A Bad Beginning A Bad Beginning MONDAY I GOT KICKED OUT of ballet school. Not just a class, mind you. Apparently, what I did was bad enough to get me banned from the entire school for the rest of my life. Maybe I should have listened to Miss Delilah, the school's owner, when my sister, Georgia, signed me up at the beginning of August, three weeks before school began. "Cleveland, dear." Miss Delilah stared at me over the frames of her eyeglasses. "You should start in the beginner class, since you don't have other dance experience." I didn't tell Miss Delilah how Georgia and I used to dance like no one was watching. (Until we discovered the creepy neighbor boy, Jacob Andrews, was actually watching. He peeked at us through the window of our trailer because he had a big, heart-busting crush on Georgia. Luckily for us, Jacob and his family moved to a remote Alaskan island for his mom's job as a geologist, where the only things he'd be spying on were snow, melting ice, and polar bears, which was really good news unless you were a polar bear who liked its privacy.) I also didn't tell Miss Delilah there was no way-- pas question --I'd go into a class filled with babies who picked their noses and fell over sideways when they tried to stand in third position. I had learned about ballet positions, posture, poise, and other important things online, so I'd be prepared to enter the advanced class for girls my age. I'd been practicing in front of the mirror in our bedroom. Tugging on the sides of my red beret, I kept my back pencil straight, like I figured French girls were trained to do when talking to the heads of their dance schools. "If you don't mind, I'd rather take a class with girls my age." Miss Delilah contorted her face in a very unflattering way, as though she were trying to hold in a toot. "Cleveland, I'm sure you're very talented, but it's my professional opinion--" "If Cleveland wants to be with girls her age," Georgia interjected, "that's where she should be." Then my sister opened her I VERMONT wallet, which she bought because she planned to attend the University of Vermont the following year, and she pulled out a bunch of twenty-dollar bills that I knew came from her job cashiering at Weezie's Market and Flower Emporium. Georgia had to scan a lot of cans of creamed corn to earn that much cash. I would've had the money to pay for the class myself if only... "Here's the fee for the advanced class," Georgia said. I felt like a balloon filled almost to bursting. Thank you, Georgia! "Okay, Cleveland," Miss Delilah said. "Let's head over to the studio and see what you already know." Georgia and I followed her to a room with a mirrored wall and a barre along the opposite wall. It felt so official that I got twelve kinds of tingly. I stood in the middle of the dance floor while Georgia hung back by the door, her arms crossed, like she was daring Miss Delilah to say one mean thing to me. Everyone should have a big sister like Georgia. She's protected me like the secret service since I was in kindergarten and Joey Switzer put a worm down my shirt. Let's just say that boy hasn't even looked at me sideways since Georgia, who was in fifth grade at the time, had a little chat with him at recess. We Potts girls stick together and look out for each other like that. Miss Delilah held on to the barre and faced me. Her posture was stick-straight like the women in the videos. "Demonstrate first position, please." I held myself tall and turned my feet out in my best first position, wishing I were wearing ballet slippers instead of my ratty old sneakers, with holes forming near the pinkie toes. I hoped Miss Delilah didn't notice. She didn't seem bothered by my sneakers. "Fine. Second position, please." I moved my legs apart and held my arms out, like they were delicate feathers about to float down to my sides. "Third position." This one was tougher, because I don't think feet are meant to turn so far in the opposite direction, but I did it and forced myself to smile like I saw a ballerina do in a book called Ballet for Beginners . I'd be able to do a better job when I was wearing a leotard and tights instead of shorts and a T-shirt, but I guessed I was doing all right because I peeked up at Georgia, and she nodded. I could tell from how happy she looked that she was proud of me. That filled me up, squeezed out the nervousness. "Let's head back to my office now, girls." Georgia and I sat on the same chairs in front of Miss Delilah's desk as when we first came in. "Well then." Miss Delilah lowered herself into her seat and folded her hands. "I suppose we could put Cleveland in the class with girls her age. At least she'll be starting at the beginning of the year with everyone else. Classes start the same day school begins." Miss Delilah removed her eyeglasses and let them hang on a beaded chain around her neck, then rubbed the bridge of her nose, like she was trying to relieve a headache. "Even if Cleveland's willing to work diligently, I still don't think advanced ballet is the best--" "Thanks so much," Georgia said, cutting her off before she could say something my sister didn't want to hear. "Yeah, thanks," I offered. Joy bubbled inside me because I had the forethought to learn the ballet positions online so I didn't look like an imbécile in front of Miss Delilah when she tested me. It felt like when a teacher gave a surprise quiz in school and I knew all the answers. "The permission form and contract require a parent's signature," Miss Delilah said. Georgia pulled out the forms Mom had signed last night. "We printed them from your website." What my sister didn't say was we printed the forms at the Sassafras Public Library on Main Street and Third Avenue, because we didn't have a printer at home, and we had only Georgia's old laptop, which Mom and I borrowed when we needed to. "All righty then." When Miss Delilah got up to file the forms in a cabinet, Georgia flashed me a thumbs-up and winked. I tried to wink back, but both eyes closed at the same time. I stunk at winking. It didn't matter. I was going to be a ballerina! I imagined myself wearing a black leotard and pink tights and spinning, spinning like the ballerinas I watched and read about. I wondered if there would be any boys in the class whose job it would be to throw us into the air. That might be fun, as long as they didn't drop us because we weighed too much for their scrawny muscles. Maybe we could toss the boys into the air instead. The thought made me giggle, so I covered my mouth. Miss Delilah's lips moved as she silently counted my sister's cash. "The class costs a hundred dollars, plus the registration fee for new students. You owe me twenty more dollars." She held out her palm, fingers spread. Georgia dug into her wallet and plucked out one more crumpled bill, which she dropped into Miss Delilah's hand. I'm sorry, I wanted to say. It wasn't my fault I didn't have the money to pay for the class myself. A bolt of anger sizzled through me. Then guilt stabbed at my stomach for feeling angry. I knew things were hard for Dad right now, so I felt uncomfortable every time I got angry with him. But really, things were difficult for all of us because of what he'd done. And that made me angry all over again. I let out a slow breath, hoping the anger would leak out with it. The corners of Miss Delilah's mouth rose slightly. "Cleveland, we look forward to your joining our little family here at Miss Delilah's School of Dance and Fine Pottery." Even though I already had a family and didn't want to be part of Miss Delilah's, a tingle zinged along my spine. I felt better. The first item on my Paris Project list was about to be accomplished and checked off. Only five more items to go, and then I'd be on my way to Paris, France. I could practically smell the warm, buttery croissant I'd nibble as I strolled past the Eiffel Tower, breathing in all that refreshing Paris air. Everything about going to school and living in Paris would be a thousand times better than doing those things here in Sassafras, Florida, where people could be downright nasty for no good reason. Plus, it wouldn't be so blasted hot in Paris. I checked. In Sassafras in August, it's a disgusting average eighty-two degrees of pure humidity. The average August temperature in Paris is seventy-five degrees of pure perfection. I couldn't wait. Life in Paris would be magnifique ! Things were finally going like they were supposed to. Until Jenna Finch and her stupid pinkie toe had to go and ruin everything. Oh la la la la! (Which, for your information, actually means "Oh no no no no!") Excerpted from The Paris Project by Donna Gephart All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.