Jessi's Big Break

  To our left was a thick banister of dark polished wood. Footsteps came thumping downstairs. “Welcome!” said a deep voice that sounded a lot like Daddy’s.

  I could not believe my cousin. I remembered him as skinny and gawky. Now he was tall and powerful-looking. He hurried to Aunt Cecelia and practically lifted her off the floor. “How’s the most beautiful mama on this earth?”

  “Mercy, I have only one spine, child!”

  What a greeting to give your own son. But Michael just laughed, and I could see the trace of a smile on Aunt Cecelia’s face.

  Michael picked up Squirt and fussed over him. Then he turned to my sister and me, grinning. “Jessica! Becky!”

  “-Ca.” Becca scowled. “No one in the whole wide world calls me Becky, and I’m thirsty.”

  Ugh. Off to a great start.

  Michael hugged each of us, then introduced Becca, Squirt, and me to Marian, who had walked down the stairs behind him. She was pretty and delicate-looking, with a nice, open smile. She congratulated me and said she adored ballet.

  I liked her right away.

  But a funny thing happened when she turned toward Aunt Cecelia. Her smile tightened, and her eyes lost their excitement. “Hello, Mother Parker.”

  “Nice to see you, dear,” Aunt Cecelia said flatly. “How many flights must I walk?”

  “Just one, Mama,” Michael replied, smiling mischievously. “Or shall I carry you?”

  “Making fun of me already,” Aunt Cecelia muttered, trudging up the steps. “After all I’ve done.”

  I saw Marian glance nervously at Michael. He put his arm around her reassuringly. Then he grabbed a suitcase and followed Aunt Cecelia.

  “I hope everybody’s hungry,” Michael said over his shoulder. “We have the world’s best take-out Chinese restaurant in Brooklyn just around the corner.”

  “Chinese food?” Becca whined. “Ew.”

  “Bec-ca,” Daddy said sternly.

  “Honestly, Michael, a simple homemade meal would have sufficed,” Aunt Cecelia said.

  “Mama, when you taste this food, you’ll thank us,” Michael said.

  “I’m really sorry,” Marian added. “See, Michael and I both had to work this morning, and —”

  “My parents never work on Sundays,” Becca said.

  I was so embarrassed. I felt like melting into the carpet. My cousin and his wife were putting me up for almost a month, and everyone was giving them grief.

  I wouldn’t have been surprised if they changed their minds about the whole thing.

  Fortunately, Michael was very patient. And he was right about the Chinese food. It was excellent. Even Becca ate it. And eventually, Aunt Cecelia stopped complaining.

  Afterward, we chatted about Michael’s and Marian’s jobs. We played with Squirt. Michael showed me my room, which had two beds and was decorated with the coolest paintings. He also gave me a set of apartment keys. Then we took a walk through the neighborhood, all the way to the waterfront. There, we had a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline.

  I could not take my eyes off it. The buildings seemed like living creatures, warm and breathing. I leaned against the wooden railing and stared.

  Marian stood next to me. “Just think,” she said. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll be in the center of it all.”

  I felt my cheeks flush just thinking about it. Somewhere in the middle of all that steel and concrete, above the honking horns and rumbling trains, I, Jessi Ramsey, was going to be soaring across a dance floor with the great David Brailsford.

  I clutched the railing as tightly as I could. If I hadn’t, I think I would have floated over the river right then and there.

  “Borelaffanetrafferdeewassaclodonattapursablon!” blared the voice over the subway speakers.

  “What language was that?” I asked Michael.

  “New York Subway,” Michael replied. “He said, ‘Broadway-Lafayette is next. Transfer for the D. Watch the closing doors and take your personal belongings.’ That’s our stop, by the way.”

  “Oh.”

  It was the morning of my first full day in New York City, and already I could see I had a lot to learn. Translating subway announcements was one thing. Walking fast was another. I’d nearly been knocked off my feet when I’d stopped to adjust my backpack on the subway steps.

  Avoiding eye contact seemed very important too. No one in the subway looks at another person during rush hour. They act as if they don’t notice one another. Which is totally ridiculous, because you’re standing shoulder to shoulder, smelling each other’s cologne and breakfast breath.

  By the time we reached the Broadway-Lafayette stop, I was sweaty and exhausted.

  The moment we were above ground, though, Michael came to life. “SoHo is that way,” he said, pointing. “Beyond it is Little Italy and Chinatown. That way is the Public Theater, and there’s the Angelika Film Center….”

  We walked past art galleries, boutiques, vintage-clothing stores. All of them were on the ground floors of incredibly old cast-iron buildings. Michael said the area used to be an abandoned industrial district until artists began taking it over in the seventies.

  For a businessguy, Michael knew a lot about artists. He took me from window to window, describing who had done what painting, in what style.

  We almost missed the entrance to the Dance New York studio. It was a grimy door between a publishing company building and a hardware store. We had to wait in a teeny lobby with yellowed tiles and dim lighting. The elevator wasn’t even automatic. An old, bored-looking man yanked the door open, not even looking at us. We had to cram into a tiny metal cage.

  “Ninth floor, please,” Michael said cheerfully. He didn’t seem fazed at all, but my good mood was fading. If the dance studio was like this, I was going to head back to Stoneybrook.

  One of my favorite books ever is The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I’ve read it about four times. When Lucy Pevensie finds the wardrobe in a musty old room and walks through it into the land of Narnia, I shiver. Well, that was exactly how I felt when the elevator door opened.

  Piano music echoed loudly. So did the rhythmic thudding of feet. Behind a plate glass wall, ballet dancers leaped so high they looked as if they’d been lifted with strings. The polished wood floors below them were like mirrors.

  “Youth program is down the hall to the left,” said a woman standing near a watercooler.

  We walked past five or six practice rooms, most with their doors open. I wanted to stop and gawk before each one. I saw dancers with legs that seemed to go on forever. Outfits that made my Danskins look babyish. Triple pirouettes without the slightest effort.

  “I recognize some of these dancers!” I whispered. “They’re famous.”

  “No kidding.” Michael looked impressed.

  We turned a corner and entered a room marked DANCE NEW YORK YOUTH.

  I was not the first one. In fact, about a dozen kids were stretching and doing barre exercises. They looked just as amazing as the dancers in the practice rooms, only smaller. Their parents were sipping coffee from paper cups and talking among themselves. In the corner, a man was playing softly on an upright piano.

  “It’s magic time, Jessica Ramsey,” Michael said with a big grin.

  “These kids are too good,” I murmured. “What am I doing here?”

  Michael put a reassuring arm around my shoulder. “Hey, they ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  “I wish you could stay.”

  Michael pretended to look horrified. “They might make me dance. Then you’d be sorry you ever knew me.” He smiled. “Besides, I have to get to work. I’ll pick you up at five-thirty. Knock ’em dead.”

  As Michael scooted away, a young woman walked to me with a clipboard. She introduced herself as the A-Level instructor, Toni, and asked me to sign some papers. Then she pointed me in the direction of the locker rooms.

  I was so nervous, I could not look at a single person. I changed, I dragged my dance bag back to the room, I found a space
at the barre. And I began plié-ing as if my life depended on it.

  It took me about five minutes to break a sweat. That was when I began calming down. I gazed around the room again. Most of the other kids were just chatting now. I heard names of hometowns, schools, teachers.

  And then I heard someone say, “Juilliard.”

  But it wasn’t the word itself that caught my attention. It was the voice that said it. A familiar voice.

  I was at the height of an arabesque, my right leg extended backward, when I looked around to see who was speaking.

  Quint Walter.

  He was standing against a barre on the other side of the room, kicking his legs over his head while carrying on a conversation with a group of kids.

  My arabesque collapsed. I had to clutch the barre.

  Of course, Quint would pick that moment to see me.

  “Jessi?” he called out.

  “Hi,” I said.

  Quint lowered his leg and jetéd over to me. “How — what — you’re in this too?”

  “Uh-huh,” I grunted. Why is talking to boys so hard? I mean, I used to know Quint so well (he was even my boyfriend, sort of) and still I felt tongue-tied.

  “This is so cool,” Quint said. “You’ve seen me dance and you convinced me to audition for Juilliard, but I have never seen you dance! Now I know you must be good!”

  A gorgeous girl next to us started giggling. “Modest, aren’t you?”

  “I meant — well, you know —”

  The girl giggled again and extended her hand to me. “Since he’s obviously not going to introduce us, I’m Maritza Cruz.”

  “Jessi Ramsey,” I said.

  “Maritza’s in my ballet class at Juilliard,” Quint explained. “David Brailsford personally recruited us.”

  Maritza rolled her eyes. “He has told that to everyone in this room, everyone in the elevator, and a few sidewalk vendors on Broadway.”

  “Well, it’s true!” Quint insisted.

  I burst out laughing. Quint is the sweetest guy, and I know he doesn’t mean to sound conceited. But he had changed since I last saw him. He used to be worried about his image. He hated it when neighborhood kids teased him about being a ballet dancer. Now he seemed so much more confident. And Maritza really had his number.

  I wondered if she was his girlfriend.

  They sure did seem close. And they looked perfect together. For one thing, they had matching turnout. (That means their feet point slightly outward instead of straight. As silly as it sounds, that’s important for a dancer.) They’re both tall too. Quint is maybe five feet eight, and Maritza looked almost that height. Quint has coffee-brown skin, a shade lighter than mine. His features are open and friendly. Maritza is a bit paler, almost golden-hued, with raven-black hair pulled into a ponytail. Her eyes and smile are huge. I could just see them in a pas de deux.

  No, I did not feel jealous. I still felt perfectly comfortable just liking Quint as a friend. Having a boyfriend isn’t something I think about much.

  Who has time?

  “Everybody!” Toni called out. “Let’s clear the door, please!”

  Before she even finished the sentence, people by the door began clapping. A familiar, tall figure swept through them, smiling and shaking hands.

  Me? I had to struggle to keep my jaw closed. David Brailsford is even more magnetic in person than he is onstage. He doesn’t walk, he glides. His skin is a luscious deep brown, and his eyes seem to catch the light. “Welcome, everybody!” he called out in a deeeeeeep, loud voice with a slight West Indian accent. “Are you all ready to dance?”

  “Yeeeaaaah!” we called out.

  As Toni ushered the parents into the hallway, Mr. Brailsford asked us to sit around him in a semicircle.

  “First, I want to thank you for accepting my offer,” Mr. Brailsford began. “I know some of you are far from home. I know how much your families had to sacrifice for you to come here. Perhaps some of you are even questioning if it’s worth the trouble.”

  “If you want to be a pro, it is,” said a boy with red hair.

  Most of the class murmured in agreement.

  “Well, you are indeed some of the finest young dancers I have seen,” Mr. Brailsford said with a chuckle. “But if you’re looking for professional training, you’re in the wrong place.”

  That was not what I expected to hear. I could tell no one else did either.

  “This class is about one thing.” Mr. Brailsford held up a finger. “Love.” Then he held up another. “And dance.”

  “That’s two things,” the red-haired boy said.

  Mr. Brailsford brought the two fingers together. “Here, they’re the same. This class is not about competition and pressure. You will not need to diet. You will not be graded. Your task is simple: to explore something you love to the utmost. With hard work. With joy. So that no matter what you become — a ballet star, a doctor, a fire chief — you will have had the dance experience of your life. An experience you will take with you always.”

  “All riiight!” shouted Quint.

  Maritza started clapping. I joined her. Soon the whole class was whistling and applauding with us.

  Mr. Brailsford beamed at us. “Okay, now here’s how we do it. Each day will be divided into three parts. Two of them are dance related: group dance class and individual instruction. During the first week you’ll work mostly with Toni, as I circulate among the groups. I’ll be teaching you individually next week. The last part of the day is academic tutorial. That’s a fancy way of saying school. Your tutors are top-notch, and they’ll be working you hard.”

  A groan went up from the room.

  “But I’ve given them strict instructions: no homework on weekends!” Brailsford went on. “One more thing. On our last day, which is a Wednesday, we will be having an exhibition performance. You, the A-Level, will perform a group number choreographed by me. Now, everybody up for stretches.”

  I leaped to my feet. I, Jessi Ramsey, was going to be choreographed by the master. What a feeling.

  But I couldn’t think about that just then. Quint, Maritza, and I grabbed the barre.

  The accompanist started playing. Toni stood in first position and announced, “Okay, watch me and plié!”

  I was charged up. I felt as if I could do anything. I was going to be perfect.

  As we began the warm-up, I saw Mr. Brailsford walking around the room. I couldn’t wait for him to notice me. To stand next to me and admire me. He didn’t have to tell me I was the next Gelsey Kirkland, just smile and nod. The way Mme Noelle does when I’m doing well in my regular ballet class.

  Well, he stood next to me, all right. So did Toni. Many times. And they were both as nice as could be.

  But each time, they corrected me.

  My back was swayed. My arms were curved too much. My fingers were stiff. My fifth position was too wide.

  This was nothing like Mme Noelle’s class. It was nothing like Mme Noelle’s warm-up, either. Mr. Brailsford was making us exercise muscles I didn’t know existed.

  Was he picking on Quint? On Maritza? Hardly at all.

  Just me.

  Was I that awful?

  When Toni announced our first break, I was numb. I slumped out to the watercooler.

  Maritza and Quint introduced me to some classmates. I tried to be friendly, but I barely registered their names.

  “You looked great, Jessi,” Maritza said.

  “What am I doing here?” I blurted out. “I was a mistake!”

  Quint gave me a funny look. “Say what?”

  “At my audition, they probably accepted someone else, but they checked off my name by accident,” I mumbled.

  “I was thinking the same thing about myself!” exclaimed a girl named Celeste.

  “Me too,” Maritza said.

  “But he hardly said a thing to you,” I remarked.

  “Sure he did,” Maritza replied. “You were too busy concentrating to notice. He was on everybody’s case. Even Baryshnikov
over here.” She gestured toward Quint.

  Quint smiled. “Jessi, just relax. Remember, we’re here to learn and have fun.”

  I took a deep breath. I choked back tears.

  How was the rest of the day? Well, I survived. I did a few good pirouettes. I fell on a piqué turn and smashed into a mirror during a routine. Mr. Brailsford corrected me a thousand times, but he did say “Nice job” once. Although that might have been to the girl behind me.

  By tutorials, I was a wreck. I couldn’t pay attention. To add insult to injury, we were assigned homework.

  Boy, was I happy to see Michael in the hallway at the end of the day. I grabbed my dance bag, called good-bye to my friends, and turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Quint said, running to me. “So. You want to do something? Maybe not tonight, but maybe some other night? You know, like come over to my house for dinner?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Great.” Quint was backing down the hallway. “I mean, you’ll see my family. They’ll be so surprised….”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Great. Okay, ’bye.” He nearly tripped over a dance bag. Grinning, he ran into the locker room.

  “That guy is a dancer?” Michael asked as we headed toward the elevator.

  I laughed. “He just has trouble walking.”

  “Ah, young love. It can make a clod of anyone.”

  “Michael! It’s not like that at all. He has a girlfriend, anyway.”

  “Okay, okay,” Michael said with a big smile. “Looks deceive, I guess.”

  As we entered the elevator, I could see Quint emerging from the locker room. He was grinning at me and waving.

  I waved back.

  I wasn’t worried. Michael was being silly.

  That’s all.

  “Becca! Mallory’s here!” Mama called into the house.

  Mallory stepped inside, lugging her Kid-Kit.

  Squirt came toddling into the room. When he saw Mallory, he began jumping up and down. “Maa-ree! Maa-ree!”

  “Hi!” Mallory said, kneeling down to pick him up.

  But Squirt just shot past her and climbed onto the armchair by the living room window. “Dess-see? Dess-see?”