Jessi and the Awful Secret Read online

  The author would like to thank

  Dr. Adele M. Brodkin

  for her sensitive evaluation of this book.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Letter from Ann M. Martin

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Scrapbook

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Mme Noelle looked at me and rapped her stick sharply on the studio floor. She didn’t have to say a word. Instantly I raised my leg even higher behind me and pushed my shoulders back. “Much better, Mademoiselle Romsey,” she said with a nod. Then she moved along, studying the grand battements of the other students at the barre.

  “You are much too stiff,” I heard her tell a blonde girl named Mary Bramstedt. “Relax your shoulders. Breathe!”

  Maybe I should explain a few things before I go any further. For starters, my name is not Mademoiselle Romsey. That’s just how it comes out when my teacher, Mme Noelle, speaks to me in her French accent.

  I’m Jessica Ramsey. All my friends call me Jessi. I’m eleven and (among other things) I take ballet lessons at a school in Stamford.

  Mme Noelle is rather old and very strict, but has a great reputation as a ballet teacher. In fact, the ballet school I go to is considered one of the best on the East Coast. (Not counting the professional schools down in New York City.) I’m really glad to be studying here.

  Right now I attend class every Tuesday and Friday, after school. My dad works in Stamford and picks me up on the way home. It takes us about a half hour to drive from Stamford to our home in Stoneybrook.

  Mme Noelle clapped her hands and I swung my leg out of the grand battement position. A grand battement is a warm-up exercise meant to loosen the hips and hamstring muscles of the legs. (It’s pronounced “grand-bot-a-mont,” which is French, the language of ballet.)

  Class always opens with a series of warm-ups. It’s important that a dancer’s muscles be warm and stretched so she doesn’t hurt herself (or himself — though there are only girls in my class) during the more difficult work that comes later.

  “Before we begin ze center work,” Mme Noelle said that day, “I have an announcement to make. Ze Stamford Ballet School will be giving a free six-week donce class to some of Stamford’s less privileged children. Ze class will be held every Tuesday at zis time. We need volunteers to help Mme Dupre conduct it.”

  “What about our own work?” Katie Beth Parsons asked.

  “Volunteers will receive six free classes to make up for ze ones zey will miss,” Mme Noelle explained.

  “But won’t we fall behind?” asked Carrie Steinfeld.

  “You must make zis decision for yourself,” Mme Noelle told her. “At some point in your careers, many of you will wish to teach. Zis will be a valuable experience. Now, do I have any volunteers?”

  Immediately my hand shot up. I love working with kids. I baby-sit a lot and I even belong to a group called the Baby-sitters Club. (The club is really important to me. Maybe not as important as ballet, but close. I’ll tell you about it later.)

  I wasn’t worried about falling behind in my work. As it is, I’m the youngest in the class. (Katie Beth used to be, before I joined the class, but she’s a year older than me. I think she resents not being the youngest anymore.) And — though I wouldn’t say this to anyone else — I’m one of the best. I don’t mean to sound conceited. It’s just true. Not long ago I danced the lead in Sleeping Beauty in the school production. I’ve had other lead parts as well.

  The only other girl who raised her hand was Mary Bramstedt.

  To be honest, I was pretty surprised by two things. The first was that more girls didn’t volunteer. Teaching kids to dance sounded like so much fun, I couldn’t believe everyone wouldn’t want to do it. I guess they didn’t want to take time away from their own classes. (I know dancers have to be serious and competitive, but sometimes I think they take that too far.)

  The second thing that surprised me was that Mary did volunteer. She’s nice enough, but very intense. She’s a perfectionist who worries about getting every step exactly right. And the odd thing is, she’s not one of the best dancers in class. Not by far. For all her worrying, she’s stiff and sort of robotlike when she dances. It’s as if she can’t stop worrying long enough to let the music carry her. I wouldn’t have expected Mary to feel comfortable taking even a moment away from her regular classes. But — as I said — she surprised me, which made me like her a little better than I had.

  “Very good,” Mme Noelle said to Mary and me. “Report here next Tuesday and Madame Dupre will meet you.”

  Then she nodded toward our new piano player in the corner of the room, a thin young man with glasses. He began to play as we took our places in the center of the studio.

  We spaced ourselves evenly and began work on a ballet move called an arabesque penché. We raised one leg way up behind us while we leaned forward for balance. Of course, our arms had to be carefully placed so we didn’t topple over.

  Mary was in front of me and I noticed her supporting leg was quivering badly. I wanted to suggest she shift her weight backward a bit, but Mme Noelle frowns on any talking during class.

  From there we worked on pirouettes (which are turns, pronounced “peer-oh-ets”) and jumps. Finally we came to my favorite part of class. At the end of class each of us dances alone across the studio doing a series of steps that Mme Noelle has strung together. Today her instruction was: Bourée with port de bras, into a pas de chat, ending with arabesque penché in first arabesque position.

  It sounds complicated, doesn’t it? But it really isn’t, not once you know what the terms mean. Mme Noelle wanted us to take tiny steps on our toes while moving our arms gracefully up and down. That’s the bourée with port de bras.

  Pas de chat means “step of the cat.” It’s really fun to do. You jump in the air, touch your toes together lightly, then come down softly. After the pas de chat, Madame simply wanted us to go into the arabesque position we’d practiced during class.

  I stood in line, and when my turn came I danced out into the middle of the room. When I’m not just doing moves, but actually dancing, it’s as if my body does all the thinking. My mind shuts off and just hears the music. All the things I’ve learned about dance seem to be stored in my arms and legs, not in my brain. “You make that look so easy,” said Lisa Jones after I finished my steps.

  “Thanks,” I replied. Lisa had gone before me. She’d done pretty well except that she stumbled backward a little when she came down from her pas de chat.

  Lisa is one of the nicest girls in class, but the truth is, I’m not very close to her or any of the others. I’ve always felt like a bit of an outsider.

  Since I’m the youngest and newest member of the class, I suppose it’s natural that I would feel like an outsider. And then, being black sets me apart from the other girls, too. Not that anyone has ever even mentioned it to me, but all you have to do is look in the practice mirror to see it. One cocoa-colored face with dark eyes standing among the other white faces.

  I was never so aware of the color of my skin until we moved to Stoneybrook. Our old neighborhood back in New Jersey was very integrated. Being black just wasn’t an issue. But it became a big issue once m
y family moved to Stoneybrook.

  We came because my dad’s company transferred him to Stamford. (The transfer included a big promotion, so he was happy about it.) My sister Becca (she’s eight) and I weren’t nearly as excited. (My brother Squirt is just a baby, so he didn’t care one way or the other.)

  Besides leaving our family and friends (like my cousin Keisha who was both family and my best friend), we had to adjust to a new school and a new neighborhood. Believe me, some people in Stoneybrook weren’t one bit glad to see a black family move into their all-white neighborhood. It was rough at first. But we stuck it out and now everything is mostly okay.

  But, getting back to the girls in my class, I never quite felt I belonged in their group. I tried not to mind. After all, I had my friends at school and in the BSC. (That’s what we call the Baby-sitters Club.) I even have a great best friend, Mallory Pike. I told myself I didn’t need any more friends, but the truth was I sometimes felt a little lonely at my ballet school.

  When class ended, we applauded Mme Noelle and then went to the dressing room. “That was nice of you to volunteer,” Carrie Steinfeld said to me as we walked down the hall. “I would have but I can’t afford the time away from lessons.”

  Carrie is the oldest girl in class. I know she’s nervous these days. She’s about to graduate but she’s never had a leading role in a production. Because of that it’s going to be hard for her to get into a school for older students or to be invited to a professional dance company. It’s a shame, because she’s a good dancer. But in ballet, being good isn’t always enough. You have to be great.

  I didn’t want Carrie to feel bad, so I made light of volunteering. “It’s a good excuse to goof off a little,” I joked. “And it sounded like fun.”

  “No way,” Katie Beth disagreed, wrinkling her nose. “You wouldn’t catch me teaching a bunch of screaming brats.”

  “I’m sure they’re not all brats,” said Mary. “I think it’s generous of the school to offer the program. Helping out is the least I can do.”

  I suddenly had the feeling I was going to like working with her.

  In the dressing room everyone changed quickly. It’s interesting to see how ten girls can go from looking all alike, with black leotards, pink tights, toe shoes, and hair pulled back off our faces, to looking very, very different once we’re dressed. Katie Beth, for example wears tight leggings and big bold tops, while Lisa dresses in nothing but jeans and sweaters.

  “I just can’t get high enough on the pas de chat,” I heard Mary complain as she sat on the bench and pulled off her toe shoes. She was talking to a tall, thin girl named Mindy Howard.

  “I know what you mean,” Mindy said, pulling on her long-sleeved T-shirt. “I had the same problem until I lost ten pounds. Then I was fine.”

  Mary got up and examined herself in the full-length mirror. “I probably could drop some of this fat around my middle,” she observed.

  What fat? I thought. I couldn’t see a smidge of fat anywhere on her. She didn’t have two pounds to lose — forget about losing ten!

  “Losing the weight makes a big difference,” Mindy told Mary. “You’ll see.”

  Personally, I didn’t think Mindy jumped all that high even now. Which meant her weight loss theory didn’t hold up. And losing weight wasn’t the solution to Mary’s problem, either. If she wanted to jump higher, she should simply practice jumping higher. That’s what I would have told her. But she hadn’t asked me, and I felt I would have been rude to butt into their conversation.

  Mary turned her back to the mirror and then craned her neck around to see herself. “I have a fat rear end, too,” she muttered.

  She did not!

  “All that weighs you down,” Mindy said as if she were an authority on the subject.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  Really, it’s not that unusual, though. There’s a look in ballet — dancers are thin, square-shouldered, and have a more-or-less oval face. I’ve heard that it started because the great choreographer George Balanchine wanted his corps de ballet (all the dancers who aren’t the stars) to look alike. Since his death, this has started to change. That’s what people say, anyway. It seems to be true.

  A lot of girls go crazy worrying about what they’ll look like once their bodies finish changing and developing. They might not wind up with the right kinds of bodies for ballet. That’s rough when you consider that most dancers have been studying since they were four or so. All of a sudden they have to rethink their plans.

  I don’t worry about it too much. Luckily I seem to be naturally thin and so is everyone in my family. (Except Aunt Cecelia, who lives with us and helps take care of Becca and Squirt while Mama works. Keep your fingers crossed that I don’t take after her.)

  Of course, it’s easy for me to not worry. I have a couple of years yet before my body will start seriously changing. Still, when the time comes, I sure hope I won’t be as crazed about it as Mindy and Mary.

  Fridays are always a challenge for me. I dart out of ballet class and hope my dad is right on time to pick me up. (He usually is.) Then I have to work very hard not to fidget if we’re not going fast enough. The reason I’m in such a rush is that I have to be at my BSC meeting by five-thirty. Sharp!

  Kristy Thomas, our club president, is very big on punctuality. She gives you a Look if you’re late. Those looks are so withering that I’d do just about anything to avoid getting one. Unfortunately, I’ve experienced the Look on several Fridays when I scooted in a couple of minutes late. Sometimes there’s no way out of rush-hour traffic in downtown Stamford. But try telling that to Kristy.

  That Friday I arrived at five-thirty on the dot. Whew! I practically flew into the room, and took my usual spot on the floor of Claudia Kishi’s bedroom — our BSC meeting place.

  “You made it in the nick of time once again,” whispered my friend Mallory, who is also a BSC member. She knows how harried Fridays are for me.

  I smiled as I put my hand over my pounding heart. “The green lights were with us,” I replied, panting. “One yellow light and it would have been all over.” (My dad always stops at the yellow lights instead of zooming through them the way I’d like him to. It drives me crazy when I’m in a hurry.)

  “The meeting will now begin,” Kristy said from Claudia’s director’s chair. She always sits in that chair with a pencil stuck over her ear and a visor on her head.

  Claudia, Mary Anne, and Dawn were seated on Claudia’s bed. Stacey was propped on the edge of Claudia’s desk, by the phone. Before I go any further, I should probably tell you a little about my BSC friends. After that, I’ll explain how the club itself works.

  Since Mal is my best friend, I’ll start with her. She has curly, reddish-brown hair, freckles, and wears braces (the clear kind), and glasses. (She’s dying for contacts but so far her parents say she’s too young.) Mallory doesn’t consider herself pretty. She hates her nose in particular. But I think someday she’ll be prettier than anyone imagines, and there’s so much goodness inside Mallory that after you know her awhile, she starts to look pretty.

  Mallory comes from a huge family. She’s the oldest of eight kids! There are the triplets, Byron, Adam, and Jordan, who are ten. Even though they’re identical it’s easy to tell them apart once you get to know them. And it helps that they don’t dress alike. Next comes Vanessa. She’s nine and shares a room with Mal. After Vanessa is Nicky who’s eight, Margo who’s seven, and Claire who is five.

  Mallory complains that there is nothing but “utter pandemonium,” at her house, but I like visiting there. It’s always lively and fun. I’m not sure I’d want to live at the Pike house, though. Mal doesn’t get much privacy and that’s hard on her.

  Aside from all the usual reasons a person wants privacy, Mal has an extra need for it since she wants to be a writer. I should say she is a writer. One of her stories won the prize for “Best Overall Fiction” in the sixth grade during a Young Author’s Day contest. Mallory dreams of someday wr
iting and illustrating her own children’s books. She’s so creative that I’m sure she’ll be great at it.

  Mallory and I have a lot in common. We’re both in the sixth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. We both love to read, especially stories about horses. We also like mysteries, but hate horror stories. You couldn’t ask for a better friend than Mallory.

  The next person I’ll tell you about is Kristy. As I said, she’s the club president. She’s president because the club was originally her idea and also because Kristy is naturally a presidential type person. She’s always coming up with great ideas. She knows how to make them happen, too. Kristy is a doer not just a talker — although Kristy does talk a lot. You might even say she has a big mouth.

  It might sound as if Kristy is a pain, but she’s not. She has a great sense of humor and is really down-to-earth. And her “bossiness” is what keeps the club running so well.

  For someone with such a big personality, Kristy is very petite. Although she’s thirteen (just like all the other members besides Mal and me) she looks younger. She has longish brown hair and brown eyes. Her idea of fashion is jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt or a sweater. She also wears either her visor or a baseball cap with a collie on it. You could call Kristy a tomboy. She loves sports and even coaches her own softball team for little kids called Kristy’s Krushers. Boys aren’t high on her list of interests — except she does like Bart Taylor who coaches a rival softball team.

  From everything I’ve told you about Kristy, here’s something I bet you’d never guess. Kristy is rich. Her stepfather, Watson Brewer, is a millionaire!

  Kristy didn’t start off rich. In fact, Mr. Thomas, her father, up and left the family right after her little brother, David Michael, was born. Mrs. Thomas had to raise (and support) Kristy, her two older brothers, and David Michael all on her own. But Mrs. Thomas is like Kristy — a practical person with lots of energy. She got a good job in Stamford (one of those business kinds of jobs I don’t always understand). And that’s where she met Watson Brewer.

  When Kristy was in the seventh grade, Mrs. Thomas married Watson. After that, the Thomases moved into Watson’s mansion across town. At first Kristy wasn’t thrilled about this — not Watson, not the move, not even the mansion. But now she likes Watson better and she’s gotten used to her new home. She’s also crazy about her new little stepbrother and stepsister, Andrew (who is four) and Karen (who is seven). They’re Watson’s kids from his first marriage. Most of the time, they live with their mother, but they spend every other weekend, holidays, and some vacation time with their father.