Jessi and the Awful Secret

  Playing such a wild game before bedtime wasn’t the best idea in the world. Trying to put the kids to bed was nearly impossible. Emily Michelle wasn’t too difficult, but Karen, Andrew, and David Michael could not settle down. Karen bounced on her bed while Andrew and David Michael hurled pillows at her. She punched back the pillows, crying, “You can’t hurt the flying pillow-popper-hopper bird!”

  This kept up until Stacey collected all the pillows and threatened not to give them back until they settled down.

  Stacey read to them from Winnie the Pooh for over half an hour before they showed the slightest sign of being sleepy. It was nearly ten when they were finally tucked away in bed.

  Even though she was pooped, Stacey wanted to start her math homework. But when she went to the family room to get her book, it wasn’t on the coffee table where she’d left it. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, her shoulders dropping wearily. “I hope it wasn’t ‘puway.’ ”

  She looked under the table and all around the room. She could only come to one conclusion. Emily Michelle had struck again! Which meant the book could be anywhere.

  Stacey tore the room apart. She even checked the refrigerator, in case Emily had stuck it in there while Stacey was checking for the soda. After half an hour of searching, Stacey was stumped. She threw up her arms in despair and plopped down into a chair in the family room.

  Suddenly the TV snapped on — full blast.

  Stacey screamed and leapt out of the chair, her heart thumping in her chest.

  Then she reached under the padded chair cushion. There was the clicker!

  Stacey turned the TV off again. At that moment, she caught sight of the corner of her book peeking out from behind a curtain.

  She retrieved the book and settled down on the couch. Just as she opened it, the doorbell rang. Nannie must have forgotten her keys, Stacey thought. Maybe those were hers I found. Nannie wasn’t at the door, though. Shannon was.

  “Hi,” Shannon said. “We got back from the movies early and I don’t have to be home until eleven, so I figured I’d stop by and keep you company.”

  Stacey was glad to see her, and she felt it would be rude to tell her she couldn’t come in. So she resigned herself to doing her math homework at home.

  Shannon told her about the movie they’d seen, a spoof of detective movies. “Claudia and I gave it a thumbs up, but Mary Anne and Dawn said thumbs down,” Shannon reported. “They thought it was too silly, but that was exactly why I liked it.”

  Shannon and Stacey had been talking for about fifteen minutes when Kristy returned. As soon as she saw Shannon in the family room, the smile faded from her face. “I thought you went to the movies,” Kristy said, without even saying hello.

  “She got home a little early,” Stacey explained.

  “Oh, wow, and now you’re here,” Kristy sounded annoyed. “Shannon, are you having a problem at home?”

  “No, why?” Shannon asked.

  “Because you never want to be there,” Kristy said.

  Shannon looked embarrassed as she got up from the couch. “I’d better be getting home now,” she said. “It’s almost eleven.”

  “Yes,” Kristy agreed. “You probably should be getting home.”

  Kristy didn’t make a move to walk Shannon to the door, so Stacey got up and did it. “Is Kristy mad about something?” Shannon asked Stacey as she pulled on her jacket.

  “It does seem that way,” Stacey agreed. “I can’t imagine what she could be mad about, though.”

  Stacey said good night to Shannon and returned to the family room. “Is everything okay?” she asked Kristy.

  Kristy plopped onto the couch and clicked on the TV. “Everything’s fine,” she said. But Stacey didn’t believe her.

  The next week was a pretty average one. But there were two highlights. On Monday I got a letter from my friend Quint. (Actually, he’s more than a friend. We really like one another, if you know what I mean.) He lives in New York City and studies ballet at the Juilliard School, which is very famous and hard to get into.

  I miss him and I love his letters. (Even though it means I then have to write back. I’m not exactly the world’s greatest letter writer.)

  When I receive a letter from Quint I always write back as soon as possible. This time, at least, I had something very interesting to write about — my classes with Mme Dupre. I told him all about it and asked what he thought of Madame’s teaching method. Plus, I told him about Raul’s comments and asked what he thought of them. (Quint is also black, so I figured he must have some feelings about what Raul had said about the way minorities are treated.)

  Then I told Quint about Mary. “I don’t want to tell a teacher what I suspect,” I wrote. “It seems disloyal to Mary. But I don’t want Mary to get sick. I’d feel awful if I could have stopped her from becoming anorexic and I didn’t say anything. What do you think I should do?”

  As I sealed the letter in the envelope, I felt a little less anxious about Mary. I knew Quint would have something helpful to say. He always does.

  The other highlight of the week was the kids’ class, itself. As I got to know the students better, I enjoyed it more and more. There was one sad part, though. Devon didn’t show up. I guess he had decided not to come back. “Mme Dupre was too hard on him,” said Raul after class.

  “But he was disrupting everyone,” said Mary. “You can’t have it both ways, Raul. First you say she’s too easy, then you say she’s too hard.”

  “I guess,” Raul admitted. “But I liked the kid.”

  I had to hand it to Mary. In her own quiet way, she always spoke up and said what she thought — even if it meant disagreeing with a guy she liked.

  When I asked Mary if she was feeling better, she claimed she’d only had a twenty-four hour virus. But she still looked pale, and thinner than ever. I didn’t have a chance to talk to her beyond that. Madame worked the kids and the volunteers hard, and after class everyone seemed to have to get somewhere.

  Guess what. I had found that the only thing I didn’t like about the Tuesday class was that it really did interfere with my regular Tuesday class. I was shocked at how much I missed that class. So, by Friday, I was totally psyched to get back to work.

  Then something terrible happened during class.

  We were in the middle of our warm-up pliés when Mary fell to the floor. She had fainted!

  The entire class crowded around her, but Mme Noelle made us move back. “Someone rush and get ze first aid kit from ze receptionist!” she cried as she knelt beside Mary, patting her pale cheeks gently.

  Carrie Steinfeld ran out of the room and returned in a flash with the kit. Madame took a white stick of smelling salts out of the box and waved it under Mary’s nose. Mary’s eyes fluttered, and she began to cough.

  Madame asked for a chair and told Mary to sit on it with her head down between her knees. Just then, Mme Dupre stuck her head into the room. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Madame, call ze emergency rescue squad, s’il vous plait,” Mme Noelle said to her.

  “No!” Mary cried, her eyes now open wide. She sat up straight. “It’s just a virus. I’ll be fine. Please.”

  Another virus? I thought. No way!

  Mme Noelle studied Mary, her sharp eyes boring into her. She put her hand on Mary’s forehead. “No fever. Are you dizzy now, mademoiselle?” she asked.

  Mary shook her head. “No, not at all,” she replied.

  Madame stood up. “Will you ask ze receptionist to call Mary’s parents?” she asked Mme Dupre, who was waiting in the doorway. “Someone must come to get her.”

  “Of course,” replied Mme Dupre.

  “Mademoiselle Bramstedt, I wish you to dress and wait in ze lobby. But do not leave without speaking to me. I wish to talk wiss your fazzer or muzzer.”

  “I’ll go with her,” I volunteered quickly. I needed to talk to Mary, and I couldn’t wait a moment longer.

  “Yes, a good idea,” Madame agreed. “She should not be alone
.”

  Slowly, Mary got to her feet and we left the studio. I didn’t say anything until we were alone in the dressing room. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure what I was going to say until I opened my mouth.

  “Mary, I think you should stop dieting,” I said directly.

  “What do you know about it? You’re just a kid!” Mary snapped at me.

  I was stunned. She’d never spoken to me like that before. I remembered that Mary Anne had said moodiness and irritability were a sign of anorexia, so I pushed on. “Do you know what anorexia is?” I asked.

  Mary’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Yes, I know what it is! And I am not anorexic.”

  “Maybe not yet, but you’re headed in that direction,” I said, my voice rising. “You have all the symptoms.”

  “I didn’t know you were a medical authority,” Mary scoffed as she slipped out of her leotard. I saw that she was even thinner than the week before.

  “My friends and I looked it up in a book.”

  “Why?” demanded Mary.

  “Because I was telling them how worried I am about you.”

  Mary’s hands flew to her thin hips. “You told your friends I have anorexia?” she exploded. “How dare you! Besides, it’s a lie.”

  “Mary, I care about you, and you need help.” As the words came out of my mouth, I knew beyond any doubt they were true.

  Mary’s face went bright red. In a rage, she threw her dance bag against the wall. “This is not your business!” she cried, stepping close to me. “I can handle it myself. Don’t you talk to anyone else about this!”

  Suddenly, I realized my hands were trembling. No one had ever screamed in my face before. Tears were brimming in my eyes but I fought them back.

  As Mary and I stood facing one another, Mme Dupre looked in. “Is there a problem?” she asked, her eyes darting from Mary to me.

  “No. No problem,” said Mary, quickly going back to her dressing.

  Mme Dupre looked at me questioningly, but said nothing.

  When she was gone, Mary turned to me. “I’m sorry, Jessi. I’ve been in a bad mood lately, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. Sorry I got so bent out of shape.”

  “Get some help, Mary,” I repeated. “Please?”

  She turned her back to me and pulled on her jacket. After that, she ignored me as we walked to the lobby. When we got there a man was speaking with Mme Noelle. I assumed from the resemblance to Mary that he was her father. Both he and Madame seemed very serious.

  “I suggested to your fazzer zat you consult a doctor about zis virus,” Mme Noelle told Mary when we approached them.

  “I just need to get to bed,” Mary said.

  “Perhaps some chicken soup,” Madame suggested.

  Mary nodded. I prayed she’d take Mme Noelle’s advice — it was wiser than Madame probably realized.

  I smiled as soon as I walked into the kids’ class on the following Tuesday. Devon was back!

  He stood with two of his pals, laughing, as if he’d never been away.

  Maybe he’d just been ill the week before. But I thought something else had happened. Maybe he had decided not to return to class, but then had missed it too much to stay away. Something very subtle had changed about him. For one thing, he wasn’t running around the room like a maniac before class.

  For that matter, something had changed in all the kids. They no longer seemed as wild as when we’d first met. Now when Mme Dupre walked into class she didn’t need to dim the lights. Her presence was enough to quiet the kids down.

  Mr. Tsuji began to play a lively melody and Madame asked me to lead the warm-ups. The kids had come to know the stretching and bending exercises well.

  As I worked with the class, I looked over at Mary. Her baggy Tuesday dance wear seemed even baggier. Her eyes appeared larger and her cheekbones higher. I guess getting thinner made her features stand out more. I wondered if she’d been to the doctor as Mme Noelle had suggested. Perhaps a doctor would catch on to what was happening and could talk some sense into Mary.

  I hadn’t spoken to her since the other day. And today, in the dressing room, she hadn’t made eye contact with me even once. I was sure she was avoiding me.

  When the warm-ups were finished, Mme Dupre taught the class some small jumps called échappé (which means “escape”). These jumps can be done from several ballet positions. Madame asked the kids to stand in second position and jump straight up, pointing their toes, then land again in second position.

  The room exploded with thuds as the kids jumped and landed. It seemed to me that even the windows shook.

  After awhile Mme Dupre broke the class into groups. These groups were different than the ones they’d been in before. I wasn’t surprised to see that Madame had separated Nora from Jane, and that Devon was nowhere near his friends.

  Today the kids were really going to learn to do a pas de chat correctly. Each of us volunteers was assigned a group. Mary worked with Devon’s group. This was a switch because up until this time Mme Dupre had always paired him with Raul. That was Mme Dupre for you, forever watching, making adjustments, and thinking.

  Martha was in my group. I couldn’t believe how shy she was even after all this time. I never saw her speak to any other kid. She barely even looked at anyone.

  But she could dance!

  Although a pas de chat is one of the first jumps that children learn, I thought it was ambitious of Madame to try to teach it in this class. In a way, I understood why she chose it. It doesn’t require a lot of strength, and kids like the idea of a jumping cat. And they love to jump.

  A pas de chat does require a certain amount of experience, though. At least if you want it to look right.

  Which brings me back to Martha. By only her third try, her jump was very close to being exactly right. She was a natural — from the way she held her arms, to her posture, to the way she lifted her chin. And she jumped higher than any of the other kids. “Are you sure you never took lessons?” I asked after she came down lightly from her jump.

  “Five,” she said in her soft voice.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I took five lessons once.”

  “But why did you stop? You’re so good.”

  She smiled, then looked away and shrugged. “I just stopped, that’s all.”

  “Well, you should start again. You have a real gift,” I told her.

  Martha ducked her head and wouldn’t look at me, but she was smiling. It was the very first time I’d seen her smile.

  As I worked with the other kids I glanced over to Mary’s group — in time to see Devon leap into the air. His movements were way too large and uncontrolled. He had great energy and dramatic flair, though. When he was done, Mary walked him slowly through the proper positions.

  It occurred to me that each one had something to offer the other. Devon needed Mary’s technical knowledge, and Mary needed some of Devon’s fire in her dancing.

  What a change in Devon, too. He listened to Mary, absorbing her every word. It was clear he’d made up his mind to get serious.

  Class went by so quickly that when the first mother arrived, I thought she had come extra early. She hadn’t. It was actually time to leave.

  “Wonderful work,” Mme Dupre told the class. “I will see you next week.”

  “Good going, kids,” I said to my group. They smiled at me and then headed for the door. “Especially you,” I whispered into Martha’s ear when the others were a little distance away.

  What she did then took me by surprise. She turned and wrapped me in a quick, tight hug. Then she ran off to the doorway where her mother was waiting for her.

  Want to hear something funny? I got this big lump in my throat and felt like I was going to cry.

  What a weird feeling. I was really happy, but fighting back tears at the same time. Until that moment, only certain parts of some ballets and the end of the movie It’s a Wonderful Life had made me feel that way. This was the first time real life had given me that crying-happ
y feeling.

  Again, I saw Martha’s regal-looking mother staring at me. I wanted to speak to her, but the lump was still in my throat. I wasn’t sure I could talk. I looked at the ceiling and tried to pull myself together. When I looked back, Martha and her mother were gone.

  “Good class, huh?” said Sue, joining me.

  “It sure was,” I agreed, clearing my throat.

  “Want to go to the King for a snack?” she asked me.

  “Yeah, is everyone going?”

  “I think so. Hey, Mary,” Sue called to her. “Are you coming to Burger King?”

  “Thanks, but I can’t,” Mary said, avoiding my eyes. “I have to go running.”

  “In this cold weather!” Sue yelped.

  “You don’t feel it when you run,” Mary replied.

  “I’d feel it,” said Sue, laughing. “See you in the dressing room, Jessi,” she told me as she left.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy?” I asked Mary before she could get away from me.

  “I’m all better,” Mary said. “Stop worrying about me, okay? You sound like my mother and it’s really starting to bug me.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “But why don’t you come with us?”

  “Jessi!” Mary snapped. “Chill out! All right?”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Come on, Jessi,” Darcy called to me from the doorway.

  “I’m coming,” I said, walking away from Mary.

  Maybe Mary was right. Maybe I was making a big deal over nothing. Maybe Mary was doing what was necessary to keep her ballet career going, and she didn’t need me hassling her about it. Besides, it wasn’t my problem or any of my business.

  That’s what I told myself as I headed for the dressing room. But I didn’t believe it.

  On Tuesday, when I got home from my class, a letter was waiting for me from Quint. I tore it open, hoping he’d have some advice about Mary.

  After a few words about what was happening with him (school, ballet class, that sort of thing) he plunged right into the topic. “Dieting!” he wrote in capital letters. “That’s the number one topic among a certain group of girls in my ballet class. It drives me crazy, but I feel sorry for them, too. They think they’re under a lot of pressure to look a certain way. It’s not half as bad for a guy. In ballet guys don’t have to look as uniform as girls. Some girls wind up with only two choices — diet like mad, or drop out. I can’t imagine having to make that choice, not after spending my whole life involved in ballet. Those girls wouldn’t have to quit dancing altogether, of course. A lot of them go into theatrical dancing, like on Broadway and in traveling shows. Others become teachers.”