Rocky is Seth’s cat. And Emily Junior is (ew) a rat! Emily Junior lives with Karen’s mother and stepfather, instead of at Watson’s house.
“Rocky’s kind of funny-looking,” mused Karen. “I’d probably have to dress her up or something.”
Kristy pictured Rocky in Karen’s dress-up clothes — her “lovely lady” clothes, as she calls them. High heels, a big hat … or maybe a wedding veil. Kristy tried not to laugh out loud.
“But if I entered Emily Junior, she’d probably be the only rat there. Maybe she’d win a prize just for that,” Karen continued. “The only thing is that I’d probably have to give her a bath, and I don’t know how much she’d like that,” she added. “I just can’t decide.”
“What about Boo-Boo?” asked David Michael. “Doesn’t anybody want to enter Boo-Boo?”
Everybody laughed. Why? Because Boo-Boo is not just any cat. Boo-Boo is the oldest, fattest, and meanest cat you’ve ever seen.
“He’s too nasty,” said Karen. “He’d probably hiss at the judges.”
“Yeah,” said Andrew. “And how could we even pick him up to carry him to the show? He’s too fat.”
Obviously, Boo-Boo was out of the question as a pet-show contestant.
“But what about Emily Michelle?” asked David Michael. “She doesn’t have a pet to enter.”
“Pet!” said Emily Michelle, smiling and clapping her hands.
David Michael started to laugh all of a sudden.
“What’s so funny?” asked Karen.
“What if Emily enters Boo-Boo?” he said.
Kristy thought of Emily trying to lug Boo-Boo to the pet show. “That cat is almost bigger than she is!” she said, laughing.
Karen and Andrew cracked up, too. Then Karen got serious. “But Emily’s too young to enter a pet, right?” she asked Kristy.
“I think so,” said Kristy. “She doesn’t really understand what we’re talking about.” It was true. Emily Michelle was playing happily with her Tonka truck, totally absorbed in shifting a little pile of pebbles from one area to another.
“Rrrr …” said Emily, making a pretty good truck noise.
As the afternoon wore on, some of the other kids in Kristy’s neighborhood came over to play. Hannie and Linny Papadakis were the first to arrive. They’d brought their little sister, Sari, to play with Emily. They’re just about the same age, even though Sari’s more advanced in some ways than Emily. Emily is having a hard time learning certain games — maybe because she had a very hard time for the first year or so of her life in Vietnam.
Hannie (she’s seven, and in the same class at school as Karen) and Linny (he’s eight, and he’s David Michael’s best friend) were just as excited about the pet show as everybody else. It was all they could talk about.
It was the same with Scott and Timmy Hsu, who live down the street, and Max and Amanda Delaney. They all gathered on Kristy’s front lawn, and nobody wanted to talk about anything but the pet show.
Karen and Amanda are friends, even though Amanda can be kind of stuck-up. (Which is why Hannie can’t stand her.) Max, who’s six, is always trying to be friends with the other kids, but it seems that David Michael and Linny would rather avoid him.
Scott and Timmy Hsu are good kids, and everybody likes them. In fact, Hannie and Scott are married! (Well, they’re pretend married. Karen just got married, too, to a boy in her class.)
Anyway, with all these kids, some of whom like each other and some of whom might be looking for a fight, Kristy thought it would be a good idea to forget the pet show for awhile and organize a game.
“How about freeze tag?” she yelled over the commotion.
“Yeah!” cried David Michael. “I’m It!” Everybody scattered, and David Michael started trying to tag them. Emily was the only one who didn’t quite “get” the rules of the game. Whenever David Michael tagged her, she collapsed in a heap on the ground, giggling and shrieking as if he were tickling her to death.
“She won’t stop wiggling!” complained David Michael to Kristy. “She’s supposed to freeze.”
Kristy told David Michael that Emily was just too young. “C’mon, Emily-bird,” she said, scooping her up. “You and I will watch from the porch.”
The game went on for some time, until the older kids, at least, had had a chance to be It. Then everybody flopped down on the grass, panting. Kristy brought out paper cups and a pitcher of lemonade and passed out some to all the kids.
Then they began talking about the pet show again. Karen was the one who brought it up. “Which one of you is going to enter Priscilla?” she asked Amanda and Max. (Priscilla is the Delaneys’ cat.) Karen’s always got her nose in everyone’s business. She’s kind of like a young Kristy. She’s full of energy and good ideas, and sometimes she gets herself into trouble by saying things before she’s really thought them out.
Like this time.
For a moment, neither Max nor Amanda answered her question. Then they both spoke up at once.
“Me!” said Max.
“I am!” said Amanda.
“She’s my cat!” they both said, in perfect unison.
“Uh-oh,” said Kristy to herself. “Trouble.”
“Priscilla will be the most beautiful cat in the show,” said Amanda. “Nobody else around here owns a purebred white Persian that cost four hundred dollars.” Amanda has a habit of pointing out how much everything costs. I guess she is kind of stuck-up sometimes — but she’s basically a good kid. “And I intend to get first prize with her,” she finished.
Before Max could argue with his sister, Hannie jumped into the battle. “What do you mean, Priscilla is the most beautiful cat around? Pat the cat is prettier than that old dust mop any day! And smarter, too.”
Pat the cat is Hannie’s kitten. All the Papadakises’ pets have funny rhyming names. There’s Pat the cat, Noodle the poodle, and Myrtle the turtle.
“Dust mop!” repeated Amanda, outraged. “How dare you —”
“And she’s a dumb dust mop, too,” said Hannie. “She can’t even do any tricks.”
“So what?” asked Amanda. “She’s a cat, not a dog. Cats aren’t supposed to do tricks.”
“Pat the cat can do tricks,” said Hannie. “She can dance around on her hind legs.” She smiled meanly at Amanda. “The judges are going to love her,” she said.
Kristy thought it was time to change the subject — or at least to get the focus of the conversation off cats.
“Who are you going to enter, Linny?” she asked.
He smiled at her. Linny can be a little shy, but he’s great if you draw him out. “I’m going to enter Myrtle,” he said. “I’m going to paint her shell so she looks really cool.”
“Great!” said Kristy. Then she looked over at Scott and Timmy. They looked a little downcast. “What about you guys?” she asked.
“We don’t have any pets,” said Timmy. “So I guess we can’t enter the show.”
Before Kristy could begin to comfort them, Karen spoke up. “You can borrow Boo-Boo!” she said. “He might not win, but at least you’d have a pet to enter.” Timmy’s eyes lit up.
“And you can borrow Noodle, Scott!” said Hannie. “After all, you are my husband. Noodle’s kind of like your pet, too, right?”
Kristy looked seriously at Hannie and Karen. “Are you guys sure about that?” she asked. “Lending your pet to somebody is kind of a big deal.” She didn’t want to see any more fights spring up.
“Hmmm …” said Karen. “Maybe you’re right. Forget it, Timmy. What if Boo-Boo did win a prize? Then I’d be mad.”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Hannie. “I take it back, Scott. You can’t have Noodle after all.”
Scott looked stunned. “I thought you said that he was my pet, too!” he said. “Does this mean we’re getting a divorce?”
“I don’t know,” said Hannie. “Maybe. But anyway, you have to find your own pet.”
Kristy groaned. It looked like the honeymoon was over for tho
se two. And it looked like her latest idea might end up being more trouble than it was worth. The pet show was supposed to be fun — but the kids seemed to be taking it a little too seriously.
“Hey, Princess,” said Lisa. “How’s it going?”
I smiled. “Fine,” I said. “I’m really up for today, aren’t you?”
Lisa nodded.
“You’d better be up,” said Hilary, overhearing me. “You haven’t been doing too well so far. Sleeping Beauty’s sleeping on the job.”
I ignored her. I knew that none of the things that had happened at the first and second rehearsal had been my fault. But today would be different. Today, things would go smoothly.
It was the day of the third rehearsal, and it was time to change out of my school clothes. I pulled on my new pink tights and my new black leotard. Over the tights I pulled on my new (blue) leg warmers. I put on my new baggy sweat shirt.
“Woo, new outfit!” said Lisa. “Nice!”
“Thanks!” I said.
How did I get all that brand-new stuff? I used my hard-earned baby-sitting money, that’s how. And I hated having to do it. Sure, it’s nice to have new things — I retired my older things to serve as spares right away. Still, it doesn’t really seem fair. I’m trying to save that money for other things. But there was no way I could get by with just one of everything — I’d learned that lesson well enough. So I bit the bullet and laid out the money.
I’d even stretched my cash to buy one other thing — something that I hoped would prevent anyone from taking my stuff ever again. It was a new dance bag. The old one had been big enough, and it was still in pretty good shape. But the new one has something that the old one didn’t have. The new one has a zipper at either end, and the zipper tabs meet in the middle. Guess what. There’s this tiny padlock that I can use to lock the zippers together.
Can you believe I actually have to lock up a grimy old leotard and a ratty pair of leg warmers? As my parents would say, “What is the world coming to?”
By the time I’d finished putting up my hair, everybody else was in the studio. Good. For some reason, I didn’t want them to see me locking up my bag. I closed the bag, took out the tiny key, and made sure the little padlock was locked tight. Then I put the key on the thin gold chain I was wearing around my neck.
Mme Noelle doesn’t really approve of wearing jewelry in class, so I usually don’t. But she says it’s okay as long as it doesn’t get in the way. I tucked the necklace under my leotard and checked in the mirror. It hardly showed, so Madame probably wouldn’t even notice it.
Once rehearsal started, I forgot about the key. For a change, nothing bad was happening to me, and I was free to concentrate on practicing my steps. Mme Noelle was giving me approving looks.
“Beautiful!” she said, as I bourée’d across the floor. “But smile, Mademoiselle Romsey. Relax and enjoy it!”
Oh, sure. Have you ever tiptoed across a whole floor, moving nothing but your legs in the tiniest, controlled movements? I tried to smile, but my feet were killing me. A ballet dancer’s feet are almost always killing her.
We switched to another step, and I had a chance to relax for a moment as I waited my turn to show Mme Noelle my technique. Lisa Jones did a lovely arabesque at the back of the room. She was just practicing while she waited her turn. Carrie was on the floor, showing Mme Noelle her stuff.
After I took my turn, I stood again in the little knot of dancers, waiting for Madame to tell us what was next. I heard Hilary whispering behind me, and turned quickly to warn her to be quiet. (Madame hates it when we whisper.) Just as I turned, I heard a tiny clink. I looked down. Uh-oh. My necklace had dropped to the ground. The catch must have come unfastened.
I knelt quickly and grabbed it before anyone saw. Then, still kneeling, I scrambled to fasten it around my neck. When I stood up, I realized that I had missed Mme Noelle’s directions. I had no idea what we were supposed to do next — and I was out in front of the group, which meant I might have to go first.
I looked around desperately. Mme Noelle’s back was turned — she was just about to put the needle down onto the record. Carrie was standing next to me.
“Quick!” I said. “What did she say?”
“Tour jetés,” replied Carrie. “One of us at a time, across the room.”
I tried to catch my breath. Tour jetés. No problem.
“Lead off, Mademoiselle Romsey!” said Mme Noelle.
Oh, boy. I gathered myself together and took a deep breath. Then I took off, running diagonally across the room and executing a perfect tour jeté. (Which is a big, running leap, in case you forgot.) Well, almost perfect. The only problem with it was the landing.
I landed like a sack of potatoes, sprawled out all over the floor. For just a second, I had no idea where I was. I shook my head and blinked. How could I have fallen so hard? Then I felt a sharp pain. My ankle was killing me. Everybody rushed over to where I was lying.
“Jessi, are you okay?” asked Katie Beth. “What happened?”
I sat up, rubbing my ankle. “I don’t know. It seemed like I slipped on something when I landed.” I looked around me, checking the floor. “Look!” I said, pointing to a nearby spot. “It’s all wet.”
Hilary knelt to look at it. “Boy, that’s slick,” she said. “No wonder you fell.”
“Where’d that mess come from, anyway?” asked another girl.
Then Mme Noelle worked her way into the circle of girls standing around me. “You are all right, Mademoiselle Romsey?” she asked. I nodded. “Good,” she said. “All of you, back to your places,” she added, waving the girls away from me. She helped me up, and then she examined the wet spot on the floor.
She clapped her hands. “Lisa Jones!” she said. “Please to run and fetch zee man who cleans zee floors!” Lisa ran out the door and headed for the janitor’s room.
Madame turned back to me. I was standing there with all my weight on my right leg. My left one didn’t seem to want to hold me up. “How does zee onkle feel?” she asked me, looking intently into my eyes.
I couldn’t lie. “It — it hurts,” I said. All I wanted to do was to keep on dancing. I could hardly stand the fact that I’d interrupted rehearsal for the third time in a row. But my ankle did hurt. A lot.
“Come,” said Mme Noelle. She walked with me over to the side of the room (or rather, she walked; I limped), sat me down on a chair, and knelt in front of me. “Let’s take a look,” she said.
She picked up my foot and examined my ankle. Mme Noelle has seen a lot of injuries in her years of dancing — ballerinas are always hurting themselves. So she knew what she was doing. Anyway, even I could see that my ankle was swelling up and beginning to look bruised.
“Not so bad,” said Mme Noelle. “It is not sprained, I sink. Just a strain. But you must see zee doctor.” She looked into my face. “Tell me,” she said. “Why were you performing zee tour jeté?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “That’s what we were supposed to be doing, wasn’t it?”
She shook her head. “You were not listening well, mademoiselle. I said nossing about zee tour jeté. You were all to show me your best glissade changée.”
I felt like such a fool. I must have misunderstood Carrie. “I’m so sorry, Madame Noelle,” I said. “You’re right. I wasn’t listening well.” I hung my head, ashamed. I just hate to disappoint her.
“It is all right, Jessica,” said Mme Noelle gently. “Zee important sing for now is for your onkle to have zee chonce to heal.” She smiled at me.
Then she dropped the bomb. “You must not donce for several days.”
Not dance! But what about the production? How were they going to rehearse The Sleeping Beauty without me?
Mme Noelle answered my question before I even had a chance to ask it. She stood up and faced the class. “Mademoiselle Parsons,” she said in a louder voice, gesturing to Katie Beth. “You will take over zee role of Princess Aurora —”
I couldn’t believe my
ears. Had I lost the lead role just because I’d slipped on some stupid wet spot?
“— for zee next rehearsal, and perhops some others, until Jessica is able to donce again,” she finished.
Phew. I was relieved. At least I hadn’t completely lost my chance to perform as Princess Aurora. But still, I felt like crying. There haven’t been too many times in my life when I’ve been unable to dance — but there’s nothing that can make me quite as miserable. Mme Noelle says that injuries are a part of a “doncer’s” life, and that we’d better get used to them. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to take things like this gracefully.
Mme Noelle clapped her hands. “Shall we continue?” she said. Then she turned back to me. “I would like to allow you to stay and watch zee rehearsal, but I sink you need to get off zat foot. Perhops you should have your father take you to zee doctor, and then you can go home and lie down.”
I nodded miserably and limped out of the studio. I couldn’t help noticing, as I crossed the floor, that Katie Beth was absolutely beaming. I’m not saying that she was happy to see me get hurt — but she sure didn’t look all that broken up about it.
I smiled broadly at her. I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing me miserable.
I headed for the pay phone and called my father’s office. “Mr. Ramsey, please,” I said when somebody answered. Then my dad picked up his extension. Just hearing his voice say “Hello?” made all the tears I’d been holding inside well up and overflow.
“Daddy!” I wailed, feeling like a two-year-old.
“Jessi!” he said. “What is it? Are you all right?” He sounded frantic.
I hadn’t meant to scare him. I took a deep breath and started over. “I’m okay,” I said, sniffling a little. “It’s just that I hurt my ankle during rehearsal. Madame Noelle says I should see a doctor.” I drew a ragged breath. “Oh, Daddy, she says I can’t dance for awhile!”
“It’ll be okay, sweetie,” he said. “Now you sit tight. I’m on my way.”
I hung up the phone and went into the dressing room to change. This had been the worst of three bad rehearsals, and in a way I was just grateful that it was over.