Chapter 3

We enter the studio. The barre runs along the length of the wall, and spots of weak autumn sunlight dapple the floor.

“Sit,” Ms. Debbé commands. We all sit on the floor, all of us Sugar Plum Sisters—that’s what my friends and I call ourselves—clumped together. Across the room, a girl wearing a glittery tiara stares at us. Epatha quickly sticks out her tongue at her. Tiara Girl sticks her tongue out in response—but not fast enough.

“Ballerinas, they do not stick out tongues,” Ms. Debbé says, rapping her stick on the floor sharply and glaring at Tiara Girl. “Ballet is about grace and loveliness. It is not about tongues sticking out like the giraffe grabbing at leaves on a tree.”

Epatha snickers, and JoAnn bumps knuckles with her while Ms. Debbé is looking the other way.

Ms. Debbé continues. “Now. The Thanksgiving dance. What is Thanksgiving? What does it mean? Who can tell me?”

Tiara Girl raises her hand. “You eat a lot, and you don’t have to go to school.”

Ms. Debbé’s eyebrow shoots up. “Well, those are some things about Thanksgiving.”

Other girls offer ideas.

“Turkey?”

“Pilgrims?”

“Native Americans?”

Clearly we’re not giving her the answers she wants. Finally, Jessica raises her hand.

“It’s about being thankful.”

“Exactly!” Ms. Debbé raps her stick so sharply that I’m surprised it doesn’t punch through the floor. “It is being thankful! It is gratitude! So this year, those ideas will be our dances. We will all dance our gratitude, our thankfulness, for things we love.”

JoAnn looks horrified. She’s not the touchy-feely type. She would be much happier dancing the Ice Hockey dance or the Changing the Oil in the Truck dance.

“So,” Ms. Debbé continues. “What are you grateful for? Think about things that make you happy, about stories you love, about people in your life.”

“My cat,” a tiny girl in the front says.

Ms. Debbé says, “Yes. The cats, they are very nice. Good. What else?”

“Ice skates,” says Al.

“Bright colors,” says Epatha.

“Leonardo da Vinci,” says Brenda.

“Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,” says Terrel.

We all stare at her. That is the least Terrel-like thing I’ve ever heard her say.

“Like in The Sound of Music, remember? Where those kids are all talking about their favorite things with the nun lady.” Terrel looks pleased with herself.

Ms. Debbé tilts her head. “That is the idea, yes. I take it from your choice that you will dance like a copper kettle for the performance? Or you would rather do the Woolen Mitten dance, perhaps?”

Terrel shakes her head quickly. “Can I have another favorite thing?” When Ms. Debbé nods, Terrel says, “Grocery shopping.”

Liking grocery shopping might sound even weirder than liking copper kettles to most people. But I’ve seen Terrel go shopping with her dad and all her older brothers. She organizes everything beforehand—it’s more like she’s invading a country than getting groceries. She has the list, and she sends all her brothers out on missions to get various things while she and her dad arrange everything neatly in the cart. It’s as if she’s an orchestra leader conducting a symphony, and I admit that it is very impressive to watch. Partly she likes the satisfaction of getting everything done efficiently and correctly. And partly she just likes bossing her brothers around.

Ms. Debbé adds this to the list without comment, as if grocery shopping were a perfectly normal favorite thing. “How about you, my dear young ladies?” she asks, looking at JoAnn, Jessica, and me.

In the last recital, we all got stuck wearing big fuzzy purple costumes, because we were supposed to be monsters. Al got to be the Sugar Plum Fairy. Even though she didn’t want to be the Sugar Plum Fairy, her costume was so beautiful. It had sparkles and a big puffy skirt. I still remember standing in front of the mirror with her, her looking like a princess and me looking like an oversize furry grape. I need to say something fast, before JoAnn suggests we do the Dance of the Car Mechanics, or Jessica says we should dress like iguanas.

“Princesses,” I say.

“Sisters,” Jessica says at the same time.

JoAnn doesn’t say anything after all. She must still be horrified at the idea of dancing her feelings in front of a bunch of people. “Oh, man,” I hear her say under her breath.

“You are grateful for princesses?” Ms. Debbé looks at me.

“Yes,” I say resolutely. I am definitely not going to be a purple fur ball this time. “I am extremely grateful for princesses.”

Ms. Debbé thinks for a moment, then claps her hands together. “We can put your grateful ideas together—sister princesses. The dance will be ‘The Three Princesses.’ Lovely.” When she turns away, JoAnn sticks her finger down her throat.

Ms. Debbé continues to ask for ideas from the other girls. Tiara Girl, apparently, is grateful for caviar.

“What the heck is caviar?” Al whispers.

“Fish eggs,” Brenda whispers back. “Rich people eat it.”

“Fish eggs?” Al looks ill. “If I were rich and had to eat fish eggs, I’d pay someone else to do it for me.”

Before long, Ms. Debbé has worked out all the dances. Epatha, Terrel, Al, and Brenda will do the Rainbow dance. In the dance, they will glide around “like you are perhaps sliding on ice skates,” Ms. Debbé says, gesturing toward Al. They will also pull lots of colored banners from the sides of the stage. “This, it will be very much like the grocery shopping,” Ms. Debbé says to Terrel.

“How?” Terrel asks.

“You will be plucking the banners like you pluck apples and tangerines from a supermarket display,” Ms. Debbé explains, as though this should be obvious. “Then you will wave the colored banners around like rainbows. And what did your friend Mr. da Vinci use to paint with? Colors!” she continues, beaming at Brenda.

Only Ms. Debbé could see a connection between banners, grocery shopping, and Leonardo da Vinci.

“Well, at least we don’t have to dress up like brussels sprouts,” Terrel whispers.

“Now. To the barre for our exercises,” Ms. Debbé says.

Just before class ends, Ms. Debbé claps her hands again for attention. “There is one very exciting thing I have not told you yet.” She notices that the tiny cat girl is heading for the door. Ms. Debbé clears her throat. “Have I said the class is dismissed? No, I think I have not. Please sit for one moment.”

The cat girl drops to the floor so fast it looks as if she’s falling down a manhole.

Ms. Debbé continues. “You all have heard me speak of Miss Camilla Freeman, the very famous dancer.”

“Once or twice,” Epatha whispers. Terrel snorts. Ms. Debbé starts off each new class term by showing us a very special pair of Miss Camilla Freeman’s autographed toe shoes.

Brenda looks slightly sick to her stomach, because of certain recent toe shoe–related incidents. “I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with me,” she whispers. She’s so rattled that she forgets to talk backward.

“Well,” Ms. Debbé continues, “some of you”—she looks in our direction—“know that I renewed my acquaintance with Miss Camilla Freeman at her recent book-signing. She and I had a lovely chat. Now that she is back in New York permanently, she has agreed to come to our Thanksgiving recital.”

I feel as if I’m in an airplane and my stomach just jumped out the window and is plummeting to earth. The thought of Miss Camilla seeing me making a fool of myself onstage sends cold, clammy shivers all through my body.

“So we will work extra hard, and practice at home as well. Yes?” Ms. Debbé says.

Given the way she is staring at us, there’s no question about how we should answer. We all nod like bobble-head dolls.

“Good.” She nods sharply at the cat girl. “Now class is dismissed.”

“That’s cool about Miss Camilla. And those dances sound pretty good,” says Epatha as we change back into our sneakers after class.

“As long as I’m not up there on that stupid stage by myself again,” Al says, sounding relieved.

“It’ll be fun to be princesses,” Jessica says to me. “That was a good idea, Jerzey.”

I nod, distracted. How can I avoid making a fool of myself in front of Miss Camilla? Maybe I can catch some tropical disease so I won’t be able to dance in the show. Maybe I can hypnotize Miss Camilla so she thinks I’m invisible.

Maybe I can actually learn the dance right this time.

Unfortunately, the last possibility seems the least likely.