by Suzanne Weyn
In the middle of the night, Emma rolled over and her eyes fluttered open. Something was pulling her out of a deep sleep.
Da-da-da-da DUM Dee-dum dee-dum Da-da-da-da DUM Dee-dum dee-dum
“The Blue Danube” was playing.
“What?” Emma sat up, rubbing her eyes as she came fully awake.
The lid of the music box was open on her nightstand. The paperweight was back on the desk. Hadn’t she put it on top of the box?
The little man and woman were spinning on their platform. They looked fine, as if nothing had happened to them.
Da-da-da-da DUM Dee-dum dee-dum Da-da-da-da DUM Dee-dum dee-dum
This is a dream, Emma decided. At least she hoped it was.
Lifting the box, Emma examined it in the light of the moon. Startled by what she saw, she threw the box onto her bed.
The eyes were back! Once more, the blue eyes peered through the oval mirror.
Emma crawled onto her bed, afraid to look at the mirror inside the lid, but determined to know if it was really her own reflection. Holding the box at arm’s length, and at an angle so that she was definitely not reflected in the mirror, Emma got her answer.
These were not her eyes.
Someone was looking through the mirror.
“Hello?” Emma whispered. “Who are you?”
Once more the music swelled, and the little figures began to spin faster and faster. At the same time, a gray mist seeped through the oval mirror and poured into the room.
Emma slammed the lid shut, looking around her room frantically to see where the mist had gone. As suddenly as it came, it seemed to have disappeared.
Getting out of bed, she found two belts in her closet. She buckled one and then the other around the music box. Nothing could get out of that. And right after school tomorrow she was taking this thing back to where it had come from.
A rustle came from the corner, and once more Emma searched the room for any sign of the creepy mist. “Is someone in here with me?” she asked in a quivering voice.
A low howl filled the room.
Emma dashed to her bedroom door, her hand on the doorknob.
Then she remembered Mrs. Clatter.
Her window was open a crack. Outside, she could see trees swaying. “It’s just wind,” she whispered to herself. Emma went to the open window and shut it. “Just wind.”
She stood a moment in her silent room and listened. There was no more howl. No more “Blue Danube.” Convinced things were calm, Emma climbed back into her bed, pulling the covers up.
Emma lay in bed for a while, wide-eyed, listening. Slowly her heart slowed down and sleep overtook her.
After several hours, Emma awoke as a gentle breeze crossed her face.
Lifting onto her elbows, she looked around the room. Everything seemed quiet — but the window had been opened.
THE NEXT day, Emma moved over to let Keera take her usual spot beside her on the school bus. “What’s in there?” Keera asked, nodding at the paper shopping bag between them.
“I’m taking the music box back to the Haunted Museum after school,” Emma explained.
“How will you get there?” Keera asked.
“If I get off the bus one stop before I usually would, I can walk to the museum, give this back to them, and then head to the dance studio.”
“Are you sure you want to give it back?” Keera asked. “It’s so pretty.”
“Do you want it?”
“Uh … no.”
“See?” Emma said. “You think it’s weird, too.”
“Maybe,” Keera admitted. “Kind of. I don’t know.”
The music box sat, belted closed, in Emma’s locker all that day. Every time she opened her locker, she was relieved to see it wasn’t up to any new mischief.
After school, Emma took the bus downtown toward her dance class.
The ride went as it always did, passing a horse farm and then an old, abandoned barn as it traveled closer to the mall that housed the dance studio.
Emma tried to get her pre-algebra homework done during the ride, though this day it was hard to keep her mind on it because she was nervous about returning the box.
What would she say to the Haunted Museum people about the music box? Maybe they wouldn’t even take it back. If so, she’d simply leave it there.
Two stops before the bus reached the Haunted Museum, a boy she’d never seen before got on the bus. Emma decided instantly he had to be some kind of celebrity. His dark hair and eyes, coupled with his lean, athletic good looks, made him seem really extraordinary. To her utter amazement, he slipped into the seat beside her.
“Hi,” he said with a smile. “By any chance, can you tell me how to get to Madame Andrews’s dance studio?”
“That’s exactly where I’m going,” Emma replied, trying not to sound as flustered as she felt. “How did you know?”
“You look like you could be a dancer,” he explained. “And you’re carrying a dance bag.”
“We’ll be there in four more stops,” Emma said.
“Well, I guess I can just follow you now.”
“Yeah, sure you can,” she agreed. All thought of getting off the bus early flew from her head.
“I’m Roberto,” he introduced himself, and she noticed he spoke with a slight accent.
“My name’s Emma. I haven’t seen you at the studio before. Where are you from?”
“Milan, Italy. My dad’s Italian but my mother is American. Dad had to travel for work so I’m staying here with Mom for the rest of the school year.”
He told her he was in eighth grade in a different school from Emma’s and this was his first day of dance class. “I signed up for the hip-hop class but they said I had to have some background in ballet and modern dance to be allowed into hip-hop. They only had room in an intermediate class. I hope I can keep up.”
“I’m in intermediate ballet/modern!” Emma said excitedly.
“That’s great!” He seemed happy that they were going to be together in class.
At the third stop, the bus took on more passengers. The Haunted Museum was only two blocks away. Emma rose to get up but froze, unsure whether to stay with Roberto or head to the museum. Roberto was so cute!
But she didn’t want to spend another night with the music box, either.
The bus driver made the decision for her by pulling away from the stop.
“Have you ever been to that Haunted Museum place?” Roberto asked, glancing at a billboard as the bus drove past it.
“Yes, just this weekend,” Emma said. “It seemed pretty cheesy — but then they sent me a music box that I think was from the exhibit. It seems … broken….” Emma wasn’t sure how much to tell him about the music box, because she didn’t want him to think she was silly or odd. But he seemed interested, nodding and asking questions.
“Strange,” he said. “Can I see it?”
“Yeah, of course.” Emma lifted the box from the bag and opened it, hoping that the little dancing figures would be doing something truly bizarre to prove her point. But they stood there, looking perfectly respectable.
“What was it you said this music box was doing?” Roberto asked.
Emma suddenly regretted telling him anything about the box. “It just gives me the creeps, that’s all.”
Roberto wound the box and smiled when “The Blue Danube” began to play. “This is so beautiful,” he commented, watching the little figures dance.
When he looked up from the music box and caught Emma’s gaze, a dazed expression formed on his face. It was as though he was seeing Emma for the first time, and he was mesmerized by her. “It’s not as beautiful as you are, though.”
His remark startled her. “Me?”
“I could just look at you forever and never get tired of it,” Roberto went on.
“I’m sure you would … get tired of it, that is,” Emma said lightly. His compliments were sweet, but they seemed to come out of nowhere. It was as if he’d fallen under some sort of spel
l!
JUST AS Emma had expected, once they got to class and Madame Andrews introduced Roberto, all the girls clustered around him. Emma made sure to sit a little closer to him on the dance floor, as if to call dibs because she’d walked in with him.
As the class started warming up, though, Emma wished she’d stood on the other side of the room. She was humiliated whenever she bumped into someone or stepped on another dancer’s toe. She glanced at Roberto each time to see if he’d noticed her clumsiness, but he never appeared to be looking.
Roberto picked up the dance steps with an athletic grace and ease that impressed everyone, including her. She recalled how well she’d danced to the “The Blue Danube” back in her room when she’d played it for Keera. If only she could dance that well now!
Madame Andrews nodded along as the students practiced, and then clapped her hands. “Very good, class. Now, each of you will present the work you’ve been doing on the ballet leap known as the jeté. Line up in the corner of the studio and jeté on a diagonal across to the other side.”
Emma could feel the blood drain from her face. If she could have found a way to escape, she would’ve been slipping out the studio door at that very moment. It was bad enough to bumble her way through class, but to dance alone in front of everyone was too much. The thought of tripping herself up — as she’d done several times — was just too embarrassing. If Roberto had thought she was amazing before, this would put an end to his admiration.
Emma slunk to the back of the line, hoping class might end before it was her turn. She wasn’t at all surprised when the class star, Elizabeth McGowen, volunteered to go first and did a perfect jeté. Elizabeth’s two best friends, Stephanie and Olivia, went next and they were nearly as good. A few girls took the safe route and did jetés that were only tiny hops forward, but they didn’t stumble or fall. Even Roberto, who was new to ballet, succeeded.
Finally it was Emma’s turn. This was going to be a total humiliation.
And then the pianist, Roger, stood up. “I have to leave for my doctor’s appointment, as we discussed, Madame,” he announced. “Good night, Madame Andrews, class.”
“But, Roger, Emma’s the only one left,” Madame Andrews objected. “Couldn’t you stay a few more minutes?”
“That’s fine by me,” Emma said to Madame Andrews. “I don’t mind. Really! I don’t!”
“You’ll have to do it without music,” Madame Andrews told Emma. “I want to know that you’ve mastered the jeté before the dance team auditions.”
I haven’t mastered it. I could just tell you the truth. And that would save us both a lot of trouble, Emma thought.
“She has music,” Roberto spoke up, heading for the pile of Emma’s belongings in the back of the dance studio. He quickly found her music box, unbuckled its belts, and wound it.
“Wonderful,” Madame Andrews said as the notes from “The Blue Danube” floated up from the music box. “Go ahead, Emma.”
Emma edged forward. The buzz of chatter that usually filled the room while the girls waited for their turn to dance had stopped. All eyes were on her. Someone giggled.
For a moment, the urge to run was nearly overwhelming.
But then Emma’s feet began to tingle. Just as it had back in her bedroom, the music lifted Emma, making her sure-footed and graceful. She leaped, and was confident that she was flying higher than she ever had before.
When Emma reached the center of the studio, she felt so charged with the thrill of the dance that she stopped and broke into a series of rapid pirouettes, spinning strongly, even without the cushioning of pointe shoes.
Emma saw the others reflected in the mirror, gawking at her in amazement. Even Madame Andrews wore a stunned expression.
Only Roberto didn’t seem surprised by her performance. He once again gazed at her with that rapt adoration he had worn on the bus while “The Blue Danube” played.
Emma saw all this from the corner of her eye as she turned and turned. But then a new sight caught her attention. It was her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling dance mirror behind her.
The girl who was dancing so superbly there wasn’t Emma!
Everyone was so busy watching Emma that they weren’t looking at her reflection in the mirror.
As the music box sputtered to a stop, Emma faced the dance mirror. For the briefest moment she saw what was there.
The ballerina in the mirror wore a red ballet costume with a tutu covered in sequins. It glittered as she twirled. A golden tiara sparkled on her raven hair.
Why couldn’t they see the reflection of the ballerina? Was Emma the only one who could?
And those eyes.
Those were the eyes that had peered in on her through the music box mirror!
Emma stumbled off the tops of her toes, staring at the image.
“Emma!” Roberto yelled with alarm as Emma toppled to the floor.
“Ow!” she cried in agony, clutching her ankle. It throbbed horribly. Was it broken?
Emma glanced back at the mirror, but the ballerina was gone. All she could see was a puff of misty gray smoke.
SO? DID the Haunted Museum take back the music box?” Keera asked that night as Emma spoke to her on the phone. Her mother had insisted she stay in bed with her ankle wrapped in an Ace bandage and propped on a pillow.
“No. I had to call my mom to come pick me up. After I twisted my ankle, there was no way I could take the bus home on my own.”
“Does it hurt a lot?”
“It hurts like crazy.”
“Sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Tell me more about this Roberto guy,” Keera said.
Emma suspected she had changed the subject to get Emma’s mind off the pain. “Like I said, he’s really, really cute. And nice! Since he was waiting with me when Mom showed up, Mom drove him to his house. He asked for my phone number. He’s already texted me tonight to find out how I’m feeling.”
Keera squealed with excitement. “Awesome!”
“I know.”
Emma considered telling Keera about the ballerina she’d seen in the dance studio mirror. But it sounded so bizarre! Keera would probably tell her that she was upset about not being able to get rid of the music box.
“Is the music box behaving?” Keera asked, as though sensing what was on Emma’s mind.
“Keera, do you believe me that there’s something strange about it?”
“I believe that you’re convinced it’s strange.”
“But you think I’m imagining it?”
“Maybe,” Keera said. “It makes more sense than mist coming out of a mirror and dolls that move by themselves.”
Could that be true? Was Keera right?
Emma gazed at the box on her nightstand. It certainly wasn’t doing anything weird now. She hadn’t opened it since the class.
“Emma? Are you going to be in school tomorrow?” Keera asked.
“No. I have an appointment in the morning to see some kind of bone doctor to check out my ankle.”
“All right. Text me when you get out of the appointment to tell me what he says. I’ll check my phone during lunch.”
“Okay,” Emma agreed. Talking to Keera had made her feel better. All things considered, it hadn’t been such a bad day. Even though her ankle throbbed, she didn’t think it was broken. She’d met Roberto, who seemed to like her. And she had even impressed the other dance students with her performance. A few had congratulated her on it and had seemed friendlier than usual.
If only that strange ballerina hadn’t appeared in the mirror. Emma still didn’t know what to think about her. She thought of the mist in her bedroom the night before. It had been in the mirror, too. Was there some connection?
Mrs. Bryant stuck her head in to check on Emma. “The swelling has gone down,” she noted, studying her daughter’s ankle. “Does it still hurt?”
“A little. Mostly when I stand on it.”
Mrs. Bryant nodded thoughtfully. “Get a good night’s s
leep and we’ll find out how bad it is when we see the doctor. It would be a shame if you couldn’t try out for the dance team next week.”
“It would be,” Emma agreed. It struck her now that she wanted to be on the dance team. Until this moment she hadn’t admitted to anyone — even to herself — how much it mattered to her. And after today’s performance, it suddenly seemed possible.
“I’m glad you’ve changed your mind,” Mrs. Bryant said with a smile.
“I have, Mom. I really have.”
Mrs. Bryant kissed Emma on the top of her head. “Good night, dear. I hope your ankle will be all better in the morning.”
“I think it will be.”
As Mrs. Bryant was leaving, Emma’s phone buzzed with a new text message. It was from Roberto! Hope you’re feeling better. Sweet dreams. Talk to you tomorrow.
She texted back. Thanks. You too. Talk tomorrow!
Turning off her lamp, Emma settled into bed and drifted to sleep with her lips curved in a smile.
Emma woke suddenly, three hours later, and froze in terror.
A ghostly woman was standing beside her bed!
Her red dance costume glinted in the moonlight and gray mist swirled around her legs.
Coming more fully awake, Emma realized it was the ballerina from the mirror.
The ballerina glowered down at Emma. “Get up! Now!” she commanded. “You can’t steal my music box and hope to get away with it. Who do you think you are?”
Emma blinked. Who was this person and how had she gotten into her house?
“Mom! Da —!” Emma’s voice was cut off as the ballerina clapped her hand over Emma’s mouth. With her free hand, the ballerina tugged at Emma’s wrist with a viselike grip.
“You are coming with me.” Emma detected a Russian accent.
“No! I’m not,” Emma insisted, attempting unsuccessfully to yank back her arm.
With one hand still over Emma’s mouth, the ballerina grabbed at the music box with the other. The music box moved — by itself — away from her hand. Each time the ballerina tried to grab for it, the music box moved.
Emma stared at the box, wide-eyed with amazement. How was the music box moving? It seemed to have a life of its own. And it was determined not to let this ghostly ballerina get ahold of it.
