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MY NAME IS Annie. I’m ten years old. Weezer, my little sister, is seven. Her real name is Louisa, but nobody calls her that. About six months ago, she started nagging our mother. Weezer is an excellent nagger. She never stops. She wanted to go to ballet classes. So at every meal, she tried a different kind of nagging.
    “Some of my friends started going in the First Year.” (That was one kind.)
    “It’s not very expensive.” (That was another kind.)
    “St Christopher’s Hall is so close. I could walk there by myself.” (That was a third.)
    We were in the middle of breakfast. Mum said, “No, you couldn’t. You have to cross three main roads. You know you’re always in a dream.”
    “Annie’ll take me,” said Weezer. She smiled at me. “You will, won’t you, Annie?”
    “I suppose so,” I answered. It’s best to agree with Weezer. She can stay in a terrible mood for days and days if you don’t. Once, her friends Tricia and Maisie were playing Kings and Queens. Weezer wanted to be the queen, but the others decided she should be the princess.
    “It was my turn,” she told me. “I was princess last time.” She sulked about it for three days, and in the end Maisie said she didn’t mind being princess for the next four games, and Weezer could be queen if she liked.
    Mum must have realized that Weezer was never going to stop nagging. She sighed.
    “OK,” she said. “I give in. You can start next week. We’ll have to buy everything you need.”
    Weezer’s smile beamed out over the table. “I’ve got a list,” she said. “I’ll go and get it.”
    “Finish your toast first,” Mum said. But she was too late. Weezer had rushed out of the room. We could hear her clattering up the stairs. I ate the piece of buttered toast she’d left behind. I knew she wouldn’t eat it now. Her dream was about to come true. I couldn’t believe my bratty little sister was about to become a ballet dancer.
    Weezer laid all her new equipment on the bed.
    “Look, Annie,” she said. “Isn’t it lovely?” I looked. I saw two pink leotards, two pairs of pink ballet shoes, a white cardigan, and a small pink suitcase. The suitcase had a picture on the lid. It was painted in gold and showed a ballerina standing on her points.
    “Very nice,” I said. I didn’t think the stuff was anything to get excited about. But Weezer had other ideas. She was determined to make me see how wonderful each item was.
    “These shoes are real leather, Annie. Feel how soft they are. They’re real ballet shoes, even though they’re not toe shoes. You aren’t allowed to go on your points. Not till you’re twelve. But the ribbons are satin. There’s a special way to tie them. And I have to have my hair done up in a net. Have you seen my hair net, Annie?”

    “No,” I said. “I missed that.”
    “This is it. And this is my cardigan. It crosses over and ties at the back.” She started jumping up and down.
    “Lovely,” I said. “But why is everything spread out on the bed?”
    “I’m going to pack my case,” said Weezer. “Isn’t it a beautiful case? Don’t you like this ballerina on the lid? I’m going to look just like this when I grow up.”
    “I hope you won’t be gold all over.”
    Weezer threw her hairbrush at me. She’s a good thrower. It’s time she learned when I’m joking.
    At last, the day came. In case we had forgotten, Weezer reminded us.
    “It’s the first class today,” she said. She put a spoonful of dry cereal into her mouth. She was so excited she’d forgotten all about milk.
    I passed the milk jug to her and said, “We’re not going till four o’clock. Your pink suitcase is by the front door already.”
    “I put it there last night,” said Weezer, “in case I forgot this morning.”
    “Have you remembered to pack everything?” Mum asked.
    “Yes,” said Weezer. “I checked my list.”
    I sighed. Perhaps now that Weezer was finally starting classes, we could take down the list she’d put