“Mama, pleeeeease.” Thinking about the new ballet class makes my stomach hurt. I won’t know anyone. I won’t know where the bathroom is. And on top of all that, I get to walk in looking like an electrified bride on a wedding cake.
Mama drops the feathers and puts her hands on her hips. “Alexandrea, that is enough. When I was growing up, I dreamed of taking ballet from Ms. Debbé at the Nutcracker School, but my mother couldn’t afford it. Now that my own little girl is going, she is going in style. Understand?”
It’s hopeless. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You only have one chance to make a first impression, you know,” she says. “When they see you in that creation of mine, I guarantee you’ll stick in their minds that way forever.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
