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scouting base.She’d come to teach the basics of ballet to underprivileged children, then pick out those who were the most talented and give them the chance for further study at her school to hone their talents. Cindy chose me, along with a couple of other promising students.
    “You need more intense training and the chance to be with strong dancers who can push you,” she told me after I’d spent one forty-five-minute class practicing the same basic positions and pliés. “You’ll get that at my school, and we should start as soon as possible.”
    I listened politely, but in my heart I didn’t feel it. Why in the world would I want to trek across town to study ballet? How would I get there?
    I knew I had talent and enjoyed dancing, but I still got a thrill from drill team. I was so excited finally to be following in the footsteps of my big sister, Erica, and Mommy’s, too, since she’d once been a Kansas City Chiefs cheerleader. Drill team— that was my dream.
    Seeing that she was clearly getting nowhere with me, Cindy tried next to enlist my mother, sending home notes expressing how excited she would be to have me as her student. But she chose the wrong messenger. I’d leave the notes that raved about my talent and potential smushed in the back of my Pee Chee folder, or toss them, grease-stained, into the trash, along with my sandwich wrapper and the other remnants of my lunch.
    Of course I didn’t tell Cindy that her notes were barely surviving my trek home. Instead, I made up excuses—that my mother was busy, or still thinking about it, or not really sure. But Cindy kept pressing, promising me a full scholarship that would pay for my training as well as my attire. I’d have thatleotard at last, and she’d even give me a ride from school to her studio each afternoon.
    Now I knew I had to tell Mommy. It was like getting an offer for a job you didn’t really want but realizing, begrudgingly, that the perks and benefits were probably too good to turn down. I told Cindy that maybe she and my mother should talk and reluctantly gave her our home phone number.
    Cindy called that evening. I wasn’t sure what Mommy would say. Maybe the twenty-five-minute drive from school each day would turn her off to the idea, I thought. I hoped. But right away, Mommy said studying with Cindy could be good for me. Mommy didn’t see my nerves or ambivalence, only the opportunity.
    “You know, when you were a little girl, you loved ballet,” she told me, smiling after she’d gotten off the phone.
    “I did?” I asked incredulously, having no memory of even knowing what ballet was before I started taking classes in the Boys and Girls Club gym.
    “Yes,” my mother said. “I bought you a tutu when you were four or five to wear for Halloween. You didn’t want to take it off. You wanted to wear it to school and you’d put it on every afternoon when you got home. You even slept in it. It got so raggedy I finally had to sneak and throw that thing away.”
    I still didn’t know what she was talking about.
    “Anyway,” Mommy said finally, “Miss Bradley seems to think you’ve got some potential. Let’s give it a try and see how it goes.”
    And so it began. Sometimes I would hitch a ride across town with Erica, who was now seventeen, and her boyfriend, Jeff, slipping into the backseat of his 1989 white SuzukiSamurai for the trip to Cindy’s ritzy neighborhood. But most days I would ride with Cindy, who would be waiting in front of the school, watching for my tiny frame and big feet to emerge from the crowd.
    If I didn’t yet feel like a ballerina, I now at least looked like one, thanks to the black leotard, pink tights, and pink slippers my scholarship afforded. Five days a week I’d take my place among students who were much more advanced than those I’d danced beside at the Boys and Girls Club—and I’d try my best to keep up.
    Unlike the club gym where we danced on wood, Cindy’s studio was the real thing, though,