Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 042

"Coming, Jessi?" asked Katie Beth. "I see you brought your toe shoes this time." I gritted my teeth. Sometimes Katie Beth can be really irritating. "For your information," I answered, "I brought them last time, too." "Sure, Jessi," said Katie Beth. "Anything you say." She ran on ahead, into the studio. I walked behind her, giving her dirty looks.

"Why zee cloudy face, Mademoiselle Romsey?" asked Madame as I walked into the room.

I changed my frown to a smile, in a flash. "Good afternoon, Madame Noelle," I said, trying to sound happy. By then she was busy picking out the records for the day's practice, and she just nodded at me.

"All right, mademoiselles," she said. "Let us begin zee warm-up." We took our places at the barre and began to work through the familiar exercises that I could probably do in my sleep. Sometimes I wonder just how many plies I've done over the years, rising and falling to the sound of tinkly piano music.

When I was younger, taking beginner's classes, we used to play fun little games. For example, the teacher used to let us guess what the music was after each exercise. The records were always classical arrangements of simple songs like "Three Blind Mice," and we were very competitive about seeing who could guess right most often.

But games like that are out of the question now. Mme Noelle's class is serious. We don't giggle, we don't whisper, and we don't ask questions like, "What's fifth position, again?" But you know what? Even though the early days were fun, I like this ultraserious kind of class even better.

I like to work hard. I like to concentrate. And I love the fact that all the painstaking, repetitive work I do is worth it. You know why? Because it lets me fly. That's how I feel sometimes; when I'm in the middle of a tour jete (toor jet-tay - that's just a big jump), I feel like I'm flying. And then it doesn't seem like work at all - it feels effortless, and graceful, and . . . just wonderful.

When we'd finished our warm-up, we left the bane and stood in the middle of the room, while Mme Noelle changed the record. Soon, Tchaikovsky's music filled the air. It was beautiful.

Madame stood in front of the room, working out the step she was about to teach us. She made motions with her hands, and whispered words like glissade and pique to herself. While I waited for her to be ready, I looked into the big mirror that covered one wall of the studio.

I checked my posture. Good, but not good enough. I pulled up my head ("Like there is a string from the ceiling, holding you up," as Mme Noelle always says) and pulled in my stomach. I held out my right arm and arranged my hand as gracefully as I could. There! That looked good.

You might think that the other girls in class would think I was weird for looking at myself that way, but no. They were all doing it, too. Ballet students are always checking their form, because their form is important. You've got to be "just so," all the time.

"Mademoiselle Romsey," said Mme Noelle. "And Mademoiselle Steinfeld and Mademoiselle Jones. Attention, please." She was ready to show us our steps. I paid close attention - you don't want to have to ask Mme Noelle to go over the steps more than once.

She gave us the whole routine in a flurry of French words. We followed along, practicing without doing the steps full out. Just as she was getting to the last arabesque, Carrie lost her balance, knocked into me, and fell down.

"Jessi, you klutz!" she said loudly.

Me? I couldn't believe it. I hadn't had anything to do with it! Carrie was the klutz, not me. I looked up at Mme Noelle and opened my mouth to defend myself. But when I saw the look she was giving me, I decided to forget it. She clearly had not forgotten the episode of the toe shoes, and I was better off just keeping quiet.

So instead of sticking up for myself, I helped Carrie to her feet. Did she thank me? Three guesses.

"Again, mademoiselles," said Madame, barely pausing for Carrie to catch her breath. "And one, two, three . . ." We went back into the routine. I was fighting to regain the concentration I had lost when Carrie knocked into me. We worked through the steps, counting carefully as we leaped and spun. It was beginning to feel good - but I knew we had a long way to go before it would look good.

But then, once again, on the final arabesque, Carrie knocked into me - hard. This time she didn't quite fall, but our collision definitely drew Mme Noelle's attention. She frowned at me.

"But I didn't - " I began, and then I just stopped. I sounded like a baby, back in the beginner's ballet class. That kind of excuse didn't belong here. If Carrie - and Mme Noelle - wanted to blame me for what was happening, there was no point in trying to turn that blame around. It would only make me look worse.

This time, instead of speaking out, I put all my energy into the steps we were learning. I became more and more focused on what we were doing and just tried to steer clear of Carrie Steinfeld. It wasn't easy at first, but after awhile I forgot about everything except how it felt to dance.

There were no other major catastrophes for the rest of the rehearsal. And when it ended, Mme Noelle nodded at me approvingly. I think she must have sensed how hard I was working.

After rehearsal, I collapsed onto the bench in the dressing room as I pulled out my dance bag. I felt tired, but in a good way - and I felt satisfied with my dancing that day. I took my hair out of its pony tail and shook it out. Then I reached into my dance bag and I knew right away that something was wrong.

My jeans and my shirt were still in there, and so were my sneakers. But my whole spare outfit was gone. No black leotard, no pink tights. No leg warmers (I'd worn the white ones, so it was the purple ones that were missing) and no sweat shirt. No spare toe shoes, either.

"Oh, my lord," I said, under my breath. (That's one of Claudia's favorite expressions, and we've all picked it up.) I looked around to see if anyone was noticing me noticing my empty bag. They were all busy with their own stuff.

I shrugged. What was I going to do about it? There was a thief in our midst (as they would say in a Nancy Drew book) but I wasn't going to catch her that night. I was too exhausted even to think about it.

I pulled on my school clothes and bent over to tie my shoes. Then I saw it. Once again, a note was tucked into the laces of my left sneaker. Only this time, the note was written in blood! I gasped. Oh, how creepy. Hiding my toe shoes was no big deal. Stealing my extra dance clothes was worse, but it still wasn't, a federal offense. But a note written in blood! Ew. For a minute I thought I was going to pass out.

Then I looked closer and saw that it wasn't blood at all. It was just red ink. But this time, it didn't say BEWARE. It said: WATCH YOUR STEP. As I read it, I shivered. Then I crumpled it up and stuck it into my bag. This was getting scary. Somebody was really out to get me. But why?

I left the dressing room as quickly and quietly as I could. I didn't want to draw attention to myself. My dad picked me up, and I barely spoke to him during the ride home. He didn't try to get me to talk, even though I could tell he'd noticed that something was wrong. He's pretty sensitive that way.

As we pulled into the driveway, I made a real effort to forget all about the disturbing events of the day. I just didn't want to think about the note, or what it might mean, for awhile.

Fortunately, Becca had something besides The Sleeping Beauty on her mind that evening. The minute I came into the house, she came flying down the stairs, waving a piece of paper in the air.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she yelled happily. "1 can't believe you kept this a secret." "Tell you what?" I asked. I really didn't know what she was talking about. "What secret?" "The pet show!" she shrieked. "It's going to be great!" I'd forgotten all about it. "Let's see the invitation," I said. Becca handed it to me, and I unfolded it.