Dancing in the Dark E-Book

P.R. Prendergast

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Things haven't been easy for Jessie since her brother James - sports star and popular kid - died. Her mum and dad are lost in grief and she's feeling isolated at school; when the popular girls on her dance team give her a hard time, she just can't seem to remember the routines … … and Jessie can still see James. Talk to him, or quarrel with him, more like! They always bickered when James was alive, so why change now? But James might turn out to be her unlikely saviour. Along with Alan, the dorky new boy, can he give Jessie the confidence to show the rest of the dance team what she's got … and help her and her parents on the road towards healing? Funny, sharp and poignant, a story about living with a ghost, and the pain of letting go.  

Leseprobe

Reviews

Dancing in the Dark

Shortlisted for the Bisto Children’s Book of the Year Award 2011

‘Dancing in the Dark is a compelling, deeply affecting read. Prendergast has captured such an authentic teenage girl’s voice … Certainly one of the best Irish teen novels I’ve read this year and bang on the zeitgeist.’ Sarah Webb, author of the‘Amy Green’ series

‘A very imaginative story with authentic teen dialogue …’ Irish Examiner

‘Prendergast’s refreshingly original take on family grief and teenage relationships in contemporary Dublin tackles these sensitive subjects with openness and honesty’ Bookfest

‘Prendergast’s … insights into the many facets of family grieving are perceptive and sympathetic’ booksforkeeps.co.uk

‘Jessie’s relationship with her dead brother is fabulously portrayed and as comical as it is moving’ Chicklish

As ever, for Trish, Conor, Joe and Orla

Contents

ReviewsTitle PageDedicationAuthor’s Note123456789101112About the AuthorCopyrightOther Books

Author’s Note

Dancing in the Dark began its life as a musical, to be performed by the Fifth Form at the school where I teach. I had hoped to write a story that offered exciting roles for both boys and girls, for kids who could sing and for those who couldn’t, and which might accurately reflect teenage life. The play was an overwhelming success, but after the final curtain came down I was left thinking about the characters and wondering if I had made the most of that story. Without the constraint of writing a musical, something at which I had no prior experience, could I have told the story in a richer and more challenging way? This novel is an attempt to do that. I hope you enjoy it.

P.R. Prendergast

1

Nine-thirty, getting towards the end of my homework and James appears. And when I say appears, I mean appears.

‘Hey up, little sis,’ he says.

Cat got my tongue? he wants to know. Or maybe I’m just pretending not to hear him.

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘how come I see more of you now than I did when you were alive?’

I ask him is there anyone else and he says anyone else who? Anyone else that you appear to, you moron? That you pester. Maybe that was my mistake, after all – I answered him. The trick would have been to stay shtum, wait for him to hoof off again.

‘That how it works?’ I ask. ‘You just say something to someone and they hear you? What about the old pair?’

‘What about them?’

‘Why not treat them to your sparkling wit?’

‘It would upset them too much,’ he says. ‘They have to get used to living without me.’

‘And I don’t?’

‘You find this upsetting?’ he wants to know.

‘I find it irritating.’

‘Well, if that’s the case I’ll take myself off,’ he says and before I can say, Don’t let me keep you, he’s gone, puff, just vanished into thin air.

I sit and stare at the space he’s just vacated and wonder if that’s the last I’ve seen of him. Wouldn’t that be something!

Only of course it’s not.

Two minutes later and he’s back again.

‘Hey up,’ he says again.

‘Long time no see.’

He makes as if to flick through my book, only his hand passes through it.

‘What’s this? History? Don’t worry about history,’ he says. ‘It all happened years ago.’ He points to a sheet of paper on my desk. ‘What’s this?’

‘We’ve to write a poem.’

‘A poem?’

‘English class. A limerick. Five lines, minimum number of rhymes – two. Want to hear?’

‘Sure,’ he says and then he does this big cough like he’s clearing his throat and he introduces me. ‘Poem, by Jessie Dunn,’ he says.

‘Okay then.’ I pretend to read, but I’m really making it up. And I start. ‘There’s nothing quite as useless as a brother,’ I tell him.

‘That the first line?’

‘You like it?’

‘Not bad.’

‘If anyone’s to blame, it’s his mother.’

‘Good one,’ he says.

‘Look underneath your seat––’

‘Go on.’

‘You find his smelly size twelve feet––’

‘I like it.’

‘And now I’m rid of him I sure don’t want another.’

He just looks at me with that big dopey grin of his. He looks ridiculous, still in the rugby gear he died in, only with his black school shoes underneath.

‘Do you not have anywhere else to be?’ I ask. ‘I’ve to do my dance practice.’

He tells me that I’m already practising.

‘Sorry?’

‘Sitting. All they ever let you do is sit on the bench so you’re doing fine as you are.’

‘Well, maybe if I practise some more they might let me dance,’ I tell him.

‘It must be such a disappointment to Mum and Dad,’ he says and he looks away into the distance like he’s remembering something from years ago. ‘Your brother having been such a star and all. He feints, he sees the gap, he goes. Remember how good I was? I lit up that school, let me tell you. One sway of these hips and the guy who was marking me would buy the dummy and so did the other players, they bought it and even my own team mates and the crowd, they’d all shift slightly––’

‘Is there not someone over there on your side of things who’d be happy to listen to this stuff?’ I ask him.

He shrugs. ‘I wish there was.’

‘Because I had a bellyful of it when you were alive and I don’t see why I should have to listen to it now. I’ll tell you what, I’ll just close my eyes and count to ten and then when I open them you’ll be gone. How about that?’

‘You really want me to go?’

‘See? I knew you’d get it. That bang on the head really sharpened you up.’

‘No pretence then.’

‘That’s right. No pretence. We never got along when you were alive, did we? So why should we get along now? We both know where we stand.’

‘You said it, Jess. We both know.’

I close my eyes and wait. Is he gone yet? Time’s ticking and there’s some dance moves I need to practise for tomorrow. Mum and Dad are downstairs watching telly, Mum on the couch, Dad in the armchair, both, as you might imagine, overwhelmed with grief by the loss of their eldest child, their only son. Six months next Tuesday. Back when it happened every minute was like slow drip torture and you think they’ll never pass, but they do, the minutes passing into hours, the days into weeks, all the while you think it might get easier. Only it never does. Then finally into months. Six of them. Hard to believe that we could have spent six months without James, but we have. His helmet was hanging from the handlebars of his bike, that was the stupidest thing.

There was a strong family resemblance between James and Dad, the same chunkiness of build, the same lego-shaped head perfect for slotting into a scrum. Dad’s a former rugby international himself. And Mum? Well, there are no words for what Mum’s going through at the moment. Want to know what she does? She exists. She breathes in and she breathes out. One day and then the next. Pack lunch for school, dinner at six, I always have clean clothes. She functions. But pick any moment of the day and she’s thinking of James or she’s just been thinking of James or she’s just about to think of James. I hear her ask about other people, how they’re getting on, how their kids are. And she’s interested. She’s that sort of person. She wants to know. But most of her died that evening with James. ‘Shellmum’, that’s what I call her. Tip her and she might crack. Shellmum and Shelldad, the shellparents.

Most of the time I just don’t know what to say to them.

When I open my eyes James has finally shoved off with himself.

Less than a fortnight until the national finals. Most of the time I think, Thank God I’m only a sub. The pressure would be too much for me. I flick on the music and begin to dance.

2

Cereal for brekkie. I could of course tell them, I suppose. Dad with his noggin stuck in the paper, but Mum would listen. It was always me and Mum. Stands to reason with a couple of rugby meatheads in the family, the pair of them heading off to matches or training or else stuck in front of the box discussing the timing of the pass or some such waffle.

Hey, Mum? I could say.

Yes, love?

Only what then? James came back last night? He comes every night, I could tell them. He’s in my room right now if you want to nip up and say hello.

And they’d have me carted off to the nuthouse.

Breakfast used to be pretty lively around here, James full of guff like he always was, stuffing toast down his gob and looking for his rugby gear. Dad trying to read the paper from the day before. Mum and I always had things to talk about. School, for instance, or the characters she worked with, or ER or Grey’s Anatomy or some film we’d watched together.

We still talk, of course. But it’s different now. Her voice is different; there’s a real deadness to it. Soon I won’t be able to remember how she used to sound. That’s one of the worst things, I’m afraid. Sometimes I wonder if she will ever manage to give herself fully to anything again.