Just as I think that, I look at the ballerina posters on the wall (all courtesy of Mama, naturally). There’s Maria Tallchief, who danced with the New York City Ballet. Virginia Johnson, who was the prima ballerina of the Dance Theater of Harlem. Janet Collins, the first black prima ballerina of the Metropolitan Opera Ballet. They stare down from their frames with stern looks on their faces, their eyes fixed on me as if they can tell I’m thinking Bad Ballet Thoughts.
The only person on my wall who’s smiling is my idol, champion speed skater Phoebe Fitz. Aunt Jackie gave me an autographed poster of her for my last birthday. Phoebe looks as out of place among all the ballerinas as I feel in my balletthemed room. I imagine Phoebe giving me an encouraging wink; then I turn back to the mirror.
A skinny nine-year-old looks back at me. I have Mama’s brown skin and my dad’s mixed-up eyes— one is green and one is brown—and my hair is dark and wavy, just long enough to stick in a ponytail.
Phoebe Fitz is really strong. She does one hundred push-ups every day. I can only do twenty-three so far, but I’m pretty sure I can see arm muscles popping out already.
I look good, except for one major problem: I’m wearing a big old pink puff pastry, the tutu to end all tutus. Layers and layers of netting droop down to my knees. Little rhinestones sewn into the netting glint like diamonds in pink marshmallow cream. A row of pink roses marches around my waist, and silver ribbons flutter when I move.
Ugh. I’ll bet Phoebe Fitz never had to wear a tutu.
