"All right, ladies, tour jete across ze room!" Mme Noelle called out.

Our ballet class was almost over. We were all sweating horribly. (Oops! I mean, we were glowing. As Madame says, "Horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, and ladies glow!") Was Madame going to let us do some gentle plies to cool down a little? Nooo. We were going to turn-and-leap, turn-and-leap around the room. That's what tour jetes are. If you can do them really well, like Misha Baryshnikov (one of my heroes), you look like you're flying.

If you're an eleven-year-old girl in Mme Noelle's Tuesday afternoon ballet class inStamford,Connecticut , you look . . . well, you look like you've had a long day.

We lined up on the left side of the studio. Mme Noelle stood by a tape recorder with her finger over the play button, and said, "Mademoiselle Romsey, please lead." (That's me.

Actually, I'm Jessica Ramsey, but it comes out Romsey in Mme Noelle's French accent.)

A loud waltz blared out of the speakers. I rounded my right arm and took a few steps to the right. Then, in a split second, here's what happened: My body spun around. My right leg lifted off the ground. My arm shot forward in an arc — and I was soaring! (Maybe not like Misha, but as close as I could get.) I did it again and again, springing into the air at each downbeat of the waltz.

When I completed a circle around the room, I could hear Madame say, "Good leeft, Mademoiselle Romsey, very gracefool — but do not let zee trailing arm droop."

"Okay," I said, only I was panting so hard it came out more like, "Kuhhh."

I was hot and grimy and I just wanted to plop onto the floor. A big fan in the corner was blowing warm, musty air across the room — definitely not refreshing. But here's the strange thing: I felt great. In fact, I wouldn't have minded if class had lasted another hour. Why? Because I love ballet. Even after seven years of lessons, I still get excited just walking into class. You know how some people seem to be "born" comedians or artists or athletes? Well, I'm a born dancer. Wait a minute, that sounds conceited. What I mean is, dancing makes me happier than anything