“Do we have any celery?” I ask Mom.
She looks surprised. None of us kids typically come into the kitchen begging for vegetables.
“I think so—let’s see.”
She finds some in the refrigerator.
“I’ll wash some and cut it up for you,” she says. “How much do you want?”
“A lot,” I say. “Maybe all of it.”
She cuts four celery sticks, and I start chomping. “Do you have a scarf?”
Mom puts the knife in the dishwasher. “What’s all this about?”
“Nothing,” I reply.
She looks at me skeptically. “I have some old scarves in my top dresser drawer. Help yourself,” she says.
I race up and get a scarf, a pretty one with red flowers on it.
Pliés. I need to do five hundred pliés.
I drag one of the dining room chairs up to my room. I turn it to face away from me and grab the back as if it were a ballet barre. Then I begin doing pliés.
One…
Two…
By thirty, my legs are starting to hurt.
By fifty, they feel like spaghetti.
I stop pliéing and check the book again. Maybe I read it wrong.
Nope. It says five hundred.
Fine. I am determined. If five hundred pliés is what it takes, that’s what I’m going to do.
This isn’t really a class, but it occurs to me that maybe I should wear the lucky scarf, just in case.
I tie it around my neck.
Then I plié again. And again. And again.
Before I go to bed, I eat more celery. Then I sing a lullaby Mom used to sing to us.
I sing it twice, just to make sure.
Chapter 8
The next morning, I open my eyes and realize it’s here—Miss Camilla Day.
I try to stand up. My legs slide out from under me.
“Ow!” I say.
Jessica comes running. “What is it?”
“I just slipped,” I lie.
She helps me up. I can barely stand. I wobble around on unsteady legs that feel as if someone had run them through one of those old-fashioned clothes wringers.
Everything else goes wrong, too.
I go into Mason’s room and see that one of his toy soldiers is attached to a soggy, mud-covered piece of red fabric.
“That’s my lucky scarf!” I say.
Mason looks up from his book. “It is? I found it in the bathroom. My soldier needed a parachute.” He looks nervous, as if he thinks I might explode (which I might).
“How did it get all muddy?” I wail, looking at the crumpled scarf.
“The soldier had to parachute into a mud puddle,” Mason says. “It was an important mission. I’m sorry, Jerzey.”
I wobble into the kitchen to eat my four celery stalks, but all the celery’s gone.
“Mason ate most of it, then said he needed the rest for a science experiment,” Dad says. “Something about food coloring and…”
I walk away in the middle of his sentence, but Dad probably doesn’t even notice.
“Can you hold Shakespeare while I clean his cage?” Jessica asks as I wobble by her room.
I sigh and take the white rat gingerly into my hands. Then I remember.
“He has fur! He’s a furry animal!”
I thrust him back at Jessica. She looks at me like I’m crazy. I run out of the room and wash my hands seven times, hoping I can wash the bad luck off.
Only two hours till class. I sing the lullaby fifty times in a row.
In her book, Miss Camilla talks about how important it is to have a tidy appearance during dance class. It is a sign of respect for the ballet, and for your fellow dancers, she writes.
So I make sure that my ballet outfit is 100 percent perfect. Before bed last night, I washed out my favorite white tights by hand in the bathroom sink. Last time I put tights in the laundry, they came out streaked with orange and purple. Mason had left two crayons in the pocket of one of his shirts, and they melted all over everything in the dryer. This time, I didn’t take any chances.
I put on the tights and my pink leotard, making sure that the sleeves are exactly even. I notice a tiny thread hanging from one seam and snip it off. I arrange my hair in two poufs on the top of my head and spend twenty minutes tying pink ribbons—ribbons that match the leotard perfectly—into perfect bows around the poufs.
I stand back and look in the mirror. Everything is exactly right. Miss Camilla will have to notice how perfectly I’m dressed. She will know how much I respect the ballet—just like she does. I hum the lullaby again as insurance just as Jessica calls upstairs to say it’s time to go.
Dad walks us all to class—JoAnn, Jessica, Mason, and me. JoAnn leads the way with Mason, who is bouncing his basketball. Jessica and I follow them, and Dad strolls behind us, his hands in his pockets. When I glance back, I see the Thinking Look on his face. He’s staring off into the distance, looking slightly puzzled, as though he were trying to remember the name of someone he met a long time ago. This means he’s planning stuff for his classes. It also means that if we want his attention, we’ll have to holler at him a few times to bring him back to reality. We could probably all be abducted by aliens without his noticing, unless the aliens had a particularly interesting African mask with them.
“Cut it out, JoAnn!” Mason says. JoAnn is trying to get the ball away from him so she can dribble, too. He pulls away from her and dribbles the ball over to Jessica and me.
Mason reaches over to me, and I take his right hand. It feels warm and small inside mine. He dribbles with his left hand as we walk. For a minute I think it’s actually not so bad having a little brother.
But only for a minute. Because right then, Mason’s ball bounces on an uneven part of the sidewalk and gets away from him. He lunges after it, dragging me along, and before I know it I’m flat on my face on the sidewalk.
Chapter 9
Everyone stops. Jessica helps me up. JoAnn picks up my dance bag, which I’ve dropped, and Dad races over.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, looking me over.
My heart is pounding. I look down at my limbs and move them experimentally. There’s a big hole in the right knee of my tights—my once-perfect, once-clean, favorite tights. My knee looks as if it had been shredded by a cheese grater. It stings like crazy. I blink back tears as blood seeps out onto the fabric.
“My tights are ripped, and they’re all bloody,” I say.
Dad hugs me. “That doesn’t matter, honey.
We’ll get you some new ones. As long as you’re okay.”
But it does matter.
We start walking again.
“I’m sorry, Jerzey,” Mason says in a small voice. He walks right behind Jessica and me, hugging his basketball contritely (a word that means he does it as if he’s sorry—even though I think it’s better not to knock your sister over in the first place than to be sorry after you’ve done it).
“I hope Miss Camilla doesn’t notice the hole in my tights,” I say to Jessica. I lean over and see the hole getting slightly bigger as I walk.
She examines it. “I don’t think she will. You can hardly see it,” she says, patting my arm.
When we get to the school, Dad walks us inside, borrows the first-aid kit from the main desk, and cleans up my knee. As the other girls come into the waiting room, they stop to watch. Brenda offers Dad some tips on wound disinfection, which he does not seem to find very helpful. I just want to disappear. Instead, I feel like a patient in one of those medical TV shows.
“All right, girls,” Dad says when he’s finally done. “Epatha’s sister will walk you home.” He leaves just as Ms. Debbé calls us into class.
“Is Miss Camilla here yet?” Epatha asks, craning her neck as we enter the studio.
“Do you think she’ll remember us?” asks Jessica.
“Of course she will,” says Epatha.
“I know she’ll remember me,” says Brenda nervo
usly.
“Mason, you need to be extra good today,” Jessica says to him. “There’s a very famous ballerina who’s coming to our class.”
He looks insulted. “I’m always good,” he says, fidgeting with his jacket.
Right after class starts, the door opens and Miss Camilla comes in, followed by Mr. Lester. Miss Camilla wears a navy blue dress that is very simple in the way that expensive clothes are. It fits her perfectly. She carries a large purse with an open top and gold rings on the outside. She’s pretty old—even older than our parents—but she has perfect posture, and she walks like a queen. Her eyes are kind, but they obviously don’t miss a thing. She gracefully bends to set her purse on the floor.
Ms. Debbé claps. “Girls, I have the great honor of introducing to you my old friend and teacher, Miss Camilla Freeman.”
Miss Camilla smiles and nods. She notices us and winks at Brenda, who looks relieved that Miss Camilla does not appear to be holding a shoe-grudge.
Before I even realize what’s happening, Mason runs up to the front of the room.
“You’re Miss Camilla?” he asks.
She nods, looking puzzled.
“I have an important message for you,” he says.
“Oh, yes?” she asks. “What is it?”
“Don’t look at Jerzey’s tights,” he says loudly. He turns to me, smiles, and gives me a big thumbs-up.
The room explodes with laughter, especially the section of it where Tiara Girl and her friend are sitting. Miss Camilla’s eyes, along with everyone else’s, immediately dart to my tights. I wish I could dissolve and drip through the floor and evaporate so I would never have to see anyone again as long as I live. I tuck my right leg behind the left one to try to hide the hole.
“Quiet, girls!” Ms. Debbé says. “Now. Please sit in neat rows on the floor. Today, Miss Camilla will watch as we have a petite show for her. We will all do the dances, yes? I have told her we still have much rehearsing to do. But as a professional dancer, she understands well about rehearsals.”
Just before we arrange ourselves into rows, I scoot over to Mason. “Why did you say that?” I hiss.
“You said you hoped that that Miss Camilla lady wouldn’t notice the hole in your tights. I was trying to help you,” he says plaintively.
“Well, don’t help me ever again,” I say. I hurry back into my row, my legs still throbbing from all those pliés.
“So. First the Rainbow girls, I think,” says Ms. Debbé. “Ah—the CDs for the dances. I must have left them in the other studio. Why don’t you all take a short break—do some stretches. Five minutes.” She swoops out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Mr. Lester and Miss Camilla chat as the other girls in the class, the ones who did not get to have tea with Miss Camilla, stare at her in awe.
I feel Mason tugging on my arm.
“What?” I say, annoyed. Then I see the look on his face. “Are you sick, Mason?”
Jessica turns to find out what’s going on.
“He’s gone,” Mason says, so faintly I can barely hear him.
“Who’s gone?” I ask.
“Shakespeare.”
At first I wonder why he’s talking about a dead writer. Then it hits me.
“You mean Shakespeare, Jessica’s rat?”
He nods.
Jessica looks at him, horrified. “You brought Shakespeare to class?”
He nods again. He looks like he’s about to cry.
“Mason! Why?” Jessica asks him.
“Epatha said there was going to be a dancing rat! I thought Shakespeare would like to see that.”
“A dancing…” Jessica looks at him, bewildered.
I close my eyes. “Epatha called Tiara Girl a dancing rat last class. Remember?”
Jessica starts breathing so fast I’m afraid she’ll hyperventilate. “We have to find him!” she whispers frantically. She loves Shakespeare the way other kids love their dogs or cats. “When did you have him last?”
“In my pocket. Just a minute ago. I unzipped it a little so he could see.”
“So he has to be in here somewhere,” Jessica says. She leans to the left and to the right, searching the floor with her eyes.
Terrel leans over. “What’s going on?”
JoAnn has been listening, and for once she looks worried. “Shakespeare. Somewhere in here.”
Terrel exhales heavily and gives Mason a dirty look. “JoAnn, keep an eye on the door. Make sure he doesn’t run out when Ms. Debbé comes back in.”
JoAnn nods and walks over to the door.
“Brenda and Al, go look in those—”
But before she finishes her sentence, Jessica hisses, “Over there—the curtain just moved.”
A heavy red curtain hangs at one end of the room, hiding some electrical control panels. We watch in horror as a small bulge works its way along the floor from one end of the curtain to the other. We see a flash of white disappear into the stereo cabinet just as Ms. Debbé comes back into the room.
“All right,” Ms. Debbé says cheerily. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The Rainbow girls, please. Everyone else, be seated.”
Al, Epatha, Brenda, and Terrel look at each other, not sure what to do. Then Terrel stands up, and the others follow suit. Their eyes are riveted on the stereo cabinet.
Ms. Debbé goes to the cabinet. The stereo system is on a moving cart, which she pulls forward.
A white streak zooms out of the cabinet.
“A rat!” Tiara Girl shrieks.
Within half a second, nearly all the girls in the room are screaming. Shakespeare stops, assesses the situation, and jumps into the nearest hiding place.
Miss Camilla’s bag.
Chapter 10
In one of my advanced reading books, something bad happens and the author says, Chaos ensues. I didn’t know what chaos ensuing looked like till now. Most of the girls continue to jump around, screaming. Ms. Debbé calls, “Girls! Girls!” repeatedly, in an attempt to restore order. Mr. Lester, who must not have seen Shakespeare, looks perplexed. Miss Camilla stands frozen, like a statue.
Jessica races up and thrusts her hand into Miss Camilla’s bag. She gently pulls Shakespeare out, examines him to be sure he’s okay, then holds him to her chest and rocks him as she blinks back tears.
When everything calms down, Mr. Lester finds a shoe box for Shakespeare. Jessica explains that Mason brought Shakespeare to class, although she lies when she says she doesn’t know why he brought him, because Jessica is nice even to Tiara Girl and doesn’t want to call her a rat in front of everyone.
I have never been so embarrassed in all my life. Leave it to Mason to make our whole family look stupid in front of Miss Camilla Freeman.
When we finally get around to doing our Princess dance, I do worse than even I expected. Miss Camilla Freeman is watching. Mason is sitting in the back, holding a shoe box full of rat. My legs, still wobbly from my five hundred pliés, may collapse at any moment. The bloodstained hole in my tights is expanding with every move I make. I try to turn to hide it and end up crashing into JoAnn like a Robo-Knight. Ms. Debbé looks mortified that one of her students—me—can’t even move in a straight line.
By the time we’re done, I am breathing so fast and feel so warm I’m afraid I’m going to pass out—which might be better than staying conscious.
“Well,” says Ms. Debbé, her voice strained. “We will work on that some more, won’t we, girls? Quite a bit more, I think.”
I keep my eyes on the floor. I don’t want to see Miss Camilla’s reaction to my horrible performance.
Fortunately, class ends right after our dance is over. I pull Mason aside as we walk down the hallway.
“How could you bring that rat to class?” I ask. “That was so stupid!”
“Jerzey! You’re not supposed to call me stupid! Mom said.”
But I am feeling mean and horrible, and I don’t care. Deep down, I know I’m more mad at myself for screwing up the dance than I am ma
d at him, but I keep yelling anyway.
“You tell everyone about the hole in my tights, and you use my celery, and you ruin my lucky scarf, and you embarrass us in front of Miss Camilla!” I cry, my voice getting higher and more trembly.
“What lucky scarf?” he asks, but I steamroll over him.
“I wish I didn’t have a little brother,” I say, stomping down the hallway, but not before seeing how hurt he looks.
I go to the bathroom. I soak some paper towels in cool water and put them on my forehead, because I still feel hot and dizzy. A few tears leak out onto my cheeks. I use a brown paper towel to blot them. The towel feels rough, and as soon as it gets wet it starts to smell horrible.
I hear the bathroom door open behind me. It’s Miss Camilla.
My first impulse is to hide in a toilet stall, but it’s too late—she’s already seen me. She’ll probably ask me what I am even doing in a dance class when I am clearly so terrible.
But instead, she smiles. “Hello, Jerzey Mae,” she says.
A tiny part of me is pleased that she remembers my name, but the rest of me is so miserable that it all gets canceled out.
She walks over to the mirror and adjusts her collar. “It looked like you were having some trouble up there.”
I’m surprised. I guess she’s a tell-it-like-it-is person, like Epatha. But her eyes are warm.
I nod. “I get all the steps wrong,” I blurt out. My eyes prickle. “They’re never perfect.”
To my surprise, Miss Camilla laughs. “‘Perfect’ is a pretty difficult goal to achieve,” she says. “I danced in thousands of performances. Do you think I ever danced perfectly?” She fishes in her bag and pulls out a lipstick.
Well, she was a famous ballerina, so of course she did. I wait for the answer.
She shakes her head. “I was very good, yes. But never perfect. We’re human beings—we’re not meant to be perfect.”
I think this over. I try to be perfect all the time, so this new idea doesn’t fit into my head very well.
“Sometimes I think I should just quit,” I tell her in a small voice.
She turns to face me, lipstick in hand. “Do you truly want to dance?”
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