McKenzie Clarke was not at all what I had expected. He was short and slim and didn’t look a bit like Santa Claus. He was also younger than I’d thought he’d be. He wore thick glasses and seemed quite serious. When a couple of kids called, “Hi,” he just nodded, then organized his things on one of the drawing tables. Now he was halfway across the room from Mal and me. I could barely see him.
At nine-thirty on the nose, even though kids were still arriving, and without greeting the class, McKenzie Clarke began to speak. He said, “Today’s lesson is intended to make you aware of dimension and perspective when you draw.”
“Does he realize he has new students?” Mal whispered to me.
Before I could answer her, the boy next to me raised his hand. “Mac?” he began. “When we …”
I didn’t hear whatever he said. Instead, I turned to Mal and, barely remembering to keep my voice down, hissed, “That kid just called him ‘Mac’ right to his face! I wonder if we should.”
Mal grinned. I knew she was thinking how great being “in” with Mac would feel. I knew that because I was thinking the same thing. But a few seconds later, my smile faded. “Mom and Dad don’t let me call adults by their first names unless I know them really, really well,” I said. “We haven’t even spoken to Mac yet. I think we better call him Mr. Clarke, at least for awhile.”
Mallory nodded.
Then I snapped to attention as Mr. Clarke began to explain the day’s assignment. We were supposed to draw the pile of boxes, paying special attention to the corners and angles and to dimension.
Draw those boxes? I thought. All the boxes? Oh, my lord, how boring. But if that was what Mr. Clarke wanted, then that was what I would do. And I would do a good job.
When Mr. Clarke finished explaining the assignment, he began to walk around the room, speaking briefly to each student. Soon Mal clutched my arm and squealed (quietly), “He’s almost here!” She looked pale.
“Hello,” Mr. Clarke greeted us solemnly. “You must be some of my new students. May I have your names, please?”
I managed to reply, “Claudia Kishi,” without my voice cracking. Then I added, “And that’s Mallory Pike. She’s my friend. We’re from —”
Mr. Clarke cut me off. “Each morning I will tell you what materials to bring the next day. Today you need only sketching pads, which I see you have brought, and pencils.” (He handed each of us two pencils and a gum eraser.) “I will circle the room, checking your work from time to time.”
“Okay. Thanks for —”
Mr. Clarke had turned to the girl next to Mallory.
“Well,” I said. “Time to begin.”
Mal nodded. Then she looked from the boxes to her pad. Slowly she picked up a pencil and began to draw. She erased her first line.
Meanwhile, I started sketching quickly, line after line after line. I have been studying art for so long that dimension and perspective are things I don’t think about much. Of course, I’m aware of them when I work, but they’re not something I concentrate on.
I had finished drawing the entire pile of boxes by the time Mac appeared at my table again. Mal was plodding through the assignment, erasing practically every line she drew. Finally, she rubbed a hole in the paper and had to start over again. She worked in the same, slow manner, and was erasing yet another line when I looked up into Mac’s face, smiled, and said proudly, “I’m all finished.” (I couldn’t wait for the next assignment.)
Mac turned my pad around and examined the drawing. After a few moments, he frowned and said, “You work much too quickly, Miss Kishi. Would you please begin again? You don’t notice that anyone else is finished, do you? Look around the room.”
I looked. Everyone was working busily. Mr. Clarke stepped over to Mal’s table. With shaking hands, I flipped to the next page in my sketchbook.
I felt stung. No one had ever examined my work and not said at least one nice thing about it. Was I really so bad? Had I come to New York just to find out that I’m not talented as an artist after all? That couldn’t be true.
I’m not good at anything else.
But all morning, Mr. Clarke kept looking at my drawings, pausing, and then telling me to do something differently — to work more slowly, to pay stricter attention to angles, and on and on and on. Then he would look at Mal’s drawings, smile gently, and tell her she was doing fine. Fine? Those laboriously drawn boxes, her paper full of holes, eraser marks, and misshapen angles? I was sure my work was better than Mal’s. But Mr. Clarke was the expert.
By the time we broke for lunch, I was ready to cry. Mal was on top of the world. What had gone wrong?
On Monday morning, I found myself left on my own. (Well, almost on my own.) My friends got going pretty early. In fact, by the time I woke up, I could hear voices in the living room. I looked over at Mallory’s bed. It was empty. I wasn’t the last one up, was I? How embarrassing to be such a lazybones at the home of people I barely knew. Especially considering that my friends think I’m an early riser because I’m always talking about waking up before anyone else in my family and practicing for dance class at the barre in our basement. Okay, so today I’d slept in instead. So what? It was nothing to get upset over. I planned to exercise most mornings.
Well, I was the only one making a big deal out of things. When I stepped into the living room later (dressed, of course), everyone just said, “Good morning,” and “Hi, Jessi!”
“Hi,” I replied.
“Did you sleep well?” asked Laine’s father.
“Oh, just fine. Thank you.” I found out later that over at Stacey’s, poor Dawn had lain awake almost all night, terrified (like the night before) by noises from the street and the thought of the fire escape outside the window. I, on the other hand, hadn’t heard a thing. Of course, Laine’s apartment does have central air-conditioning (and no outdoor fire escapes), so we’d been sleeping with the windows closed. I felt sort of like I was in a hotel.
My friends were discussing the plans for the day.
“Stacey and I are in charge of Rowena and Alistaire again,” said Mary Anne. “We’re going to be out most of the day. But if anyone wants to come with us, you’re welcome to. We’ll be seeing the sights.”
“I might go with you,” said Laine.
“Claudia and I are going to Falny,” spoke up Mal. “I’m so excited!”
“What are you going to do?” I asked Kristy.
“I’m not sure yet,” she replied. “Maybe go over to Stacey’s and sit around with Dawn again. I’d really like to get out a little, but I feel awful for Dawn. Want to come with me, Jessi?”
I paused. I knew I should be a good sport and go along with Kristy, but that wasn’t what I wanted to do. I wanted to go to Lincoln Center. I wanted to see a dance company perform.
Before I could decide how to answer, Kristy answered for me. “That’s okay, Jessi.” She smiled. “Baby-sitting for Dawn isn’t my idea of a vacation, either.”
I relaxed. “Thanks, Kristy,” I said. But about an hour later, I found myself alone in Laine’s apartment. Mal had gone off to her art classes, Kristy was on her way over to Stacey’s, Stacey had shown up here and she and Mary Anne and Laine were heading for the Harringtons’, and both Mr. and Mrs. Cummings had left the apartment for meetings or appointments or something.
How was I going to get to Lincoln Center? I had promised my parents that I wouldn’t walk around the city alone. At least not too much. Then I had an idea. Would it work? Only if I moved quickly.
In a flash I found my pocketbook, put on some shoes, ran out of Laine’s apartment, remembering to lock the door behind me (the Cummingses had given us our own keys), and dashed to the elevator. I knew what floor the Harringtons were staying on, but I’d forgotten the number of the apartment. It didn’t matter. When the elevator doors opened, I found myself facing Mary Anne, Stacey, Laine, Rowena, and Alistaire.
“Jessi!” Mary Anne exclaimed.
“Where you going?” asked Stacey.
“Well
… I was hoping to go to Lincoln Center,” I began. “But I can’t go there alone. I was wondering where you are going today.”
“To the Children’s Museum,” replied Mary Anne.
“Is that near Lincoln Center?” I asked.
“No,” said Laine.
I must have looked as disappointed as I felt, because Mary Anne immediately said, “You know, the kids might like Lincoln Center. We could go there first and then to the museum. Is that okay with you, Jessi?”
“Sure!”
“Good idea,” added Stacey. “I don’t know if Rowena and Alistaire will be interested in the theaters, but they can see the fake Statue of Liberty that’s nearby. It’s fun to look for. And I think they’ll like the fountain.”
So we set off for Lincoln Center.
When we were standing across the street from it, Laine pointed to the complex of buildings and said, “There you go, Jessi.”
I gasped.
“What?” shrieked Mary Anne. “A roach? A rat?”
I giggled. “You sound like Dawn. No, it’s just that Lincoln Center might be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
“Look at the fountain!” cried Rowena, pointing.
But I was looking at the Metropolitan Opera House, at the New York State Theater, at Avery Fisher Hall, at the Vivian Beaumont Theater, at the Juilliard School, at Alice Tully Hall. It was hard to believe that those wonderful places — and more — were located in one complex of buildings.
We walked across the street, my mind filled with thoughts of grand performances — plays, ballets, operas, the New York Philharmonic.
“I’ve just got to see a ballet,” I said to Stacey. “And I think there’s a special afternoon performance today. I’ll stay with you until it begins, and then you guys or Laine could meet me when it’s over…. Puh-lease?”
* * *
So that was how I wound up in a seat in the New York State Theater, watching the New York City Ballet perform Swan Lake.
I was in awe. At one point, I even found myself holding my breath. The dancers, their costumes, the wide stage … Now I couldn’t decide which was more beautiful — Lincoln Center or the scene before my eyes.
When the curtain came down at intermission, I sighed happily.
“Like it?” asked the person sitting next to me.
I’d been so engrossed in the ballet that I hadn’t even noticed the boy on my right. He was about my age, with dark, curly hair, wide brown eyes, and skin that was just slightly lighter than mine. And he had the long, lithe body of a dancer.
He was THE most gorgeous guy I had ever seen.
I couldn’t believe he was talking to me. Boys never notice me, and I almost never notice boys. What do you say to a boy? At least I had an answer to his question. “Like it?” I repeated. “I love it! It’s incredible.”
The boy nodded. “Every time I see it, I like it better.”
“See what? This production? Do you live here in New York?”
“Yeah. This is the fifth time I’ve been here. I mean, to see Swan Lake. I’m going broke, but it’s worth it.”
I took a chance. “Are you a dancer?”
His face reddened. “Um …”
“Because I am. I’ve studied for years. I live in Connecticut, though.”
Now he grinned. “My name’s Quint.”
“I’m Jessi.” (Talking to boys is easy, I thought.)
“And I love ballet,” Quint went on.
“Well, are you a dancer?”
“Yes,” Quint replied, looking pained. “I take lessons on Saturdays. My teacher says I’m good enough to get into Juilliard.”
“Wow!” I was impressed. Juilliard is a famous school of the performing arts, and getting into it isn’t easy. “That’s fantastic. When are you going to audition?”
Quint looked away. “I’m not,” he muttered.
“Oh. Really expensive, huh?”
“No, it’s not that. You don’t understand. You’re a girl.”
(What did that have to do with anything?)
“And you’re a boy,” I said.
“Exactly. The guys in my neighborhood tease me all the time. When they found out about the dance lessons they began calling me a sissy. Now I have to sneak to lessons. Once a week is hard enough. Can you imagine if I went to Juilliard full-time?”
“Yes,” I answered firmly. “It would be wonderful. Forget about those guys. If you want to be a dancer, then be a dancer.”
Quint smiled. “Thanks,” he said, but he was shaking his head. Then he looked at me, frowning. “Well, maybe. Hey, can I have your phone number?”
I blanked out. I couldn’t remember Laine’s number, but Quint didn’t mind. Instead, he wrote down his number and address, and handed the slip of paper to me.
I spent the rest of the afternoon as aware of Quint as I was of the ballet.
Would I find the courage to call him?
I wasn’t sure at all.
To be perfectly honest, the day was not as good as I made it sound in the notes I wrote for Claudia. But I didn’t think I could say what the problem was. That’s because the problem was Claudia.
Monday started off okay. When Claud and I had finally found Falny and our classroom, we were nervous about school and meeting Mac. But we were excited, too. We kept pointing at things and giggling.
Then Mac began the morning class.
We were working on perspective and some other thing. In the middle of the classroom was this big jumble of boxes. We were supposed to draw them. It was a tough assignment, and not at all what I’d thought I’d be doing at Falny. I wanted to improve my drawing so that I could illustrate my stories better. I needed to learn to draw bunnies and mice and fat mushrooms and cute little bugs. I needed to learn to draw cats wearing clothes. That kind of thing. But if Mac thought drawing boxes would help, then I would do it. The only problem was that it was really hard. I hadn’t taken art classes the way Claud had. I wasn’t used to assignments like this. I was glad the class lasted for several hours, because that was how long I needed to sketch those boxes. I worked very slowly. I erased things and started over. I was really embarrassed by how awful my paper looked.
Especially when I glanced over at Claudia’s work and noticed two things about it. 1. It was good. 2. She could sketch quickly, like those artists on TV. When I saw Mac heading our way, I wanted to cry. But guess what. Mac did not tell Claud her work was good. He told her to start over again and to slow down. Then he said that my work was good! At first Claud just looked hurt. But when Mac came back to us and said the same things again, Claud looked like she wanted to kill me. Honest.
Well, I could understand. Claud was supposed to be the artist. But Mac never said anything nice to her. And he said plenty of nice things to me.
“Teacher’s pet,” Claudia would whisper when Mac was out of earshot.
“I can’t help it,” I’d reply.
I wished Mac would make at least one nice comment to Claud, just to even up things a little.
* * *
The afternoon was no better. We had to draw all those darn boxes again. They’d been moved around so that they were in a new arrangement. How boring. The worst part, though, was that Claud couldn’t seem to do anything right. By the end of the class, she was barely speaking to me.
I tried to be cheerful. “Isn’t Falny great?” I said.
“Ha!” was Claud’s reply.
We stepped outside to hail a cab to Stacey’s apartment. I copied what I thought I had seen Stacey do in this situation. I stood halfway out in the street, waved my arms and yelled, “TAXI!”
Someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me to the sidewalk.
I gasped.
“What’s the matter with you, Claud?” I exclaimed. “You scared me to death. I thought you were a mugger.”
“You look like a tourist,” said Claudia.
“I am a tourist.”
“But you don’t have to let everyone in New York know that.”
>
Claud hailed a cab for us. We rode to Mr. McGill’s in silence.
A couple of hours later, we were ready to leave for Chinatown. Stacey’s father, Laine, I, and the other members of the BSC were jammed into Mr. McGill’s living room, sipping sodas and planning the evening.
“We can take the subway there,” said Mr. McGill. “But we’ll take cabs back.”
“Separate ones, I hope,” muttered Claudia.
I stuck my tongue out at her. (She did not see this because she wouldn’t look at me. She was pretending I didn’t exist.)
“See what I mean?” I whispered to Jessi. “She’s been like this ever since the morning. What a jerk.”
“Ignore her,” said Jessi sympathetically.
“I would, except that she’s already ignoring me.”
“Okay, let’s get a move on,” said Mr. McGill.
The steps down to the subway entrance were dirty. They smelled.
“Pee-yew!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, grow up,” said Claudia.
“Is this the only way to the subway?” asked Dawn, who was standing by herself at the top of the stairs.
“No,” replied Stacey, “there are lots of other entrances. But they all look like this. Come on, Dawn.”
“I think I’ll make out a will tonight,” Dawn whispered as she rushed by me. “If I live that long.”
We managed to reach the token booth, to buy tokens, and to find our platform safely. I felt like a mouse in an underground maze.
“I feel like an ant in an ant farm,” said Jessi just then. (Best friends often think alike. At least, Jessi and I do.)
A subway train roared into the station. It stopped, the doors opened, and people poured out. Then my friends (well, my six friends and my one ex-friend) boarded the train and found seats. Dawn positioned herself between Mr. McGill and Kristy (who may be short, but she’s fearless). Dawn looked amazed when Stacey’s father finally called out, “Okay, girls. The next stop is ours. Get ready for Chinatown!”
“I’m still alive,” said Dawn in awe.
We climbed another flight of dirty, smelly stairs and found ourselves in a different world.