Free Abigail: Through the Looking Glass by Rachel Elliot

tied to the costume and reads the names that are written there. I guess every costume has some history.
    ‘It is ancient,’ she says. ‘My mum wore it. And Olga Boranski. Dame Josie Doran.’
    ‘Yes,’ says Miss Raine. ‘It came over with the
Ballet Russes
– 1936. Superstition says it’s never had so much as a broken thread.’
    Tara is gazing at her image in the mirror. She looks suddenly radiant – as if a light has come on inside her.
    ‘Take good care of it,’ says Miss Raine.
    But it doesn’t matter who wore Tara’s costume in the past if she can’t make it through the dress rehearsal. The lights dim and she runs out onto the stage in her costume. From the wings, I can see that she looks ghostly. She knows – we all know – that if she can’t perform now, she won’t play Clara. I stand and watch, wearing my snowflake costume. Will I soon be wearing my nightgown instead?
    As she begins her first dance, something happens to Tara’s pale face. The same radiance that I saw when she put on the gown brightens it, and she looks suddenly ethereal. I am reminded of the first time Isaw her dance at her best. That day in Miss Raine’s class in audition week seems like many years ago, but there is the same look on her face now – the look of someone who has slipped into another world.
    When she reaches the
arabesque,
she holds it as if she could stand there forever. She has found a way of slowing time and infusing the dance with light, lyrical grace. And I know, long before Sebastian makes it official, that my hopes are finished. If Tara dances like this at the show, the audience won’t be able to take their eyes off her.

CHAPTER 14
    Sometimes I feel as if there are two Abigails. There’s the real me – the one who has worked and developed and learned about friendship and love and teamwork. And then there’s the other me – the girl in the mirror. The one who pulls a face when someone else does well. The one who’s always got a quick comeback, but never seems to understand how other people are feeling.
    It’s the day of the performance and
The Nutcracker
posters have gone up, showing Tara in the nightgown. I don’t want to be mean or have jealous feelings, but every poster I pass makes it worse … and worse … and worse. It’s as if there’s something writhing inside my chest, something dark and spiteful, like a disease, and the only way to get it out of me is to say the things it makes me think.
    No matter what I do or how hard I try, Tara always comes out ahead. How does she manage it? What does she have that I don’t? I remember what Jai said about it being enough that he has done his best, and I want to feel like that too, but those posters just remind me that I can’t match up to her. The writing underneath Tara’s picture might as well say, ‘Abigail isn’t
quite
good enough’.
    When I walk into the dressing room there’s a production runner looking confused.
    ‘Can I help you?’ I ask.
    ‘I don’t know, I’m doing work experience,’ he says. ‘I have to take costumes?’
    I point at the two costume racks.
    ‘That rack’s for side-stage changes,’ I tell him. ‘These are fine to go into storage.’
    The runner starts to wheel the two racks out of the dressing room, and then he spots Tara’s nightgown hanging behind the door.
    ‘And that one?’ he asks.
    Time stops dead. I stare at Tara’s costume. I’ve heard her say that she thinks it’s the nightgown that makes her able to dance Clara so well. Superstition of course – but she believes it.
    It’s not often that you’re given a clear choice, but sometimes you find yourself standing at acrossroads, and that’s where I am now. I open my mouth.
    ‘Storage,’ I say.
    The show has begun, with Tara in her Act One costume. The corridors are full of dancers and stage crew, everyone buzzing with excitement and rushing to complete their jobs on time. I move through the crowds slowly, feeling like I’m swimming against a