum is shut in the kitchen with the radio on, busy with supper. Smells of fish and frying butter waft through the house. I look at Amber’s expectant face, and nod.
    In the living room I squat on my haunches to flick through the records with nervous fingers. There’s one at the back that has ‘Duke Ellington’ written on it in big red letters. I think it’s one of the records that Uncle Ernst used to put on. It won’t have been used for years. I slide it out of its paper cover; Dad won’t mind me playing it.
    I lower the needle carefully. The melody pulses into the room with a wink and an explosion of trumpets. Amber frowns. ‘That’s not proper ballet music.’ She puts her hands on her hips.
    ‘It’s fun, though,’ I suggest, ‘don’t you think? We could dance together.’
    I grab her, feeling brave, and begin to step backwards and forwards like I’ve seen jive dancers do in films. She gasps, stumbles and squeezes my fingers. Then she’s stepping in time with me, and we’re moving to the rhythm. She laughs and suddenly we’re dancing. She turns me under her arm and I spin round and round on the carpet. Amber’s face flashes past. The living room blurs. My skirt flies up.
    ‘Klaudia!’
    My father is in the doorway. He strides past and grabs the needle, stopping the music with an abrupt screech. He turns to me.
    ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ His face is mottled, his eyeballs press forwards, round and hard as marbles.
    ‘Sorry.’ I hang my head.
    Next to me, I sense Amber tighten, as if glue stiffens her spine.
    ‘It’s immoral music. Foolish rubbish.’ He stands over us. ‘Making a spectacle of yourself.’ He swings up his arm and I flinch. He’s pointing to the door. ‘Go to your room.’
    Amber is staring at my father, the caretaker, the Nazi; her mouth slackens, and her eyebrows move across her forehead in horrified wonder. The space between us seals itself shut. When she does look at me, I see a kind of pity behind her righteous, shocked anger. She holds herself apart, dignified and wounded. Liar , her silent mouth whispers. I didn’t lie, I want to protest. Not really. Neither of us speaks. She stands with her face averted.
    My father leaves the room. He holds the jazz record by the very edge, pinching with sharp fingers. His anger hangs over us, a suffocating blanket.
    ‘I have to go home now,’ she says in a distant voice. Her eyes are bright with my secret. She walks through the house as if the floor is seething with snakes, as if the furniture crouches to spring at her.
    Everyone will know on Monday.
     
    Mum puts my plate in front of me and sits down at the other side of the table. It’s just the two of us, so she bows her head.