Jessi's Big Break

by Ann M. Martin

“He’s been doing that since yesterday,” Mrs. Ramsey said with a sigh, “every time he sees something or someone that reminds him of Jessi.”

  Squirt turned around expectantly at the sound of the name. “Dess-see!”

  “Becca!” Mama called again. “Come down and say hello!”

  Mallory heard footsteps clomping downstairs. But it was Daddy, dressed up and ready to go out. “Shhh,” he said. “I think she’s napping.”

  My parents gave Mallory instructions, kissed Squirt good-bye, and left.

  Squirt watched them go. Then he slid off the chair and toddled away.

  Mallory followed after him, pulling a picture book out of her Kid-Kit. “Want to read, Squirt?”

  “No.” Squirt went into the den and lay down on the floor.

  Mallory felt around in her Kid-Kit for a few plastic trains she’d brought.

  Upstairs she heard a loud thump.

  Quickly, she left the den, hooked shut the protective toddler fence, then darted up to Becca’s bedroom and opened the door.

  Becca’s desk lamp was on. A sheet of crumpled-up loose-leaf paper and a math textbook lay on the floor.

  Becca was in bed, her eyes closed.

  “Are you awake?” Mallory asked.

  Becca turned around to face the wall. “No.”

  “Having problems with homework?”

  “I hate homework. I hate school. I hate you.”

  Mallory took a deep breath. She sat at the foot of Becca’s bed.

  Now, I would have gotten angry at Becca. I would have lectured her about respect or something like that. But Mal tried to follow Rule Number One of baby-sitting: Let the child talk problems out.

  “You sound very unhappy,” she said.

  “So?” Becca replied.

  “Is this about Jessi?”

  “No.”

  “You miss her, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  Mallory shrugged. “I do.”

  “So go to New York stupid City.”

  “It’s okay to miss someone, you know. It’s okay to talk about it too.”

  “So talk about it.”

  Time for Rule Number Two: Know when to back off.

  Mal stood up. “I should go downstairs and check on your brother. I brought Monopoly Junior and Guess Who, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Look, Becca. I know how you feel. If you come down, maybe we can write Jessi a letter.”

  “She has a phone.”

  “Okay. Want to call her instead?”

  “Maybe.”

  Mallory darted back downstairs and into the den.

  Squirt was standing by the sofa, leaning over, his forehead on the cushion.

  “Hi, Squirt,” Mal said, unhooking the fence.

  Squirt lifted his head and looked at her dully. Then he toddled past the open fence and into the living room.

  Back up onto the armchair he went, staring out the window.

  (Honestly, I wish Mallory hadn’t told me all this. I’m teary just thinking about it.)

  Mal jumped onto the living room sofa and hid behind the throw pillows. “Uh-oh … where’s Mallory?”

  Hide-and-seek is Squirt’s favorite game. Giggling, he ran to her and began pulling off the pillows.

  “Boo!” Mallory said.

  “Eeeeeee!” Squirt screamed happily.

  “Quiet!” Becca grumbled, walking into the living room with a pad of drawing paper and a set of markers.

  “Kay-o!” Squirt squealed. (Translation: crayon.)

  “Guess what? I can draw the solar system, with all the planets,” Becca said. “I learned yesterday. Jessi will be soooo surprised.”

  Zoom. Mallory went to fetch some crayons. Before long, the three of them were making art projects to send me. (They were great. I received a solar system that looked like orbiting basketballs; three pages full of scribbles, handprints, and smudges; and a fantastic portrait of Becca and Squirt.)

  My brother and sister were very proud of their work. Mal was thrilled that they were showing signs of life.

  “Can we fax these to her?” Becca asked excitedly. “The drugstore in town has a fax machine.”

  “Well, they’re kind of large,” Mallory said. “And we don’t know if Michael has a fax machine.”

  Becca jumped up. “Let’s find out! Come on, Squirt, we’re going to call Jessi!”

  “Dess-see!” Squirt squealed.

  Mallory followed Becca into the kitchen. Becca looked up Michael’s number and tapped it out. Mallory pressed the speakerphone button so they could all listen.

  It was about five-thirty. (That meant I was walking with Michael to a restaurant in Little Italy, where we met Marian for dinner.)

  “Michael and Marian can’t come to the phone,” the answering machine crackled, “so please leave a message when you hear the tone.”

  Becca hung up.

  “Didn’t you want to say anything?” Mallory asked.

  Becca shook her head. “We’ll try later.”

  Well, they did try. Several times.

  After the second try, Becca became all excited. She thought I’d left Brooklyn and was coming home.

  After the fourth, she began thinking I’d been kidnapped.

  After the sixth, she was convinced that I was actually there but refusing to take calls.

  Becca left a message on the seventh try. Which, of course, was the one Michael, Marian, and I heard that night when we returned to the apartment.

  “I hate you and I hope you never come back.”

  I called home right after hearing that.

  But Becca was already asleep. So I chatted with Mama and Daddy, then called Mallory’s house.

  She was asleep too. Her mom said she’d had a long, long day.

  “Chassé left, echappé, boureé with port de bras, arabesque, assemble, assemble … Okay, this is it, kids: pirouette and pas de chat into a tour jeté around the room!”

  Toni’s voice echoed loudly over the piano music. But I wasn’t really listening. The steps were already burned into my brain. We’d been practicing them with Toni all Wednesday morning.

  Now Mr. Brailsford himself was watching. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him swaying to the music and smiling.

  I was leaping higher than I ever had. And working harder. Sweat was flinging off me with each spin.

  “And stop!” Toni yelled as the pianist played the last chords.

  I landed in third position, my arms extended. My chest was heaving. The panting in the room sounded like plank-sawing in wood shop.

  “Yyyyyes!” shouted Mr. Brailsford. “You kids are cooking! Take a break!”

  I dropped my arms and grabbed my towel from the floor. Patting my forehead, I walked into the hallway.

  “Jessica?” Mr. Brailsford called out.

  I spun around. “Me?”

  “How long have you been dancing?” he asked.

  Uh-oh.

  He was kicking me out.

  He had found the mistake on the audition acceptance sheet.

  “Um, well, I’m eleven and I’ve been taking classes with Madame Noelle — she’s in Stamford — but I started before that, in Oakley, which is in New Jersey, and that was when I was three, I think, or maybe it was after my fourth birthday, so I guess eight or seven and a half years, something like that.”

  Did I sound nervous? I was petrified.

  Mr. Brailsford nodded. “You have great style, Jessica. Extraordinary lift. A real Judith Jamison quality.”

  “Me?”

  Is there a word for a mirage of the ears? That’s what I thought was happening. Judith Jamison is only the most legendary African-American ballerina who ever lived.

  “Keep up the good work,” Mr. Brailsford said. “Just make sure not to arch your back so much on those jetés.”

  “Sure,” I squeaked.

  Toni drew Mr. Brailsford away with some questions. I jetéd into the hallway with a perfect back.

  Quint
and Maritza were waiting for me. “What’d he say?” Maritza asked.

  “He. Likes. Me!” I blurted out. “He said I remind him of Judith Jamison.”

  “Cool!” Quint said.

  Maritza gave me a hug. “I knew it!”

  The rest of the day, I was flying. Even tutorials went well.

  At the end of the day, Maritza introduced me to a tall, stunning girl in the hallway. “Jessi, this is my sister, Tanisha. She’s in the full-time program. It’s for future professionals.”

  Tanisha was very nice. I told her my story, and she said, “Girl, I’d be on cloud nine if I were you.”

  I was. When Michael arrived to pick me up, I told him every detail. I could not stop talking.

  We rode the elevator down with Maritza and Tanisha. We gabbed through the lobby. We gabbed up Broadway. We gabbed walking down the subway steps.

  Somewhere in the midst of the gabbing, I found out that Maritza and Tanisha lived in Brooklyn Heights. When Maritza mentioned the address, Michael said it was within walking distance of his apartment.

  This was my lucky day.

  “Want to come over?” Maritza and I both said at the same time.

  “My house first,” Maritza said. “I’ll call my friends. You’ll love them.”

  I turned to Michael. “Can I? Please?”

  “Mom and Dad won’t mind,” Tanisha said. “We were going to order in pizza today anyway.”

  Michael shrugged. “Leftovers at our house. You win.”

  We thanked Michael and started gabbing again. I loved having someone to gab with on the subway. The atmosphere during rush hour is so boring.

  The moment we walked inside the Cruzes’ apartment, Maritza started making phone calls to her friends. I sat at the kitchen table with Tanisha and munched on pretzels.

  Tanisha told me that some of the full-time students tour with Dance New York. She described a standing ovation in Italy. She showed me an award the Dance New York members had received from the mayor of San Francisco. She played a videotape of a performance she was in that was broadcast coast-to-coast on public television.

  I was completely blown away. “How hard is it to be accepted to the full-time program?”

  “Very,” Tanisha said. “It’s unbelievably hard work too. All that stuff Mr. Brailsford told you about no competition? Forget it. You are on a track. A couple of dancers eventually make it into the company. A few others do Broadway shows or teach. Everyone else …” She shrugged and her voice drifted away.

  BZZZZZZT!

  Maritza jumped up from the table. “That’s Rasheen. He lives down the hall.”

  One by one, Maritza’s friends began arriving.

  Rasheen was a techno whiz who brought over a fancy camcorder. He seemed nice, but he hardly ever took his face away from the viewfinder.

  Next came Simi, who lived around the corner. She didn’t know a thing about ballet, but whenever Maritza and I would dance for the camcorder, she would join in. With a straight face, she would turn our delicate pas de deux into comedy routines.

  Quint came over too (his mom was in Brooklyn to have dinner with friends, so he was able to come in from Manhattan). Then kids named Brandon, Julissa, and Denise arrived.

  My little visit had turned into a pizza party. Mr. and Mrs. Cruz were awfully nice about it. They just ordered extra food. They even mugged for the video.

  I hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time. Since my last Baby-sitters Club meeting, really.

  But this was different.

  I tried to think of the last time I’d been in a room full of African-American friends. Not since my family lived in Oakley.

  Now, I love my Stoneybrook friends. And I absolutely hate all forms of racism. But I couldn’t help the way I was feeling. Being with Maritza’s friends was so … refreshing.

  We polished off three large pizzas and tons of soda. We watched Rasheen’s video and laughed our heads off.

  Around eight, everyone started leaving. Rasheen and Simi walked home. The others were collected by their parents.

  Quint and I were the only ones remaining. When his mom buzzed on the intercom, he began putting on his down coat and his hat. “This was fun,” he said, giving me a big smile.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I love Maritza’s friends.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. How’s Saturday? For coming over to my house?”

  “Um, well, I’ll ask my cousin.”

  “My family can’t wait to see you again. Especially Morgan and Tyler. They love you. My mom and dad too. They call you the Dance Angel because you were the one who made me go to Juilliard.”

  “I didn’t make you! You auditioned.”

  “Dad always says, ‘Behind every successful man, there’s a good woman.’ ” Quint laughed. “Mom hates that. She says, ‘And vice versa!’ I guess it’s true both ways, huh?”

  I smiled and nodded. But I did not feel terribly comfortable. Quint was acting too friendly. Almost flirtatious. And Maritza was right behind us.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Walter rang the doorbell a moment later. As she and Quint left she repeated the invitation.

  Now I was the only guest left. Maritza and Tanisha were cleaning up the kitchen, so I pitched in. I didn’t know whether or not to mention anything about the way Quint was acting.

  Tanisha beat me to it. “You pick them well, Jessi.”

  “Pick?” I repeated.

  Tanisha nodded. “He’s cute.”

  I darted a nervous glance toward Maritza. “Well, uh, it’s not — I mean, a long time ago we — but —”

  Maritza gave me a curious glance. “He is your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

  “No!” I shot back. “He used to be, sort of, I guess. But we’re just friends, that’s all. I thought he was your boyfriend.”

  “What on earth gave you that idea?” Maritza burst out laughing.

  “I don’t know. You seem close —”

  “We’ve been in class together since kindergarten,” Maritza explained. “Don’t you worry. He’s free.”

  “Not for long,” Tanisha said. “Not with Jessi around.”

  I shook my head. “No! I mean, I don’t want a boyfriend. I like Quint and all, but that’s not what I had in mind.”

  “Have you told him that?” Maritza asked.

  “Should I? Do you think I need to?”

  Maritza and Tanisha exchanged a Look.

  “I guess you’ll find out on Saturday,” Maritza said.

  “So, Jessi’s doing these piqué turns, right?” Quint said, waving a forkful of pork roast in the air. “And —”

  “Wait. What’s P.K.?” Mr. Walter asked.

  “Pretty Complicated,” said Quint’s six-year-old sister, Morgan.

  Quint’s brother, Tyler, let out a big groan. (He’s nine.) “That would be P.C., dumbhead.”

  “Don’t call your sister names,” Mrs. Walter scolded.

  “Piqué, not P.K.,” Quint barreled on. “It’s French for these spins where you have to kick. Anyway, Jessi’s doing them, okay? And Mr. Brailsford walks by, and he gets it smack on the rear end!”

  Mr. Walter gave a big belly laugh. Tyler and Morgan were howling.

  Me? I was covering my face with my hand. “Did you have to mention that?”

  “And Maritza says, ‘She’ll never wash that toe shoe again!’ ” Quint went on.

  Another burst of laughter. Except from Mrs. Walter, who calmly asked, “Some more yams, Jessi?”

  I really like the Walters. Even though they were all laughing at my expense. It was a gentle, friendly kind of teasing. They loved to rib one another too. The atmosphere around the table was warm and comfortable.

  Until Quint put his arm around the back of my chair. “Mr. Brailsford didn’t mind,” he said. “He knows Jessi’s the best in the class.”

  “No way,” I retorted.

  Quint was grinning. He leaned his face close to mine. “You are so modest.”

  “Ooooooh,” Morgan said, looking at us with a mischievous
glint in her eye. She leaned toward Tyler and started whispering.

  Now, I liked being the center of attention. And it really did feel great to be with the Walters again.

  But my suspicions about Quint were increasing. Did he really think we’d gone back in time? Had he forgotten the talk we’d had, about being just friends?

  It sure looked like it.

  How could I have been so stupid? I never should have agreed to come over. I mean, dinner with the family? That was pretty serious. When he asked me, I should have suggested something more casual, like an afternoon walk in the park.

  No. I couldn’t have done that. Mr. Brailsford had taken all of us students to a Saturday morning rehearsal of Dance New York and then a long lunch at a fancy restaurant.

  Even there, Quint had been glued to my side. And Maritza had kept shooting me meaningful looks. But I hadn’t said a thing to Quint.

  Well, honestly, what could I have said?

  “Sorry, I can’t come over tonight because I think you might have the wrong idea in mind?”

  “Quint, even though we’re among all these people, let’s talk about our relationship?”

  No way.

  Okay. I would talk to Quint. Later. In the meantime, I was going to enjoy the company and the dinner.

  I changed the topic of conversation. I asked Tyler and Morgan about school. I asked Mr. Walter about his job. (That was a mistake. He’s a chemical engineer, and I couldn’t understand a word he said.)

  After dinner, Morgan insisted on showing me some gymnastics moves. And Tyler just had to play his newest video game with me.

  Quint seemed impatient. A few minutes into the video game, he said, “Uh, Tyler? She’s not that interested in computers.”

  “I love them,” I quickly said.

  Finally, Quint asked, “Why don’t you and I take a walk? There’s a great place for desserts and stuff, with booths. It’s really private.”

  I looked at my watch. It was nine o’clock. “Uh-oh. Michael wanted me home by now.”

  “I’ll take you there!” Quint quickly offered.

  “To Brooklyn?”

  “I love subway rides.”

  “Well, Michael gave me cab fare. Maybe another time.”

  Okay, so I didn’t talk to him. I chickened out.

  I promised myself I’d do it some other time.

  Soon.

  * * *