Jessi's Big Break

by Ann M. Martin

  I could hear the sad, low tones of a cello as I approached Marian and Michael’s apartment. It was so beautiful, I didn’t want to walk in and interrupt.

  I turned the key softly and let myself in.

  Immediately, Marian stopped playing. “Hi, Jessi.”

  “Keep going,” I said. “I didn’t know you played.”

  Michael peered in from the kitchen. “She used to play professionally.”

  “Semi,” Marian corrected him. “I was in a local orchestra during college. But never mind that. How was your dinner?”

  “Fun, I guess,” I said, plopping myself down on the sofa. “But I’m afraid Michael was right about Quint.”

  “I won’t say I told you so,” Michael called out. “But I did.”

  “Shush,” Marian called back, then leaned toward me. “So Quint’s interested, but you just want to be friends.”

  I nodded. “All day long I wanted to say something to him, but I didn’t.”

  “Has he actually told you how he feels?” Marian asked.

  “No,” I replied. “That’s what makes it hard. I mean, what if I’m wrong? What if he’s just affectionate with everybody? He didn’t used to be that way, but he’s changed a lot since I last saw him. He’s much more outgoing.”

  Marian nodded understandingly. “You don’t want to presume. It would be embarrassing to have a big talk with him, only to find out that he wasn’t trying to be serious after all.”

  Michael came in, drying his hands with a dish towel. “I thought Marian hated me for years. I used to sit through all those boring classical music concerts just to get a glimpse of her. Just hoping she’d notice me.”

  “You loved those concerts!” Marian protested.

  “Nah, I just loved the first-chair cellist,” Michael said with a grin.

  “You met in college?” I asked.

  “I was at the New England Conservatory,” Marian said. “And Michael was at the Massachusetts College of Art —”

  Bleeeeeep! went the phone.

  Michael ran into the kitchen to answer. “It’s for you, Jessi!” he announced. “Maritza. She called earlier too.”

  I excused myself and took the call. “Hello?”

  “Well?” was Maritza’s greeting. “Did you tell him?”

  “With his family around?”

  “Good point. He didn’t try to kiss you or anything, did he?”

  “No. He hasn’t even said he likes me. I’m so confused, Maritza. What am I going to do? Should I wait for him to tell me how he feels? Or should I say something first, even though I’m not totally sure?”

  “Okay. Okay. My brain is hatching a plan. If you want to talk to him, you should be around people who care about you. Right? So. All my friends really want to get to know you better. How about if I invite them over, plus you and Quint. If you want to talk to him, great. We’ll make sure no one bothers you, but we’ll be around in case you need us. If you don’t talk to him, that’s fine too.”

  “But we’re all taking a backstage tour at Lincoln Center tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Afterward, then. My house. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Maritza is so smart.

  We talked awhile longer. Marian started playing again, so after I hung up, I listened. I had the urge to call Mallory and ask her opinion about my dilemma, but it was awfully late and I was tired.

  I said good night at the end of a Bach cello sonata and slumped off to my room.

  A few minutes later, after I had washed up, I was lying in bed, admiring the abstract artwork on the walls. The paintings had such vivid colors in interesting combinations.

  I’m no Claudia Kishi. I don’t really understand modern art. But I know when I like something. And I liked this.

  I’d been in Brooklyn a week now, and each night I felt I was seeing something different on the walls. That first depressing day, the paintings seemed gloomy. When I’d been excited, the paintings seemed exuberant and happy. Now, thinking about Quint, I found the artwork to be edgy, questioning. With hidden shapes.

  I heard footsteps in the hall. I climbed out of bed, opened my door, and peeked out.

  It was Michael.

  “Hi. Who did these paintings?”

  Michael winced. “Do you hate them? Sorry. I did them when I was a student.”

  “I love them, Michael. You are so talented. You could have been a pro.”

  “You sound like my mom,” Michael said with a chuckle. “She’s still mad that I didn’t become an artist. When I told her I was going to business school, I thought she was going to disown me.”

  “Why would she be mad? You have such a nice life. And you’re happy. Aren’t you?”

  “I suppose. I didn’t want to starve — which I might have done if I had become an artist. But my mom really wanted me to live out my dream, Jessi. She wanted Marian to do the same.” Michael shrugged. “And we didn’t.”

  Live out your dream. Aunt Cecelia had said that to me too. I never paid much attention to it. I guess that’s because of the annoying way she said it.

  “My mom,” Michael added with a half smile, “can be hard to please. I sure hope you get along with her better than I ever did.”

  “I try,” I said.

  “Look at it this way. If I were an artist, you might be staying in some cold, cramped downtown walk-up, surrounded by the smells of acrylic paint and turpentine.”

  I laughed. We said good night again and I went back to bed.

  As I dozed off, my mind was swirling. Not about Quint or Dance New York or David Brailsford. I was thinking about Claudia, back home in Stoneybrook, trapped in a family of achievers. They support her, more or less, but frankly, if she grew up to do Michael’s kind of work, they’d be thrilled.

  In my family, the opposite was true. My aunt, stuffy old Cecelia, had an artistic soul.

  Who’d have thought it?

  “Lift! Li-i-i-ift! Yes! Nice work, Jessica!”

  Normally, no one calls me Jessica. I tell everyone I prefer Jessi. The only exceptions are people I’m too afraid to correct — my parents, my teachers, and Aunt Cecelia, usually when they’re angry.

  I’d just added one name to that list.

  David Brailsford.

  Even after a full week, I was in awe whenever he walked into the room. It was kind of like Zeus descending from Mount Olympus.

  But one-on-one, personal, private instruction?

  He could call me Myrtle and I wouldn’t protest.

  During my first week, almost all of my individual instruction had been with Toni. She was an excellent teacher, very supportive and funny. Occasionally, Mr. Brailsford would drop in, but just to make a few comments.

  This week, he was giving us his full attention.

  “Okay, you’re dropping your left shoulder a bit on that pirouette,” he said.

  “I always do that,” I said with a sigh.

  “You can change,” Mr. Brailsford said. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Let’s try it again.”

  I pirouetted. This time my right shoulder dipped.

  But I did not wait for a comment. I went right into a double pirouette, which I was determined to do perfectly.

  Instead, I went around three times.

  A perfect triple. Which I’d never, ever been able to do in my life.

  Mr. Brailsford applauded. “Excellent! Where did that come from?”

  I couldn’t stop giggling. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “Believe it. It will be the first of many, Jessica. You’re showing terrific improvement. Okay, let’s do the piece Toni taught you, from the top.”

  Nice work.

  Excellent.

  Terrific improvement.

  The compliments were burning themselves into my memory. Three good ones, right in a row.

  I wanted our session to last forever. I was having the best time.

  When it was over, I danced out of the room.

  I nearly stepped on Quint. He was doing stretc
hes on the floor.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said with a big smile. “Mr. Brailsford wants you to be in his next ballet.”

  “No, not quite,” I said, calmly walking toward the vending machine.

  “He wants to promote you to D-Level.”

  “Nope.”

  “I heard him say you were excellent,” Quint said, hopping up from the floor.

  “You have good ears.”

  “No. He just has a loud voice. Anyway, I’m sure you were as great as usual, Ms. Star of the Future.”

  Remember the Big Talk that Quint and I were supposed to have on Sunday? Well, guess what? It didn’t happen.

  We were too busy. First of all, we used Rasheen’s camcorder to make a horror video called Ballet Is Murder, which I directed. After that I led a game of charades. Then I choreographed a few karaoke numbers.

  No Talk.

  Afterward, Maritza told me, “No problem. Just don’t lead him on. If he sees you smiling too much or responding to his jokes, he might get the wrong impression.”

  I didn’t totally agree. I wasn’t going to be cold. Not to someone as nice as Quint. I was determined to be polite but just a little distant. Friendly but not girlfriendly.

  Simple. He’d get the message.

  Now Quint was standing right next to me, his arm up against the vending machine.

  “Excuse me,” I said, ducking into the practice room to fetch my dance bag.

  I took out my wallet and searched around for money for the machine.

  Quint was right behind me. “I’ll treat,” he volunteered.

  I pulled out a dollar bill of my own, just in time. “No, thanks.”

  “Hey, girl!” called Maritza from down the hallway. “How’d it go?”

  I whirled away from the machine and ran toward her.

  “It was soooo great,” I said. “At first I didn’t think I could move. I mean, there he was.” I imitated Mr. Brailsford’s big grin and deepened my voice. “ ‘Jessicaaaa, you must lo-o-o-ower your left shoulder.’ My heart was pumping so fast, I couldn’t even talk. I tried to do a double pirouette but I went around three times without thinking and he said, ‘E-e-excellent. Where did thaaaaat come from?’ ”

  Maritza was not laughing. She was looking at something over my shoulder. So was Quint.

  I turned around to see Mr. Brailsford leaning against the doorjamb of the practice room.

  “We-e-e-ell, an actress as well as a ballerinaaaa!” he bellowed, in an imitation of my imitation of his voice.

  I nearly melted into the floor. “Sorry!” I squeaked, burying my head in my hands.

  Mr. Brailsford burst out laughing. “No offense taken. I appreciate all kinds of talent.”

  Another student was walking into the practice room just then. Mr. Brailsford waved good-bye and closed the door behind them.

  I collapsed slowly to the carpet. “Oh, great. Last week I kicked him. This week I made fun of him.”

  Quint knelt beside me. “Hey, don’t worry. He was amused.”

  “He’s going to expel me,” I replied.

  Quint was about to put his arm around me, but Maritza managed to wedge herself between us. “Jessi, it’s lunchtime. You need to take a walk. To clear your head. Come on.”

  We headed down the corridor, chatting. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Quint hesitating, trying to decide whether or not to go with us. Finally, he just stayed put.

  “Maritza,” I said, “aren’t we being a little snobby? We could have invited him.”

  “Mr. Brailsford?”

  “No. Quint.”

  “Hey, you two!” called Tanisha, who was waiting near the elevator. “Ready to eat?”

  We rode down the elevator and walked outside without our coats. We let the cold January air shock us as we darted to the deli at the end of the block. The deli smelled heavenly, like hot soup and pot roast.

  My mood was lifting again. Slightly.

  As Tanisha ordered our sandwiches, Maritza and I picked out cartons of juice.

  “He must think I hate him,” I said.

  “Quint?” Maritza asked.

  “No. Mr. Brailsford.”

  “Jessi, your imitation wasn’t cruel. He’s a grown man. He can take it. You heard how he laughed.”

  “I guess.” I sighed. “But you’re right about Quint. He’s probably furious at me.”

  “Furious at me. I was the one who sat between you two.”

  I laughed. “You know, you didn’t have to do that. He’s not a wild monster.”

  “No, just wild with lo-o-o-o-ove.”

  Tanisha turned toward us from the sandwich counter. “Honey, he’s a good-looking guy. Often the cute ones don’t like strong women. Obviously he does — because he likes you, Jessi. You should think twice about passing him up.”

  I loved the way Tanisha was talking to me. It made me feel at least fifteen. But I wasn’t sure she understood the situation.

  “I’m not that strong. Mr. Brailsford told me I need to work on my jumps and do push-ups —”

  “I don’t mean strong dancer. I mean strong woman,” Tanisha said. “You were chewing the scenery at that party yesterday.”

  That is such a funny expression. It means hogging the stage. Until then, though, I’d never heard anyone use it to describe me.

  “It’s true, Jessi,” Maritza agreed. “You hardly know my friends, and you had them running around as if you were their camp counselor. And they loved every minute of it.”

  “Ya sangwiches, goils?” called the man behind the counter, in the strongest New York accent I have ever heard.

  Maritza and Tanisha practically exploded with laughter. They had to cover their mouths.

  I was laughing too. But not at the accent.

  I was just plain happy. About my fabulous new life.

  Me, Jessi Ramsey. Not only a ballerina acclaimed by David Brailsford, but yes, ladies and gentlemen, a Born Leader too.

  At last I had something to tell Kristy.

  * * *

  Monday was just the beginning of a dream-come-true week. Mr. Brailsford was really taking an interest in me. He didn’t push me to do the impossible, but he never let me settle for less than my best. A word, an image, a slight adjustment in body position — he knew just how to make me change.

  Some of my best times were after practice. Michael and Marian took me to hear jazz at the Blue Note (Tuesday), to a Broadway show (Thursday), and to a concert at Carnegie Hall (Friday), plus a few fantastic restaurants. On Wednesday I saw a movie with Maritza and her friends.

  Homework? I did it on my subway rides, during breaks, whenever. I felt so alive and alert, I never had trouble concentrating.

  As for Quint and me, well, things stayed pretty much the same. He did ask me to his house for dinner Friday night, but I couldn’t go because of the concert. And during the day we were always — always — surrounded by a crowd.

  On Friday I noticed he looked kind of quiet. So I asked him if everything was okay.

  He just smiled and shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay,” I said, turning back to the practice room.

  “Jessi,” he called out.

  “What?” I said.

  “That’s the most you’ve said to me all week.”

  “I’m sorry! I wasn’t, like, insinuating anything. Just being friendly in a normal way. You know, not any different from anyone else —”

  Quint laughed. “What I mean is, we’ve all been so busy. What a week, huh?”

  “Amazing,” I replied.

  Whew. False alarm.

  I was beginning to think my problem might not be much of a problem at all.

  When Michael, Marian, and I arrived home from the concert on Friday, we found a message from Maritza on the answering machine. Her parents wanted to treat her whole group of friends to a “New York Saturation Saturday” — Statue of Liberty, Twin Towers, Chinatown, Rockefeller Center skating rink,
and dinner in Little Italy.

  I called my parents right away and asked if I could stay in New York for another weekend.

  Daddy agreed, but Mama sounded a little reluctant. “Becca was expecting to see you,” she said. “Mallory too.”

  Oops.

  “Can I talk to Becca?”

  “She’s sleeping.”

  “I’ll call tomorrow and explain.”

  We said good-bye. Then I tried Mallory.

  She was very quiet when I told her what had happened. “Oh,” she said. “Okay.”

  Ugh. She was mad.

  An idea hit me. “I know. Why don’t you come here next weekend?”

  “Could I?”

  I looked at Michael and Marian. They both nodded. “Yup,” I said.

  “I’ll work on Mom and Dad,” Mallory said.

  Done.

  I knew this was going to work.

  Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

  The RR, of course, is Rebecca Ramsey.

  But Mallory wasn’t telling the whole truth. Becca was not the only one with separation anxiety.

  Mal herself was feeling pretty low. Her parents had not agreed to let her go to New York. They said they’d “think about it.”

  “Mallory, can you tell us a story, please please please?” Margo Pike asked.

  “Not today,” Mallory said.

  “Tell us one about the Oogly Oogly Beast!” Charlotte pleaded.

  Mallory sighed. “Don’t you all want to play outside?”

  “Too cold,” Becca grumbled.

  “I’ll tell you all a story,” announced Byron Pike.

  As the kids ran into the Pikes’ den, Mal muttered, “They think storytelling is so easy.”

  “That’s because you’re so good at it,” Claudia said. “You make it look easy. It’s like when I show Janine my art. She shrugs it off. She calls it play therapy.”

  Mal nodded silently.

  “Jessi too,” Claudia rambled on. “She does those spin things like they’re nothing.”

  “Pirouettes,” Mallory said.

  “Whatever. Anyway, I tried one and nearly destroyed my ankle.”

  “Well, she’s doing a lot of them this weekend, I guess. That’s why she can’t be here.”

  Claudia’s heart went out to Mal. She immediately thought about how lonely she had felt when she was first sent back to seventh grade.