“Turn toward the door,” Terrel barks at me as we move on to our floor work.
Ballet wears me out.
But it’s going to get even worse. It’s almost time to start learning our dances.
“You all know Mr. Lester,” Ms. Debbé says as he enters the room. “He will be working with some of you on your dances for the recital,” she says. “Some girls with him and some with me. As we did for the summer show, yes?”
Last summer, Ms. Debbé taught some of the girls their dances and Mr. Lester taught the others. All my friends and I were with Mr. Lester. Between Al’s disastrous spins and my disastrous everythings, he had his hands full.
Mr. Lester takes half the class to another studio, while the Rainbow dance girls and we Three Princesses stay behind with Ms. Debbé. I guess Mr. Lester needed a break from us, or at least from me. I don’t blame him.
I look over at Mason. He seems to have given up on reading his book and is staring at Ms. Debbé, probably still trying to figure out if she’s a genie who might grant him a wish.
“All right. First, our Rainbow dance girls.”
Al, Epatha, Terrel, and Brenda gather beside her.
“Now, as you know, you will be making a rainbow, a beautiful rainbow.”
Thump.
“Each of you, you will be one of the rainbow colors—”
Thump, thump.
“…and you will dance around the—”
Thumpthumpthump.
She stops. “Mr. Mason.”
Mason looks up.
“You must please stop that bouncing.”
Mason stops.
“Perhaps you should watch instead,” Ms. Debbé says. “Ballet is good for the basketball players. It makes them graceful. You perhaps will even decide to be a ballet dancer when you grow up.”
Mason looks skeptical. But he sits on his basketball, hands propped under his chin, and watches.
Jessica, JoAnn, and I watch too as Ms.
Debbé begins to teach the dance. Terrel picks up the steps fastest. She looks like a little windup doll, doing each step perfectly and neatly. Epatha also does the right steps, too, but they look wilder when she does them. It’s as if she were throwing her whole heart into every little move, even though we’re just practicing.
Brenda and Al take a little longer to get the steps, but they both dance well. Brenda’s always been good. And now that Al’s got the turn thing down, she’s great. Which means everyone can dance just fine. Everyone but me.
Jessica pokes me. “Look at Mason,” she whispers.
Mason is staring at the dancers. To my surprise, he’s not fidgeting at all.
“Maybe he likes ballet,” Jessica says.
JoAnn snorts. “He’s just looking at Epatha.”
“All right, ladies,” Ms. Debbé says after they’ve been working for about fifteen minutes. “Very good. Alexandrea, your turns, they are splendid. I maybe need to put even more turns in this dance.”
The other girls come over to the side of the room where we’re sitting. Al is glowing.
“That looked great,” Jessica says. She stands and brushes off her tights.
“Yeah,” says Mason. “Epatha, you were the best.” He waits till she sits down, then relocates his basketball, rolling it across the floor so he can sit by her.
“Gracias, Mason.” Epatha smiles big. “You should take ballet. Then we could dance together.”
“Uh…maybe.” He squirms. “Or you could play basketball,” he says, brightening.
She laughs. “Sí. That would work, too. But if you really want to marry me, you’re gonna have to learn to dance, ’cause I’m definitely dancing at my wedding.”
Mason is obviously taken aback by this news.
“Now. Princesses, please,” says Ms. Debbé.
JoAnn, Jessica, and I walk to the middle of the room. Question: what could be worse than trying to learn a dance when you don’t have any talent? Answer: trying to learn a dance when you don’t have any talent and your friends are staring at you and your little brother is, too.
“Now. First, I will show you the basic steps,” Ms. Debbé says. “Then we will work together on them.”
The dance starts with us holding hands and walking in a circle, which even I should be able to manage. But then there are chassés, where you kind of gallop (unless you trip and end up sprawled on the floor, like I do). Then it continues with some pirouettes, where you flick your leg out as you spin around (unless you turn the wrong way and whack Jessica with your leg, like I do). Then there are some grand jetés, where you leap forward (unless your foot slides out from under you as you land and you stagger around trying to keep your balance, like I do). I get more frustrated with every move. And that makes me dance even worse. My scalp starts to tingle the way it always does when I can’t do something right.
Ms. Debbé watches as we practice. When she looks at me, she has the same look on her face that people get when they’re listening to someone sing out of tune—they try to be polite and keep smiling, but really, they want to hold their ears and run screaming out of the room.
She taps her stick on the ground. “Miss Jerzey. Do not worry so much about having the steps exactly right,” she says. “Watch your sisters. Just try to go in the same direction.”
“But I want to get the steps exactly right,” I say.
She nods. “Yes, yes. But you are worrying too much about them. Just try to relax. Worry does not help. Dancing, it should be fun. Now. Again, please, from the beginning.”
We do the dance from the beginning.
I do not have fun.
I especially do not have fun when, at the end of class, Miss Debbé says, “Work hard, girls. Miss Camilla will be coming by to visit our class next Tuesday.”
“What? I thought she was just coming to the recital,” Epatha says.
“Also the recital. But she would like to observe some classes, too,” Ms. Debbé replies.
All the girls are excited—except me, of course.
After class, it takes me a long time to get my sneaker-shoelace loops exactly even. Learning the dance by Thanksgiving seemed sort of possible, in the way that people using space pods to fly to the grocery store someday seems sort of possible. But learning the dance by next week?
I must look as miserable as I feel, because Jessica says, “Jerzey, don’t worry. JoAnn and I will help you learn the dance.”
Okay. I know Jessica is trying to be nice, but this gets my hackles up anyway. (Gets one’s hackles up was a phrase in my advanced reading-vocabulary class last week. Although I am annoyed, I am pleased to be able to use the phrase perfectly, even if it’s only in my head.)
I stuff my ballet slippers into my bag.
“That’s okay. I can learn it by myself,” I say.
“Ha!” JoAnn says.
Terrel and Epatha exchange a skeptical look. Al stares at the ceiling, as though something very interesting has suddenly appeared up there. Brenda coughs (forward, not backward). Jessica looks at me sympathetically, which might be the worst thing of all.
Epatha says, “Remember the show two years ago? When Jerzey fell off the stage into that old lady’s lap?” She turns to me. “I’m sorry, Jerzey, but it was pretty funny.”
“We may be headed for a repeat performance,” JoAnn says. “Jerzey, try to fall into someone else’s lap this time, so the poor old lady doesn’t think we’re picking on her.”
Everyone laughs.
Even Jessica!
That’s when I decide that I am not going to ask any of them for help. No matter what.
Chapter 6
I’m sitting on the big brown chair in our living room with a notepad. I’ve been trying to think of an LTDP (Learn the Dance Plan) ever since we got home, but with all of Mason’s thumping, I can’t think of anything. I’m about ready to retreat to my room when Mom gets home.
“How did everything go today?” she asks. “Did Mason behave during class?”
“No,” I say.
>
“Did so,” he says. “I just sat there and I only lost the basketball once.”
Mom takes off her coat and hangs it in the hall closet. “I don’t think I want to know what that means,” she says.
“Mrs. Chang next door babysits her grandkids every day after school,” I say.
“Maybe you could leave Mason with her.”
“I’m not a baby,” Mason says.
JoAnn, who is sprawled on the couch, puts down her soccer magazine. “Mason was fine,” she tells Mom.
“Good. Shoes off,” Mom says, noticing JoAnn’s sneakers resting on one of the creamy beige sofa cushions.
JoAnn kicks her shoes off and picks up her magazine again.
“JoAnn, have you read the book for your book report yet?” Mom asks.
“Sort of,” JoAnn answers. She looks up and sees Mom’s stern expression. “Well, not exactly.”
Mom just stands there.
“Okay, okay.” JoAnn tosses the magazine down and heads up to her room.
“And no audiobook business this time!”
Mom calls after her. Last time JoAnn’s teacher made her read a book, JoAnn found an MP3 of someone reading the book out loud so she could listen to it instead of reading the book herself. She probably spent more time finding the MP3 than it would have taken for her just to read the book. Mom says JoAnn is lazy about schoolwork, but in an enterprising way.
As I think about the audiobook, it happens. I finally have a plan.
I jump up and go into Dad’s study. “Dad, can I use your recorder thing?”
He looks up from the papers he’s grading. “My ‘recorder thing’? You mean my digital voice recorder?” Dad is big on using the proper terms for things.
“Yes, the digital voice recorder,” I say, enunciating each syllable clearly.
“Yes, you may use my digital voice recorder,” he says. He doesn’t ask what I want it for. This is one advantage of asking Dad for things. Mom would have asked a million questions.
He pulls a small rectangular device from his top desk drawer. “Do you know how to use it?”
I shake my head.
He shows me how to start and stop recording and gives me the cable that will let me download the sound file to my computer. “Okay?”
I grin. “Thanks, Dad.”
I take the recorder to my room and practice recording things and downloading them until I can do it exactly right. Then I tuck the recorder into my dance bag, so it’ll be ready for class.
That night I dream of twirling across the stage in my perfect pink princess costume, doing all the steps perfectly. The audience leaps to its feet as I take fifteen perfect bows.
* * *
For once, I am looking forward to ballet class.
“Happy today look you,” Brenda says to me as we leave the waiting room and head up to the studio.
“Yeah,” Terrel says. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I say. But I feel a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.
As we climb the stairs, Mason hums the Robo-Knights theme song in between basketball bounces.
“Mason, cool it,” JoAnn says. “I’m getting really sick of that song.”
He stops humming, then starts again, but very softly. JoAnn turns around and gives him a threatening look, and he stops.
“Why are you taking your bag with you?” JoAnn asks.
“I just am,” I say.
The real reason is that the digital recorder is in my bag, ready to capture Ms. Debbé’s voice calling out all the steps for the dance. I will take the recording home and listen to it over and over and over—as many times as it takes for me to learn everything right. I squeeze the side of my dance bag to make sure the recorder’s still there and feel its comforting rectangular shape against my hand.
After our warm-up, Mr. Lester leads the other girls to another studio, while Ms. Debbé stays behind with us. Brenda, Al, Epatha, and Terrel work on the Rainbow dance first. Ms. Debbé has provided them with the big fabric banners to start using in rehearsals. Each of the girls gets a different color: Epatha gets purple; Terrel red; Al yellow; and Brenda green. The banners are on long sticks, and they flutter in the air as the girls dance with them. It looks cool.
“All right, ladies—places!” Ms. Debbé says. She starts the music, and the dance begins.
My sisters and I sit on the floor watching.
Mason is perched on his basketball right beside me, his eyes fixed on Epatha, as usual.
Epatha and Terrel dance to one side of the room, and Al and Brenda to the other. As Ms. Debbé claps to keep count, one at a time they move over to the banners, pick one up, then dance a little solo. After they all have their banners, they start moving together. When they swirl the banners in big arcs over their heads, it really does look kind of like a rainbow.
“Very nice,” Ms. Debbé says after they finish. “Good work, girls. More practice, but this is a good start, yes? Now, my little princesses, let us see what you have learned.”
I panic. I’ve been concentrating so hard on the Rainbow dance I almost forgot what I need to do. I fumble around inside the bag.
“Jerzey, we are ready. Please join us,” she says.
I switch the recorder on and run to stand with the others.
We gather in the center and join hands.
Ms. Debbé counts, “One, two, three, go!” and we start. At first it’s okay, because Jessica and JoAnn kind of pull me along, so I do what I’m supposed to do. But as soon as we let go of one another’s hands, I’m completely lost. I turn left when they turn right. I jump when they plié. I plié when they jump. I probably look as if I’m auditioning for a job as a clown in the circus, because I do everything wrong. My muscles tense up, and my face flushes. The only thing that keeps me going is the fact that this will be the last, the very last class where I’ll make a fool of myself.
There’s silence when we finish. My friends are looking from me to Ms. Debbé. Ms. Debbé smiles tightly. “Well. It seems we do have some work to do, yes?”
I want to tell Ms. Debbé that she doesn’t have to worry, that next class I will be perfect, even if I have to stay up three nights in a row to learn the dance.
“Practice, girls. You must practice very hard,” says Ms. Debbé. “Class dismissed.” With a sharp nod of her head, she swoops out of the room, her shawl drifting behind her.
Tiara Girl is racing out of the room just as we go in. She crashes right into Epatha.
“Excuse me,” Tiara Girl says, in a tone of voice that says she really doesn’t mean it.
Epatha glowers after her. “It’s too bad that little rat gets to dance in front of Miss Camilla,” she says. “Ay.”
The idea of Tiara Girl as a dancing rat is pretty funny, but I’m not in the mood to hang around and talk. “Come on,” I say to JoAnn and Jessica. “Dad’s waiting.”
When we get home, I run up to my bedroom and connect the recorder to my computer. “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” I chant as the file downloads. Finally it’s ready. I get out a notepad so I can write down the steps—I need all the help I can get—then click the play button.
At first, there’s nothing. Then I hear Ms. Debbé’s voice, muffled in the background. I strain to understand what she’s saying. When I turn up the volume as loud as I can, I can just make out the words.
And then the Robo-Knights theme song blares out of the computer. “They are robots, they are knights, getting into lots of fights,” Mason’s voice sings. You can tell he’s singing quietly, but then I remember. He was sitting right next to me in the back of the studio. And right next to my dance bag. And right next to the recorder.
I fast-forward and try again. And again.
He must have been singing the entire time we were practicing. The recording is useless. Once again, my little brother has ruined my life.
Chapter 7
Just because one plan doesn’t work, it doesn’t mean that you give up. Miss Camilla Freeman didn’t give up. In her book she talk
s about all the things she had to overcome in order to be a dancer. Her family was poor. She moved to New York when she was very young, all by herself. She was a black dancer back when some people were so prejudiced she couldn’t even get a room in a hotel when the ballet went on tour.
If she overcame all that, surely I can overcome the teensy little problem of being a terrible dancer.
Jessica came into my room yesterday and offered to help me again. But I kept thinking of her laughing about how I fell off the stage. “No, I’ll be fine,” I told her. She shrugged her shoulders and left. I closed the door behind her, a little hard. It made some of the pictures on my wall jump, and I had to spend the next ten minutes getting them exactly straight again.
I decide that just because I’m not going to ask for help doesn’t mean I can’t ask for hints. I call up Brenda, because she’s so smart. “If you needed to learn how to do something, how would you do it?”
There’s a silence on the phone as she considers this. “I’d read a book about it,” she finally says. “You can learn pretty much anything you need from books.”
I thank her and hang up. I wonder if we have any ballet books—and then it hits me. I have the book I need sitting on my bedside table.
I open Miss Camilla’s biography to the page where my shiny pink bookmark is. I still have a lot to read, but I flip back to something I remember from a few chapters ago.
There! I did 500 pliés every day, without fail, Miss Camilla writes. They kept my legs strong and limber.
I take out my notepad and write 500 pliés every day with my pink pen. Now we’re getting somewhere!
I read and read, looking for the secrets to Miss Camilla’s success, until I’m done with the book. I learn that Miss Camilla ate four stalks of celery every day. She wore a lucky scarf during all of her ballet classes. She stayed away from furry animals because she thought they brought bad luck. She sang a little song her mother taught her every night before she went to bed.
500 pliés
4 stalks of celery
lucky scarf
no furry animals
bedtime song
I pound down the stairs.
Perfectly Prima Page 3
