I looked around the dressing room. There were heaps of clothing everywhere - tangled leg warmers on the benches, leotards hanging by one sleeve from a locker door - but not a toe shoe in sight. What was I going to do?

    Everybody else was hurrying out of the dressing room. Mary stopped for a moment as she passed my locker.

    "What's the matter, Jessi?" she asked.

    I told her that my toe shoes were missing. Her eyes grew round. She knew how serious this was.

    "I wish I could lend you a pair, but my spare ones are at home," she said.

    "That's okay," I said. "I really couldn't dance in anyone else's shoes anyway." My toe shoes are unique - everybody's are. And every dancer has a different way of taking care of them. There's a whole routine with toe shoes - you have to break them in (I do it by banging them against the banister on the staircase at home), and sew ribbons onto them, and stuff the toes with lambswool. So even though they don't last too long (I usually need a new pair every week or so), each pair has a lot of time invested in it. And each pair ends up fitting your feet, and your feet alone.

    I do, of course, have a spare pair of toe shoes. But guess where they were. Right - they were at home.

    "This is terrible," I said. By then I was alone in the dressing room. I could hear Mme Noelle's voice, just faintly. She was taking the roll in the studio. In about three seconds she'd realize that I wasn't there.

    I was going to have to go into the studio barefoot.

    I took a deep breath and started to walk. I stopped at the dressing room door and took one last look around the room. There was not a single toe shoe anywhere. I looked down at my feet. This was going to be humiliating. And Mme Noelle wasn't going to like it at all.

    At least my entrance was quiet. Bare feet make a lot less noise than toe shoes, which tend to make clunking noises when you try to walk normally.