Ann Martin - New York, New York!

"It's their hind legs," said Mr. Clarke. "The hind legs are difficult." "So are their heads. Hey, has your daughter read Mustang, Wild Spirit of the West?" His daughter? How did Mal know Mr. Clarke had a daughter? Well . . . the two of them had spent a lot of time talking. Mostly about books.

I turned away from them. I gazed at the ads in our car. Most of them were for roach spray or little roach hotels.

At last, we pulled into a station and Mr. Clarke announced, "This is it, people. Everyone off. Follow me!" I made sure I was standing right behind him. But by the time we had shoved our way into the station, about five people were between Mr. Clarke and me. Darn. 1 had even lost Mal, but I didn't want her company just then anyway. So I straggled along behind my class.

However, I felt a little different when we reached Rockefeller Center. It was absolutely gorgeous. Tall office buildings rose to the sky. Mr. Clarke pointed out two beautiful statues. He showed Mal and me the outdoor restaurant, which is an ice-skating rink during the winter. He showed us Radio City Music Hall.

And then he said that the NBC television studios were located in one of the buildings. In those studios are filmed game shows, Sat- Mg/i£ Ln?e, Late Night with David Letter-man, the Today show, and many others.

Oh, I was dying. I was positive I would see a star. Maybe several stars.

". . . anything that might interest you. Okay, Miss Kishi?" Yikes. Mr. Clarke had been talking again and I hadn't been paying attention (again).

"Urn. Yes — " I glanced at Mallory. She nodded. "Yes. That's fine," I finished up.

Mr. Clarke looked away from me. "We'll stay in this area for about half an hour. Then we'll move on." The students began to scatter. I looked around and realized we were standing near the restaurant/skating rink. I leaned over a rail and peered at the people eating below me. But I found myself imagining skaters there instead. The tables and chairs and plates of food disappeared. In their place I could see a sheet of silvery ice. Children bundled up in snow-suits worked their way awkwardly around the rink. Older kids flew by them, their jackets open. Adults skated along leisurely, arm in arm.

"Claud?" asked Mal.

"Yeah?" I turned and found her at my el- bow, sketch pad and pencil in hand.

"What are you going to draw? Do you know yet?" "Urn . . . no." (I knew perfectly well what I was going to draw, but I planned to surprise Mr. Clarke. I didn't want anyone to copy me.) "Well, I'm going to draw the outdoor restaurant. From up here. I think that's called a bird's-eye view. Anyway, it makes the angles and dimensions really different." I watched Mal begin to work. Her angles and dimensions certainly were different. I stepped away from her, and began my own drawing of what was below me. I called it "Winter Fantasy." It was a picture of the way I envisioned the ice-skating rink in wintertime.

"Miss Kishi?" Mr. Clarke was behind me! I turned slowly until I was facing him.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing to my drawing.

"The skating rink," I replied.

Mr. Clarke waved his hand around, indicating Rockefeller Plaza. "I don't see a skating rink here," he replied.

"But you said there's one in the winter. This is how I imagine it." "That's very creative, Miss Kishi. But the C»M> ^ MjvMfl-f assignment is to draw what you see." As soon as Mr. Clarke moved on to the next student, I tore the sheet of paper off the pad, crumpled it up, and hurled it into a nearby trash can. Before I started a new sketch, I glanced at Mal's drawing. More of the same. Her perspective was way off. But had Mr. Clarke said anything to her? No.

I began a new drawing. Ten minutes later, Mr. Clarke checked on me again. I had completed a quick sketch of the restaurant. The whole thing.

Mr. Clarke sighed. "You're working too quickly again," he said.

When he turned away, I stuck my tongue out at him.

All right. He wanted me to work slowly? Then I would work slowly.

I worked so slowly that my eyes began to wander. And they landed on . . . Donna Brink-man, the star of Which Way's Up?, one of my favorite TV shows. I couldn't believe it. Donna Brinkman ... It was Donna Brinkman, wasn't it? Did Donna Brinkman have two small children? Because this person was waiting impatiently for two little boys to catch -— "Okay, class. It's time to move on," Mac spoke up. "It'll be a bit crowded, but I'd like for you to move to Fifth Avenue, where you'll have a view of . . ." It was time to move? But I hadn't finished anything. I mean, I hadn't finished anything that pleased Mr. Clarke. Well, it was his fault for telling me to slow down. If I hadn't slowed down, I wouldn't have started daydreaming.

"Claud, I didn't finish," Mallory wailed then. "I worked so — " "Well, I didn't finish, either," I snapped.

Mal looked hurt. Then she stopped talking.

On the way to Fifth Avenue, I thought we passed Elvis Presley, but I don't think so. I mean, I know he's dead, but an awful lot of people have spotted him recently. I considered asking Mal if she knew whether Elvis would ever have worn a checked shirt with plaid pants, but I decided not to. I didn't feel like speaking to her for awhile.

Then, ignoring the throngs of people pushing past me, I began an intricate sketch of this long garden that led like a path to the skating rink and restaurant below. Across a small side street rose 30 Rockefeller Center, home of NBC television. I tried very hard not to think about that. I concentrated on the plants, the flagpoles, the lines and corners of the building. Soon I was so caught up in my work that I forgot about TV stars. I forgot about Mallory and Elvis and whether I had any real talent. I even forgot about Mr. Clarke until I became aware that he was looking over my shoulder.

For almost a minute he watched as I sketched (slowly).

Then he walked away without a word. At least he could have said, "Interesting." Or even smiled. I would have been grateful for a smile.

At lunchtime, Mal said to me, "I guess you wouldn't want to go to a bookstore, would you. I heard about a huge one nearby. It has — " "You're right. I don't want to go to a bookstore." Mal turned away. "Okay." She went to the bookstore with Mr. Clarke instead.

I sat by myself and ate a pretzel, which was very salty. Apart from that, it had no flavor. I did not care.

Jessi.

Chapter 13.

On Thursday morning I lay in my bed in Laine's guest room (with Kristy's dog beside me) and thought, I should have called Quint on Tuesday. By now he's probably forgotten who I am. I can't call him now. If I did and he came to the phone and I said, "Hi, it's me, Jessi Ramsey," and he said, "Who's Jessi Ramsey?" I would die, I know I would.

But by late that morning I had decided to risk death. I was alone in Laine's apartment (except for the dog, and for Laine, who was cleaning out her closet), and I was getting bored. Plus, I would be pretty rude if I didn't call Quint.

So, very quietly, I picked up the phone in the kitchen. My heart was pounding. My hands grew sweaty. What was I doing? I must be loony, I thought.

I dialed Quint's number. The phone rang three times. Then someone picked it up.

Oh, no ...

"Hello?" "Hello — hello, is Quint there?" I asked. My voice shook.

"Just a moment, please." A hand was cupped over the receiver. I heard the voice call, "Quint? Phone for you." A few seconds later, Quint was on the line. "Hello?" he said. And then, because I suddenly seemed unable to speak, he tried again. "Hello? . . . Hello?" "Quint, it's me," I blurted out. "I mean, hi, this is Jessi Ramsey." "Jessi! I was hoping you'd call." Quint sounded genuinely glad.

"You were?" "Sure. Why else would I have given you my number?" Oh, yeah. I tried to laugh. "Well, I'm sorry I took so long. I — I, um — " Quint interrupted me. "Hey, Jessi, if you're not doing anything today, do you want to come over? We can watch old movies. That is, if you can stand my brother and sister. They're sort of pains." "No problem," I replied. "I would love to watch old movies, and I'm good with kids. I baby-sit all the time." "Great. We'll have a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers festival." ."I'll be right there." When we got off the phone, I looked at the paper on which I'd written Quint's address. I didn't think Quint lived too far away. Still, I wasn't allowed to walk around the city by myself.