and sets. It was due by the end of January, and the winning teams would be announced the first week of February.
“I really think we should try out for the production,” Penny said. “At least for small parts. It’ll give us a better feel for what they’re looking for set-wise. Plus, it’ll be fun.”
A turn of events I hadn’t seen coming. “I’m not really an actor,” I said.
“You don’t have to go out for a speaking part. There’s a chorus.”
“I’m not much of a singer, either.”
“I think they judge more on dancing, anyway,” Penny said.
I wasn’t about to fess up, but I’d spent enough of my childhood at Madame Bleu’s Dance Academy to know the difference between a
grand plié
and a ball change.
“Just think about it,” Penny said.
The last time Penny had pulled that line on me, I’d ended up as the fashion editor of the school paper — not five minutes later.
I pointed a recently filed fingernail at her nose. “Don’t sign me up. I haven’t said yes yet.”
She raised her hands in a gesture of innocence. I knew better. I looked over to Jack, having expected him to offer some sort of comment on the prospect of me dancing, or worse, singing. His nose was buried in a book. I leaned over and read the cover:
Ice Sheet Data and the Melting of Greenland
by Brigid Fonnkona.
Big surprise.
I looked at my watch. “Bell’s gonna ring soon.”
Jack jumped to attention. “Sorry, guys. The time got away from me today.” He flipped open a notebook. “Did everyone get some work done?” He was met by a sea of blank stares. He continued to fiddle with the notebook on his desk. “Don’t forget stories are due on Monday.”
Everyone began gathering their things.
“Listen, Penny,” Jack said, resting an elbow on my desk. “Is there any chance you could write my column for this issue?”
“I’ll do it,” Pedro said, walking up.
I had been a little surprised when, at the start of the meeting, Pedro had sat across the room from Penny. Whatever had happened between them at Matthew’s party wasn’t over yet.
“He asked me,” Penny said quickly. “And I’d be happy to.”
Pedro scratched at his cheek. “Whatever. Just offering.” He turned and left.
“Why can’t you do it?” I asked Jack.
The bell rang.
“Kinda caught up with something for Brigid — and Stanley,” Jack added quickly. He stood and picked up his books.
I followed him out of the room wondering who I was more likely to get a song and dance out of these days: Penny or Jack.
Unbelievable. At 8:59, Afi’s back room had been a jumble of boxes and crates wedged on wobbly shelving units or piled high on the floor. At 9:01 it was transformed into our Stork crib, complete with heavy oval table, the somehow-mended bird chairs, and lit — by whom? — candled sconces. I would never, ever get used to some of the more fantastical aspects of this soul-delivery business. I pinched myself as a reality check. It hurt.
I sat in my Robin’s chair this time. Grim was the last to arrive. Her dragging feet were an obvious sign of her continued opposition to a prescheduled meeting.
“Fru Birta,” I began. “Is our book still missing?”
“Yes.”
“Then no need to call roll. It’s obvious, anyway, that we’re all here — besides Fru Hulda, of course.”
I saw Grim stiffen, bristling at this change to our meeting’s program. What’d she expect Fru Birta to do without the book, though? Whittle attendance into the table? Ink it onto her lined palm?
Two spaces down from me, I eyed Dorit’s old chair, turned away from the table as mine had been that fateful first night. Also catching my attention were its carvings. They were, again — as mine had once been — birds of all kinds, no longer Dorit’s puffers.
A commotion at the door lifted my eyes. There stood Ofelia with a curious look on her face and an armful of papers.
Shoot. A security breach.
What was she doing back? I’d sent her home an hour ago. I
“I really think we should try out for the production,” Penny said. “At least for small parts. It’ll give us a better feel for what they’re looking for set-wise. Plus, it’ll be fun.”
A turn of events I hadn’t seen coming. “I’m not really an actor,” I said.
“You don’t have to go out for a speaking part. There’s a chorus.”
“I’m not much of a singer, either.”
“I think they judge more on dancing, anyway,” Penny said.
I wasn’t about to fess up, but I’d spent enough of my childhood at Madame Bleu’s Dance Academy to know the difference between a
grand plié
and a ball change.
“Just think about it,” Penny said.
The last time Penny had pulled that line on me, I’d ended up as the fashion editor of the school paper — not five minutes later.
I pointed a recently filed fingernail at her nose. “Don’t sign me up. I haven’t said yes yet.”
She raised her hands in a gesture of innocence. I knew better. I looked over to Jack, having expected him to offer some sort of comment on the prospect of me dancing, or worse, singing. His nose was buried in a book. I leaned over and read the cover:
Ice Sheet Data and the Melting of Greenland
by Brigid Fonnkona.
Big surprise.
I looked at my watch. “Bell’s gonna ring soon.”
Jack jumped to attention. “Sorry, guys. The time got away from me today.” He flipped open a notebook. “Did everyone get some work done?” He was met by a sea of blank stares. He continued to fiddle with the notebook on his desk. “Don’t forget stories are due on Monday.”
Everyone began gathering their things.
“Listen, Penny,” Jack said, resting an elbow on my desk. “Is there any chance you could write my column for this issue?”
“I’ll do it,” Pedro said, walking up.
I had been a little surprised when, at the start of the meeting, Pedro had sat across the room from Penny. Whatever had happened between them at Matthew’s party wasn’t over yet.
“He asked me,” Penny said quickly. “And I’d be happy to.”
Pedro scratched at his cheek. “Whatever. Just offering.” He turned and left.
“Why can’t you do it?” I asked Jack.
The bell rang.
“Kinda caught up with something for Brigid — and Stanley,” Jack added quickly. He stood and picked up his books.
I followed him out of the room wondering who I was more likely to get a song and dance out of these days: Penny or Jack.
Unbelievable. At 8:59, Afi’s back room had been a jumble of boxes and crates wedged on wobbly shelving units or piled high on the floor. At 9:01 it was transformed into our Stork crib, complete with heavy oval table, the somehow-mended bird chairs, and lit — by whom? — candled sconces. I would never, ever get used to some of the more fantastical aspects of this soul-delivery business. I pinched myself as a reality check. It hurt.
I sat in my Robin’s chair this time. Grim was the last to arrive. Her dragging feet were an obvious sign of her continued opposition to a prescheduled meeting.
“Fru Birta,” I began. “Is our book still missing?”
“Yes.”
“Then no need to call roll. It’s obvious, anyway, that we’re all here — besides Fru Hulda, of course.”
I saw Grim stiffen, bristling at this change to our meeting’s program. What’d she expect Fru Birta to do without the book, though? Whittle attendance into the table? Ink it onto her lined palm?
Two spaces down from me, I eyed Dorit’s old chair, turned away from the table as mine had been that fateful first night. Also catching my attention were its carvings. They were, again — as mine had once been — birds of all kinds, no longer Dorit’s puffers.
A commotion at the door lifted my eyes. There stood Ofelia with a curious look on her face and an armful of papers.
Shoot. A security breach.
What was she doing back? I’d sent her home an hour ago. I
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