Ann Martin - New York, New York!

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?

Jessi.

Chapter 7.

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 bane 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, re- membering 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 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 Av-ery 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," 1 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.