To those who strive toward social justice with a helpful, hopeful heart and an open, optimistic mind.
And to you, dear reader. When you feel alone or lost, may a book be your trusted friend, a connection to grace, and an emotional road map that leads you home.
An older sister is a friend and defender—
a listener, conspirator, a counselor and a sharer of delights. And sorrows too.
—PAM BROWN
A Bad Beginning
MONDAY I GOT KICKED OUT of ballet school.
Not just a class, mind you. Apparently, what I did was bad enough to get me banned from the entire school for the rest of my life.
Maybe I should have listened to Miss Delilah, the school’s owner, when my sister, Georgia, signed me up at the beginning of August, three weeks before school began.
“Cleveland, dear.” Miss Delilah stared at me over the frames of her eyeglasses. “You should start in the beginner class, since you don’t have other dance experience.”
I didn’t tell Miss Delilah how Georgia and I used to dance like no one was watching. (Until we discovered the creepy neighbor boy, Jacob Andrews, was actually watching. He peeked at us through the window of our trailer because he had a big, heart-busting crush on Georgia. Luckily for us, Jacob and his family moved to a remote Alaskan island for his mom’s job as a geologist, where the only things he’d be spying on were snow, melting ice, and polar bears, which was really good news unless you were a polar bear who liked its privacy.)
I also didn’t tell Miss Delilah there was no way—pas question—I’d go into a class filled with babies who picked their noses and fell over sideways when they tried to stand in third position. I had learned about ballet positions, posture, poise, and other important things online, so I’d be prepared to enter the advanced class for girls my age. I’d been practicing in front of the mirror in our bedroom.
Tugging on the sides of my red beret, I kept my back pencil straight, like I figured French girls were trained to do when talking to the heads of their dance schools. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather take a class with girls my age.”
Miss Delilah contorted her face in a very unflattering way, as though she were trying to hold in a toot. “Cleveland, I’m sure you’re very talented, but it’s my professional opinion—”
“If Cleveland wants to be with girls her age,” Georgia interjected, “that’s where she should be.” Then my sister opened her I VERMONT wallet, which she bought because she planned to attend the University of Vermont the following year, and she pulled out a bunch of twenty-dollar bills that I knew came from her job cashiering at Weezie’s Market and Flower Emporium.
Georgia had to scan a lot of cans of creamed corn to earn that much cash. I would’ve had the money to pay for the class myself if only…
“Here’s the fee for the advanced class,” Georgia said.
I felt like a balloon filled almost to bursting. Thank you, Georgia!
“Okay, Cleveland,” Miss Delilah said. “Let’s head over to the studio and see what you already know.”
Georgia and I followed her to a room with a mirrored wall and a barre along the opposite wall. It felt so official that I got twelve kinds of tingly.
I stood in the middle of the dance floor while Georgia hung back by the door, her arms crossed, like she was daring Miss Delilah to say one mean thing to me. Everyone should have a big sister like Georgia. She’s protected me like the secret service since I was in kindergarten and Joey Switzer put a worm down my shirt. Let’s just say that boy hasn’t even looked at me sideways since Georgia, who was in fifth grade at the time, had a little chat with him at recess. We Potts girls stick together and look out for each other like that.
Miss Delilah held on to the barre and faced me. Her posture was stick-straight like the women in the videos. “Demonstrate first position, please.”
I held myself tall and turned my feet out in my best first position, wishing I were wearing ballet slippers instead of my ratty old sneakers, with holes forming near the pinkie toes. I hoped Miss Delilah didn’t notice.
She didn’t seem bothered by my sneakers. “Fine. Second position, please.”
I moved my legs apart and held my arms out, like they were delicate feathers about to float down to my sides.
“Third position.”
This one was tougher, because I don’t think feet are meant to turn so far in the opposite direction, but I did it and forced myself to smile like I saw a ballerina do in a book called Ballet for Beginners. I’d be able to do a better job when I was wearing a leotard and tights instead of shorts and a T-shirt, but I guessed I was doing all right because I peeked up at Georgia, and she nodded. I could tell from how happy she looked that she was proud of me.
That filled me up, squeezed out the nervousness.
“Let’s head back to my office now, girls.”
Georgia and I sat on the same chairs in front of Miss Delilah’s desk as when we first came in.
“Well then.” Miss Delilah lowered herself into her seat and folded her hands. “I suppose we could put Cleveland in the class with girls her age. At least she’ll be starting at the beginning of the year with everyone else. Classes start the same day school begins.” Miss Delilah removed her eyeglasses and let them hang on a beaded chain around her neck, then rubbed the bridge of her nose, like she was trying to relieve a headache. “Even if Cleveland’s willing to work diligently, I still don’t think advanced ballet is the best—”
“Thanks so much,” Georgia said, cutting her off before she could say something my sister didn’t want to hear.
“Yeah, thanks,” I offered. Joy bubbled inside me because I had the forethought to learn the ballet positions online so I didn’t look like an imbécile in front of Miss Delilah when she tested me. It felt like when a teacher gave a surprise quiz in school and I knew all the answers.
“The permission form and contract require a parent’s signature,” Miss Delilah said.
Georgia pulled out the forms Mom had signed last night. “We printed them from your website.”
What my sister didn’t say was we printed the forms at the Sassafras Public Library on Main Street and Third Avenue, because we didn’t have a printer at home, and we had only Georgia’s old laptop, which Mom and I borrowed when we needed to.
“All righty then.”
When Miss Delilah got up to file the forms in a cabinet, Georgia flashed me a thumbs-up and winked.
I tried to wink back, but both eyes closed at the same time. I stunk at winking. It didn’t matter. I was going to be a ballerina! I imagined myself wearing a black leotard and pink tights and spinning, spinning like the ballerinas I watched and read about. I wondered if there would be any boys in the class whose job it would be to throw us into the air. That might be fun, as long as they didn’t drop us because we weighed too much for their scrawny muscles. Maybe we could toss the boys into the air instead. The thought made me giggle, so I covered my mouth.
Miss Delilah’s lips moved as she silently counted my sister’s cash. “The class costs a hundred dollars, plus the registration fee for new students. You owe me twenty more dollars.” She held out her palm, fingers spread.
Georgia dug into her wallet and plucked out one more crumpled bill, which she dropped into Miss Delilah’s hand.
I’m sorry, I wanted to say. It wasn’t my fault I didn’t have the money to pay for the class myself. A bolt of anger sizzled through me. Then guilt stabbed at my stomach for feeling angry. I knew things were hard for Dad right now, so I felt uncomfortable every time I got angry with him. But really, things were difficult for all of us because of what he’d done. And that made me angry all over again. I let out a slow breath, hoping the anger would leak out with it.
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nbsp; The corners of Miss Delilah’s mouth rose slightly. “Cleveland, we look forward to your joining our little family here at Miss Delilah’s School of Dance and Fine Pottery.”
Even though I already had a family and didn’t want to be part of Miss Delilah’s, a tingle zinged along my spine. I felt better. The first item on my Paris Project list was about to be accomplished and checked off. Only five more items to go, and then I’d be on my way to Paris, France. I could practically smell the warm, buttery croissant I’d nibble as I strolled past the Eiffel Tower, breathing in all that refreshing Paris air. Everything about going to school and living in Paris would be a thousand times better than doing those things here in Sassafras, Florida, where people could be downright nasty for no good reason. Plus, it wouldn’t be so blasted hot in Paris. I checked. In Sassafras in August, it’s a disgusting average eighty-two degrees of pure humidity. The average August temperature in Paris is seventy-five degrees of pure perfection. I couldn’t wait.
Life in Paris would be magnifique!
Things were finally going like they were supposed to.
Until Jenna Finch and her stupid pinkie toe had to go and ruin everything.
Oh la la la la! (Which, for your information, actually means “Oh no no no no!”)
The Truth about What Happened to the Paris Project Money
MY FASCINATION/OBSESSION WITH PARIS, FRANCE, started when I was little and Mom read me the Madeline picture books from the library. I’m looking at you, Miss Clavel. I could tell how much Mom wished she could travel to Paris by the way she pointed out each landmark—the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, the Luxembourg Gardens—and then looked into the distance and let out a slow sigh, like she was imagining herself there. It made me want to visit them too.
When I was in fourth and fifth grade, I’d pore over Mom’s travel magazines and books, focusing on everything I could find about Paris. I even discovered an old book from one of the library book sales in the back of a kitchen drawer. It had black-and-white aerial photos of the entire city. I’d examine the photos and let out a long, slow sigh like Mom used to when she read Madeline. “I’d sure love to get to Paris someday,” I’d tell her.
Mom would nod, her dark, curly hair bobbing. “Doesn’t cost anything to dream, Cleveland. I’ve been doing it all my life.”
I didn’t want to only dream about going to Paris. I needed to figure out a way to get there, especially after starting Sassafras Middle School last year. Elementary school was great, so I’d thought middle school would be more of the same. Nope!
From the first day of sixth grade, Jenna Finch decided not to be friends with me anymore. And I don’t even know what I did wrong, other than keep living at Sunny Smiles Trailer Park with the faded happy face on the sign at the entrance, while Jenna and her family moved from two trailers down to a big house on the hill the summer before middle school started. It wasn’t even like they earned that big house. Everyone knew they got it because Jenna’s granny won a ton of money in a lawsuit when she got hit by a bus and ended up in a wheelchair. I was sorry for what happened to her granny, but moving to that house changed Jenna. She stopped talking to me. Whenever I asked about hanging out, she was busy. When we finally got to middle school, where I needed her more than ever, she chose to hang out with the rich girls and pretended I was 100 percent invisible.
Sometimes I wondered if I was.
It hurt eating lunch by myself in a new school and watching my former friend talking and laughing with a bunch of other girls. And my other good friend, Declan Maguire, had another lunch period, since he was a grade older than me. Sitting alone did give me plenty of time to hatch my plan. That was when I decided the only solution was getting away from Sassafras Middle School. Far, far away: 4,498 miles (7,239 kilometers), to be exact. That’s the distance between Sassafras and Paris. I checked.
I created a real plan—the Paris Project—that involved the American School of Paris and me getting a scholarship so I could attend. There were a bunch of other things I’d need to do, but if I followed each step of the plan, I knew I’d make it happen.
When I earned that scholarship and enough money to move to Paris, I’d find a way to pay for Mom to visit me there. Together, we’d explore the famous art museum the Louvre, and smile at Mona Lisa or stick out our tongues, depending on what kind of mood we were in. Then, when we got tired of looking at all that great art, we’d find an outdoor café and eat French pastries and drink cups of café au lait, pointing our pinkie fingers out while we drank. Mom deserved a fun, fancy vacation like that. And we’d have no problem finding a place to do that, because there are approximately seven thousand cafés in Paris, unlike in Sassafras, where there are approximately zero, unless you count the outdoor tables at the McDonald’s on Route 40.
Taking ballet lessons (to acquire some culture) was the first item on my Paris Project list. Before I could start ballet class, though, Miss Delilah let me know I needed to purchase certain required items, which she conveniently sold behind a counter at her school.
So I walked through the blazing August heat to Miss Delilah’s the day after Georgia signed me up, and picked out a pair of pink tights, a black leotard, and ballet shoes in size ten. Georgia and I inherited our dad’s huge feet. He wore size twelve, which is like a woman’s thirteen and a half. She wore size eleven. Tellement gros! So big! I also got Dad’s whisper-fine blond hair, but Georgia inherited Mom’s thick, curly black hair. Lucky!
Miss Delilah held out a small box of bobby pins too. “You’ll need these, Cleveland, to pin your hair up for class. It looks too short for a bun.”
My hair was definitely too short for a bun. It was too short to do anything but sit on my head and be boring, but I didn’t want to spend more money than absolutely necessary.
Miss Delilah stood behind the counter with the bobby-pin box in her hand, waiting.
“Okay. Thanks.” I put the box onto my pile of ballet clothes. “How much will that be altogether?”
I held my breath while she added it up. There were exactly eighty dollars squished into my pocket, everything I’d been able to save from my dog-walking business after Dad—
Turns out my three customers dropped me like a hot potato after what happened to Dad was written about in the Sassafras Star Gazette. Luckily, I got a new customer at the beginning of July when I put up a sign on the bulletin board near the community pool. It was Declan’s idea to put up the sign, because I wasn’t in the mood to do much of anything then. The people who called me had just moved into our neighborhood and needed someone to walk their dog on weekday afternoons. It was perfect. They hadn’t been told yet to worry about trusting anyone from the Potts family with their house key.
Now my hands squeezed into fists so hard my half-chewed fingernails dug into my palms and made painful half-moons there.
“Fifty-eight dollars and sixty-seven cents,” Miss Delilah said. “Unless you want to add an extra pair of tights. Those things sometimes get runs, and you can’t wear tights with runs to class.”
“I’ll be real careful.”
“All righty then.”
I forced a smile as I handed all that cash to Miss Delilah.
“Thank you, Cleveland.” She gave me the change and patted my hand. “See you at our first class in a few weeks.”
I took my paper bag and held it to my chest. “See you then.”
As I left the dance school and walked past the other stores along the strip mall, even the auto supply store, I felt good, like I belonged to something important—a ballet class—and I had the special clothes in a bag to prove it. I was going to experience culture. I was going to make it to Paris!
But as I walked farther, past the cemetery and the big vacant lot and through the center of town, that good feeling seeped away. It was replaced by a niggling feeling of anger that grew into something jagged inside me. When I passed the diner at Main Street and Second Avenue, a block down from the library, I was convinced the old people eating there were staring at me through
the front window and talking about me. About my dad.
What Dad did was big news in our boring town. I wish he could have become famous for doing something good, like creating the world’s funniest joke or curing cancer or swimming the English Channel, which is twenty-two miles of water between England and France, instead of what he actually did.
I breathed hard through my nose and stomped forward, clutching my new ballet clothes. Sweat stung my eyes and ran in droplets off the tip of my nose, but I didn’t care. I kicked a rock on the sidewalk. It struck a stop-sign pole with a satisfying clink.
Deep inside, a scream waited to explode. I’d saved $960 from the dog-walking business that I started last March. Three different customers with one dog walk every afternoon at twenty dollars per week. It was great money, and I loved spending time with the dogs, except for one little yappy guy named Mr. Bossypants. I’d saved almost a thousand dollars! That’s a lot of dog walking in the heat and a lot of poop picking up. That’s a lot of time and energy.
I’d still have that money for my Paris Project if my dad hadn’t gone into my room that Saturday, June 20, when I was at Declan’s house, telling him how sad I was about what was going to happen to my dad in exactly ten days. If Dad hadn’t pried open my Eiffel Tower tin—the one he’d given me for my eleventh birthday and knew I was using to store my dog-walking money—and stolen every dollar out of it. He was probably surprised by how much was in there, because I hadn’t told my parents how much I’d earned. I was thinking of asking if I could open a bank account for the money and wish I’d done that, because now it was gone.
How was I supposed to get out of Sassafras without that money? And staying here had become a thousand times harder with everyone looking at us sideways or away from us, which was even worse.
My breathing came in ragged gasps, and I felt unsteady, like I might topple over, so I sat on a bus bench and put my head in my hands with the paper bag beside me. I practiced the slow breathing Georgia taught me to do when I got upset, but it wasn’t working. The memory rushed in.
The Paris Project Page 1