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scrambled to their places.
    Julia was worried.
    What if Daisy really did fall over?
    What if Madame Robespierre really did chop off her baby toes?
    Was that why Sophie had asked Julia to come? Was that the big scoop she’d been talking about?
    Just before the curtain rose, Julia noticed something across the stage. On the side opposite her, crouching under a folding table just like she was, there was a small, blond person.
    Not just any small, blond person.
    Sophie Simon.
    Sophie was reading a book.
    The curtain went up, and the audience cheered. The lights were bright and the music was loud.
    Julia could see Daisy’s parents in the very first row.
    The ballerinas began to twirl, their giant, ugly hats spinning above them.
    They twirled once.
    They twirled twice.
    Three times they twirled.
    And four.
    And five.
    Daisy, so far, had not fallen over.
    Julia wanted to write LOTS OF TWIRLING in her notebook, but she was too busy staring at Daisy.
    On the one hand, Julia really really did NOT want Daisy to fall over. If Daisy fell over, she was going to be two toes short of a full set. And that would be a very bad thing.
    On the other hand, Julia really really DID want Daisy to fall over. If Daisy fell over, there would definitely be something newsworthy to write about. And that would be a very good thing.
    This, Julia thought, was what Miss Harbinger would call “a reporter’s dilemma.”
    As she finished the tenth twirl, Daisy Pete began to look queasy.
    On the fifteenth twirl, her face was as green as a toad’s.
    On the seventeenth twirl, the tip of the tower on top of her hat began to wobble.
    On the eighteenth twirl, it wibbled.
    And on the nineteenth twirl, in front of Madame Robespierre and her parents and everyone, Daisy Pete fell right smack on the ground.
    The hat tumbled off her head and onto the stage.
    The Eiffel Tower broke in half.
    Julia gasped.
    The audience gasped.
    The ballerinas gasped.
    The orchestra stopped playing, and the girls onstage stopped dancing.
    Daisy Pete looked like she was going to cry.
    Everyone was waiting—waiting, waiting, waiting —to see what would happen.
    But just as Madame Robespierre leaped out of her seat—to chop off Daisy’s baby toes, or possibly worse—Julia heard a holler from the other side of the stage.
    â€œRemember what I told you!” the voice bellowed.
    It was Sophie Simon, her fists balled up at her waist.
    All of the ballerinas turned to look at her.
    â€œRemember!” she shouted to them. “Fight for what’s right! Just follow Daisy!”
    And just like that, every single one of the ballerinas hiked up her tutu and sat down on the stage to join Daisy where she lay in a crumbled heap.
    Madame Robespierre bounded up the stage steps two at a time.
    She did not look pleased.
    â€œWHAT IS GO-ING ON?” she hollered at her dancers.
    Daisy sat up slowly. She looked at Madame Robespierre, and for the first time all night, Julia thought she didn’t look afraid.
    Julia placed her pencil over her notebook and got ready.
    Something important was about to happen, she just knew it.
    Daisy smiled at Madame Robespierre, a slow stretch of a smile that showed all her teeth.
    â€œMadame Robespierre,” Daisy said. “We’re not going to dance anymore. Not until your”—Daisy glanced over at Sophie—“until your tyrannical domination over this dance company has ceased.”

    The audience began to murmur, and Julia did her best to spell TYRANNICAL DOMINATION in her notebook.
    Madame Robespierre glared at Daisy.
    â€œWhat is zese joke?” she hissed at her.
    â€œIt’s not a joke,” Daisy said, firmer this time. “We’re staging a sit-in.”
    The other girls nodded.
    â€œBy sitting on the stage.”
    â€œA SEET-IN!” Madame hollered. Pound! “Ballerinas do not seet!” Pound! “Zey dance!”
    Madame shouted at the orchestra to start playing again.