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Cinnamon muttered. Even I laughed at Steven's shocked look.
"Hey, just a minute here," he cried as we all started out to knock on the door of the last one to be introduced.
    Cinnamon knocked, and we waited. When Ice did not come to her door. Cinnamon looked at us. and Howard suggested she might have gone ahead.
    "I doubt that," Cinnamon said.
"What are you. psychic?" Steven asked. He was still smarting from the way she had made fun of him a moment ago. She turned those beady eyes on him.
"Yes, so watch yourself. I'll know exactly what you're thinking," she said. She glared into his face and he stepped back.
Just then the door opened and the most striking African- American that I had ever seen stood there glaring out at us. She was about my height, with a rich light-chocolate complexion and jeweled ebony eyes. Her hair was styled and cut just below her earlobes. She wore a belted white dress and a pair' of sandals.
"Your name is Ice?" Howard asked in a skeptical tone.
I saw the heat quickly build in her face, her eves becoming brighter, like the flash of two candles flaming in his direction.
"That's right." she said. "That a problem for you?"
"No. no. It's great. I'm Howard Rockwell. This is Cinnamon, Rose. Honey. and Mozart," he added, nodding at Steven.
"My name is Steven Jesse," Steven corrected. "He's an idiot." Ice nodded as if she had known for years.
"Hi," I said, extending my hand. She looked at it, at me, and then shook it quickly.
"We're just stopping by to get you." Cinnamon said. "We've got to get downstairs quickly. Are you all right?"
Ice nodded, her eyes washing over all of us, skeptical of our motives and full of distrust. She stepped out and closed her door behind her.
"The rooms are very nice, aren't they?" Rose asked her. "Yes," she said.
"Where are you from?" Cinnamon asked,
"Philadelphia," she said.
"What do you do?" Howard practically demanded as we all headed for the stairs.
"He's worried about the competition for top billing," Steven explained.
"Hardly," Howard said.
"I sing." Ice said.
Despite his confident facade. Howard looked relieved.
As we descended the stairs, we all grew quiet. Getting here, unpacking and settling in our rooms, meeting each other briefly had occupied us and kept us from worrying, temporarily corralling our nerves. It was apparent to me that none of us really knew what to expect next, even the overly confident Howard Rockwell, Jr. Instinctively, we all remained pretty close to each other as we turned and started down the corridor.
Ms. Fairchild stepped out of the parlor. She had a clipboard in her hand and was reading it as we approached.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen," she began, looking up, "please follow me. As you can see." she said, nodding at the parlor door. "this is the parlor. We greet our guests here, and it is everyone's
responsibility to keep it as neat and as clean as you see it is now. We do not, and I repeat. do not permit smoking in this house or on these grounds, by yourselves or your guests.
"Unlike traditional schools, there is no system of demerits. If you violate one of Madame Senetsky's rules, you will be summarily dismissed-- any rule, no matter how small it might seem to you. I hope that is very clear from the start."
"Quite," Howard muttered.
She looked up from the clipboard and then nodded at the hallway.
"Follow me and pay attention." she said.
She took us first to the room designated as the dance studio. There were practice bars, what looked like a brand-new shiny wooden floor, and mirrors on all the walls. After that, came a small theater with seats for about fifty people.
"When Madame Senetsky decides you are ready, you will conduct performance nights here," Ms. Fairchild explained. "The guests include managers, producers, booking agents, and from time to time well-known performers, any of whom might take an interest in you and might help you with your professional careers. Most of them will be former students," she added. "Madame Senetsky has