Chapter 3

“There’s some big ballet secret!” I whisper to Terrel. “I heard Mom and Dad talking about it. They said we’ll find out today, and—”

Thump thump thump. Ms. Debbé taps her walking stick on the floor. “The class, it begins,” she says, her French accent thick as ever. She turns gracefully and heads for the studio. Mr. Lester follows her.

We drift to the doorway and clomp up the old wooden stairs. Once inside the studio, we go straight to the barre. Mr. Lester sits on a folding chair in a back corner of the room while Ms. Debbé leads us through our warm-up exercises. This is strange at first, but after a while I forget he’s there.

“Demi-plié! Grand plié! Demi-plié! And up!” calls Ms. Debbé.

I stand at the barre between Terrel and Jerzey Mae, who’s gotten so much better over the past year that I can hardly believe it. She’s just as good as anyone in the class now, although every once in a while she slips back into being old Jerzey Mae, turning the wrong way and crashing into one of us.

Even though Terrel’s a year younger than the rest of us, she’s a really good dancer. When we turn to face in the other direction, her pivot is neat and clear—no wasted movement, nothing out of place. If you saw Terrel do a hundred pliés, they’d all look exactly the same.

That’s not how I dance. To me, dance is about being creative. You can’t do creative things with your legs while you’re pliéing, but you can do all sorts of stuff with your arms. You can hold them out straight, or add little swirly movements, or swoop them around like you’re a falcon flying through the air.

“Not so wild, Epatha,” says Ms. Debbé. “We are doing graceful pliés, not flapping our wings.”

She knew I was being a bird—excellent! But I try to do what she says, and for the next few pliés, I imagine my arms are as soft and gentle as dandelion fluff.

Just as I get itchy to try something else, we move on to battement tendus, where you slide your foot on the floor and point your toe. You’re supposed to slide it straight forward, then straight to the side, then straight back. But I think it’s more interesting to trace squiggles on the floor. As I go to the side, I imagine that my foot is a fish riding on an ocean wave. Up, down, up, down…

“Epatha!” Ms. Debbé calls. “Straight and precise, please.”

Needless to say, Terrel’s tendus are straight and precise. “Don’t you get tired of doing the same thing over and over?” I whisper to her while Ms. Debbé is correcting a girl at the other end of the barre.

“Don’t you get tired of having Ms. Debbé yell at you?” she says.

“But doing the same thing is—”

“Epatha!” Ms. Debbé calls. “Concentrate, please.”

Terrel may have a point.

Class goes quickly, and soon it’s almost over. I expect Ms. Debbé to start working with us on some new dances, but instead she asks us to sit on the floor. Mr. Lester joins her at the front of the room. He’s holding a stack of papers.

“Now. There are a few exciting things,” Ms. Debbé says. “First, I want to tell you again that you did a wonderful show last week.”

Everyone claps, and I high-five each of my friends. Last week was major drama—we thought the ballet school was going to close, but, thanks to a cat that Jessica smuggled in to the school, we found a nesting peregrine falcon on the roof and had a big benefit concert that raised tons of money. It’s kind of a long story.

“But it seems,” Ms. Debbé continues, “that there is more excitement in store for some of you. I will let Mr. Lester tell you about it.” She moves off to the side of the room.

Mr. Lester starts right in. “I’ve already told your parents about this, but I asked them not to say anything to you.”

Aha—so this is the nothing! I lean forward eagerly.

Mr. Lester continues, “The Harlem Ballet is premiering a new ballet called Springtime in Harlem this May. Most of the roles will be danced by professional dancers, but there are also some parts for girls your age.”

Excitement floods my body. “Yeesssss!” I say out loud. Even though I’m sitting down, I do a little victory dance. “We’re gonna be ballet stars! We’re gonna be ballet stars!” I chant.

Jessica grins.

I don’t get in trouble, because the whole room has dissolved into chaos. Mr. Lester claps to get our attention. “As I was saying, there will be parts for a number of girls. There’s also a bigger role for one girl.”

My hand flies up in the air. “Me! Me!”

Mr. Lester motions for me to put my hand down. “Since this is a professional production, we’ll be choosing dancers by audition. After class on Saturday, anyone who wants can stay to learn a short routine. Then the director of the show will decide which dancers will make up the group of girls, and who will get the bigger part.”

“Aren’t you the director?” Al asks.

Mr. Lester shakes his head. “I’m helping out with this production, but Alfonso Tonetti will direct.” He waves the papers he’s been holding. “Being in the ballet will require extra rehearsals, and of course you must be there for all the performances. If you want to audition, have your parents fill out this commitment form. You need to bring it back, signed, on Saturday. No exceptions.” He begins handing out the forms.

A small, dark-haired girl raises her hand. “I’m not going to be here on Saturday. I have a birthday party to go to.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Lester says. “We’re only holding auditions on Saturday. If you’re not here then, you’re out of luck.”

The girl opens and closes her mouth like a fish, but she takes a commitment form anyway. So do all my friends.

A professional ballet! I can just see it now. There I am, in a beautiful costume, dancing under the spotlight. As we finish, the entire theater—and I’ll bet the Harlem Ballet theater is pretty big—explodes in applause. People run forward with huge bouquets of flowers for us. I take a solo bow as people cheer and scream…

“Epatha!” Terrel says, sharply.

I look around. The studio is empty. Even our friends have gone.

“Where the heck have you been?” she asks. “Off in la-la land?”

I stand up quickly. “I was just thinking.” I run to the side of the room to grab my bag, and then we walk out together. “Are you going to audition?”

“Of course,” Terrel says. She doesn’t even ask if I’m going to audition. She knows.

I feel bad for a second. Terrel and I are the best dancers in the class. But she dances like a mechanical doll. Everything she does is precise and perfect. But I dance with emotion and feeling, like the dance moves are building up inside me and have to come out. I’m sure that a professional ballet company is going to want someone who dances with true feeling for the starring role. That’s me. I hope Terrel won’t be too disappointed.