I like to work hard. I like to concentrate. And I love the fact that all the painstaking, repetitive work I do is worth it. You know why? Because it lets me fly. That's how I feel sometimes; when I'm in the middle of a tour jete (toor jet-tay - that's just a big jump), I feel like I'm flying. And then it doesn't seem like work at all - it feels effortless, and graceful, and . . . just wonderful.

    When we'd finished our warm-up, we left the bane and stood in the middle of the room, while Mme Noelle changed the record. Soon, Tchaikovsky's music filled the air. It was beautiful.

    Madame stood in front of the room, working out the step she was about to teach us. She made motions with her hands, and whispered words like glissade and pique to herself. While I waited for her to be ready, I looked into the big mirror that covered one wall of the studio.

    I checked my posture. Good, but not good enough. I pulled up my head ("Like there is a string from the ceiling, holding you up," as Mme Noelle always says) and pulled in my stomach. I held out my right arm and arranged my hand as gracefully as I could. There! That looked good.

    You might think that the other girls in class would think I was weird for looking at myself that way, but no. They were all doing it, too. Ballet students are always checking their form, because their form is important. You've got to be "just so," all the time.

    "Mademoiselle Romsey," said Mme Noelle. "And Mademoiselle Steinfeld and Mademoiselle Jones. Attention, please." She was ready to show us our steps. I paid close attention - you don't want to have to ask Mme Noelle to go over the steps more than once.

    She gave us the whole routine in a flurry of French words. We followed along, practicing without doing the steps full out. Just as she was getting to the last arabesque, Carrie lost her balance, knocked into me, and fell down.

    "Jessi, you klutz!" she said loudly.