Last Dance

  Text copyright © 1982 by Lurlene McDaniel

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Darby Creek

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.

  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  Front cover photo courtesy of Photos.com/JupiterImages Corp.

  copyright © 2005

  Back cover photo courtesy of iStockphoto copyright © 2005

  Cover design by Kelly Rabideau

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McDaniel, Lurlene.

  Last dance / by Lurlene McDaniel.

  p. ; cm.

  ISBN: 978–1–58196–031–0

  Summary: Rachel Deering, an otherwise normal 13-year-old aspiring ballerina from Miami, suddenly finds herself in the hospital, diagnosed with diabetes. Now she needs to learn how to manage her disease, and to cope with being different from all her friends. Will she ever dance again?

  1. Teenage girls—Juvenile fiction. 2. Diabetes—Juvenile fic tion. 3. Ballet dancers—Juvenile fiction. 4. Friendship—Juvenile fiction. [1. Teenage girls —Fiction. 2. Diabetes—Fiction. 3. Ballet dancers— Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Author. III. Uniform title.

  PZ7.M4784172 Las 2005

  [Fic] dc22 OCLC: 60035873

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  2/15/11

  eISBN: 978-0-7613-7390-2 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2785-3 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2786-0 (mobi)

  -ONE-

  “One and two and stretch . . . and down. That’s right! Up . . . up. Work with the inside of your leg. Yes . . . heel forward.”

  The thick accent of Madame Pershoff’s voice hung over the rehearsal hall like a cloud.

  Rachel Deering rose high onto toe and then melted into a grand plié. She was very careful to keep her back straight and aligned. Was she tired! She couldn’t remember a time when she felt less like being at ballet class.

  “Come. Come, ladies!” Madame Pershoff scolded. “Straighten those backs. Hold those muscles!”

  Easy for you to say, Rachel thought irritably. From her position at the barre, she could see the reflection of the white-haired woman sitting on her “throne”—a stiff-backed chair next to the pianist.

  Rachel arched her arm over her head, and then bent to touch her forehead to her knee.

  Oh, great! she thought. I have to go to the bath-room—AGAIN! But she didn’t dare ask to be excused from barre work. Why are ballet dancers expected to have iron bladders? she asked herself.

  Madame Pershoff tapped her silver-headed cane in time with the piano. It pounded on the sleek oak floors in perfect tempo. The sound echoed in Rachel’s ears like a sledgehammer.

  She reflected on what a rotten day it had been so far. Mr. Johnson had passed out a pop quiz in math (which she got only a 60 on). Mrs. Matthews had assigned more than fifty pages of history reading for the night. And Rachel had arrived too late to warm up before ballet class, which was an unpardonable sin to Madame Pershoff of the Corps de Ballet Dance Studio. Rachel barely had time to put on her pointe shoes and leg warmers before Madame started barre exercises.

  Rachel could hardly remember her life before ballet. She’d been a student of Madame Pershoff’s for eight years—ever since she was five years old. At first, it was just something for a cute little girl with bony knees and elbows to do for fun. But it wasn’t long before Rachel knew deep down in her heart that she wanted to be a professional ballerina—more than anything in the world. And no one in Miami could prepare her for that life better than Madame Tasha Pershoff.

  Sometimes Rachel hated the woman. Sometimes she loved her. But always, always, she respected her. And Madame Pershoff wouldn’t have wasted her time on students she didn’t think had real talent. Rachel knew if she wanted to realize her dream, then Madame Pershoff was the only one to help her.

  “Rachel!” Madame Pershoff’s sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. “Are you asleep? Your barre work is very poor today.”

  The words cut through Rachel, and she felt tears spring into her eyes. “I–I’m sorry,” she stammered. Nothing was more embarrassing than being criticized before the entire class. Rachel felt her neck and face flush red.

  The other girls froze in painful silence. They could all appreciate Rachel’s agony.

  “I–I just don’t feel very well today.” She hated herself for saying that. Madame Pershoff disliked complaints about physical problems.

  “Then perhaps you should sit down.”

  “Oh, no. I–I’ll be fine.” Rachel felt like sliding through the floorboards.

  Her instructor glared at her a moment longer, then nodded to the pianist. Miss Lucy began again. “One and two and up and down . . .” Madame Pershoff started in her thick accent.

  It’s no use, Rachel thought miserably. I’m just not with it today. And I HAVE to go to the bathroom. She caught Madame’s eye and motioned towards the door. Then Rachel left the barre and slipped into the tiny dressing room.

  School clothes cluttered the floor. Shirts, jeans, shoes, and books lay in piles and jumbles. Each of Madame Pershoff’s advanced dance students had hurried in from the hot, late-September afternoon and changed into leotards, tights, and pointe shoes.

  Two hours. For as long as Rachel could remember, two hours every day. Four hours on Saturdays. Rehearse. Practice. Except when a dance concert was planned. Then classes were even longer and more demanding.

  And Rachel knew that with Christmas coming up, Madame Pershoff would be planning another concert, a performance to showcase her top students. Rachel’s heart skipped in anticipation. The performances— that’s what made it all worthwhile. To go out on a stage and dance. And then to hear the applause. It was the most exciting feeling in the world! Weeks and weeks of practice for one glorious moment on the stage.

  Rachel hurried to the bathroom and then slipped back into the class. Darn! she thought again. I should have gotten a drink. She had been so thirsty lately. Ever since her bout with the flu two weeks before, Rachel had been feeling lousy. She forced herself to concentrate on the exercises.

  Madame Pershoff halted the exercises— finally—and began working with the girls in pairs. Rachel was glad she was at the far end of the barre.

  Rachel glanced into the mirror only to see the cool blue eyes of Melanie Hallick staring back at her. She quickly looked away, hoping Melanie wouldn’t realize that she wasn’t up to par.

  Darn her anyway, Rachel thought. Beautiful, talented Melanie. Always competing with Melanie for the best dance parts in Madame Pershoff’s concerts. Cold, aloof Melanie. Always giving the impression that she was above them all.

  Oh, they’d been attending the same dance classes for years. They even had a class together at school this year. But Melanie was a loner. Rachel had given up being friendly to her years before. But why did she have to be so pretty?

  Melanie was a classic beauty, Rachel had to admit. Her features reminded Rachel of something the Romans once carved on the front of their temples. Pale blond hair; fine, high cheekbones; ice-blue eyes. She was perfectly proportioned, dainty, fine-boned. Melanie wasn’t a hair over five-feet-four, while Rachel was a good five-foot-seven. It was awful to be so tall and thin sometimes. True, her height did help her look graceful on the dance floor. But it wasn’t much fun being the tallest girl in the entire eight
h grade at Miami Junior High School.

  I wonder if she ever giggles? Rachel brooded. Then she remembered that Melanie had giggled once—at Rachel, when she’d been paired off with Skip Schuster as a debate partner. He’d been a whole four inches shorter than Rachel! How silly they must have looked. Couldn’t teachers see differences in height? Miss Perfect had gotten Brandon Mitchell for a partner. Brandon was only the cutest boy in the school. And he was at least five-foot-nine. Short, pretty Melanie had gotten Brandon as her partner, and tall, skinny Rachel had gotten Skip.

  Rachel glanced up at the clock. Five o’clock. Another half hour to go. And she had to go to the bathroom again. Well, she just wasn’t going to fight it anymore today.

  Rachel stole back into the dressing room and tugged off her dance gear. She slipped on her faded jeans and sandals and took out the pins that held her short brown hair off her forehead. Madame Pershoff thought all dancers should have long hair worn in a bun. But Rachel didn’t like the bother of long hair. And she thought long hair made her look as young as her little sister, Chris.

  Rachel brushed her hair quickly. She wanted to get out of there before the class was dismissed. She just didn’t feel like standing around talking with the other girls today.

  “I hope Mom’s early,” she said aloud as she picked up her books and ballet bag and hurried down the narrow flight of stairs to the street below. Of course, her mom wasn’t there.

  Rachel looked both ways down the crowded Miami sidewalk. No familiar blue car was waiting at the curb. She sighed and slumped down on the bus bench. Well, she was early. Still she felt irritated at her mother. It was hot. It was always hot this time of year in Miami. And it would be hot for another two months.

  I wonder what it would be like to live where it snows, she thought. A white Christmas. Rachel decided to slip into the drugstore and get a Coke. The air conditioning felt refreshing.

  “Well, well, how do you do today, Miss Rachel?” Mr. Santos asked her.

  “Just fine,” she lied.

  “You should take it easy. You look very tired—there are dark circles under your eyes,” he scolded gently.

  Swell! she thought. Now I look like a raccoon. She forced a smile at him and took the paper cup back out to the bus bench.

  Just in time. Her mother’s car halted in front of her. Rachel opened the door and slid onto the seat.

  “How’d it go today, honey?” her mother asked.

  “Just fine.” Rachel thumped her books down on the floor at her feet and quickly opened up her history book. Maybe if she started reading, her mother wouldn’t start talking. And she could ignore the fact that she still needed to go to the bathroom. It worked.

  Mrs. Deering concentrated on the traffic, and the ride home was finished in silence. When the car had barely stopped, Rachel darted out of it and hurried up the winding walk and into air-conditioned house.

  She made it to the bathroom just in time. Then Rachel headed for the comfort and privacy of her bedroom.

  Everything was pale pink and ivory. Her canopy bed and rose-colored carpet were perfect! It had been fun redoing the room for her thirteenth birthday last summer. She lay across the bed and stared over at her posters of Mikhail Baryshnikov and Suzanne Farrell. Dancers’ bodies were so beautiful. Long legs, well-proportioned muscles, graceful necks, slender arms, and proud heads.

  Rachel reached over to turn on her stereo. But her Swan Lake CD was gone! She sat up angrily. Chris! Darn her!

  Rachel bolted out of her room and down the hall to Chris’s room. The little brat was not there.

  “Mom!” Rachel yelled, hurrying into the kitchen. There sat her nine-year-old sister helping her mother make a salad. “Mom, Chris went into my room again. Without my permission!”

  “Did not!” Chris countered.

  “She took my CD,” Rachel snapped. “I want a lock for my door.”

  “Now, girls, stop it. I don’t want your father coming in to all this fussing and fighting.”

  “Ouch!” Chris yelped. “She hit me!”

  “Rachel!” Mrs. Deering snapped. “Now stop it! Chris, don’t go into your sister’s room without permission. And Rachel, stop hitting Chris.”

  “Well, she deserved it.”

  “I bought you that CD for your birthday. I like to listen to it, too,” Chris sulked.

  Rachel glared at her. Skinny little brat. Even after two years of dance classes with Pershoff, Chris lacked the grace and form that Rachel had developed.

  Rachel retreated to her room again and lay across the bed sulking. She was thirsty. The Coke had only made her even thirstier. And she was hungry, too. What a rotten day!

  Maybe she’d call Jenny. Maybe something was happening that would make Rachel feel better. She and Jenny had been best friends since second grade, and in fact, Jenny was her only real friend. Jenny didn’t dance a step, but they had managed to have everything else in common. Besides, Jenny was a real clown. She cracked us all up with her imitation of the principal, Mrs. Brady. Jenny the clown and Rachel the dancer. What a combination!

  Sometimes Rachel envied the easy way Jenny made friends, the way she could become the center of attention by making a crazy face or dropping a hilarious one-liner. Then Rachel frowned, remembering how different things had been between them since Ben had come along.

  Ben Cole had made a beeline for Jenny on the first day of school in September. And he hadn’t let her out of his sight since. At first, Jenny let him tag along, but over the weeks he became so much a part of Rachel and Jenny’s times together that Rachel could hardly recall Life Before Ben. Naturally, Rachel had been hurt a little as Jenny became more and more attached to Ben. But then Rachel’s life had been so consumed with ballet that she could hardly blame Jenny for turning to Ben.

  Besides, Ben was sort of cute, and he and Jenny made a fun combination. I wonder what it would be like to have a boyfriend, Rachel thought. She walked over to her fulllength mirror and gave herself a good, hard look.

  “Dark brown hair, brown eyes . . . pretty ordinary,” she said aloud. Still, she did have the unmistakable carriage of a dancer: straight back, arms that hung gracefully at her sides, the slightly outward-turned feet that sometimes gave her a duck-like walk. “Well, I’m no beauty,” she said with a sigh.

  Still, what would it be like to be kissed? Had Ben kissed Jenny yet? Rachel puckered up her lips and closed her eyes. But all she could conjure up was Ben. No, no. That wouldn’t do. Brandon! Wow. What would it be like to kiss Brandon?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a tap on her door.

  “Yes?” she said sheepishly, heading for the door.

  “Rachel, it’s me,” her mother said. “Madame Pershoff just called. I need to speak with you.”

  Rachel opened the door and her mother came inside.

  “Madame Pershoff said you left class early today.”

  Why did her mother always make her feel defensive? “I was thirsty. I didn’t leave that early,” Rachel finished.

  “Honey, I don’t care,” said Nancy Deering in that voice that meant, “I do care.” “Anyway, she said that you missed her announcement about this year’s dance concert. She’s holding it downtown at the old Olympus Theater. She hopes that an old friend of hers will be there from an important ballet school. Oh, Rachel, she’s only asking her four best students to try out for the lead. She wants you, Pat, Melanie, and Jill to prepare for the dying swan solo in Swan Lake, and she’ll choose one of you. Oh, Rachel! Isn’t it exciting? I know you can get the part.”

  Rachel felt her heart leap. Swan Lake! Every ballerina’s dream! She could imagine herself in the satiny costume, the layered skirt, the feathered headpiece. The stage. The lights. And the music! Pat and Jill—they shouldn’t be too hard to beat out. But Melanie! That was going to be a challenge.

  “Oh, Mom,” Rachel said, jumping up from her bed, “I want that part. More than anything—I want that part!”

  -TWO-

  “Rachel, for goodness sake,” s
aid Mr. Deering. “Take it easy! That’s the third glass of orange juice you’ve gulped down this morning.”

  Rachel glanced over at her father and smiled half-heartedly. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m just extra thirsty today.” She still felt terrible, but she didn’t want her parents to know. They might make her stay home from school, and if she didn’t go to school, she couldn’t go to dance class. She’d been planning to attend extra night classes since she’d learned about the Swan Lake part.

  After all, she’d barely practiced at all yesterday, so she had a lot of making up to do. Rachel buttered her toast and glanced over at her dad. She always thought he was the most handsome man in the world. Richard Deering was tall, distinguished, and slightly graying at his temples. Rachel bet he was the best lawyer in Miami.

  Rachel’s mom came into the dining room. “Honey, don’t you want more eggs?”

  “No, thanks,” Mr. Deering said.

  “Where’s Chris?” Mrs. Deering asked Rachel.

  “No idea,” Rachel murmured.

  Just then Chris ran breathlessly into the room.

  “You’re late,” her mother scolded.

  “Well, Rachel hogged the bathroom all morning—”

  “I did not!” Rachel shot back.

  “Now, girls . . . ,” their father began.

  “Rachel, you’ve been spending a lot of extra time in there lately,” Mrs. Deering said. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Well, of course, I am.” Rachel shot an angry glance at her sister. “I’ve got to go now. Don’t want to be late. Bye, Dad.” She kissed his forehead.

  “Bye, Mom.” She snatched her books and darted out the front door before they had time to react.

  It was a short walk to the bus stop, and she was already tired before she got there. What was wrong with her anyway?

  The cafeteria was noisy as usual. Rachel sat there pushing the food around on her tray. Ugh! Sloppy Joes—greasy and completely unappetizing. She’d already finished her milk, but she was still thirsty.

  “Want your juice?” she asked Jenny.