"Daddy!" I wailed, feeling like a two-year-old.

    "Jessi!" he said. "What is it? Are you all right?" He sounded frantic.

    1 hadn't meant to scare him. I took a deep breath and started over. "I'm okay," I said, sniffling a little. "It's just that I hurt my ankle during rehearsal. Madame Noelle says I should see a doctor." I drew a ragged breath. "Oh, Daddy, she says I can't dance for awhile!" "It'll be okay, sweetie," he said. "Now you sit tight. I'm on my way." I hung up the phone and went into the dressing room to change. This had been the worst of three bad rehearsals, and in a way I was just grateful that it was over.

    I looked up at the framed picture of Mikhail Baryshnikov that hangs above one of the sinks. He looked back at me, smiling his cocky smile. "Oh, Misha," I said. (I feel like I know him - he's my favorite dancer of all time - so it seems okay to use his nickname.) "I just want to crawl under a rock." He kept on smiling, and I could swear I heard him say, "Oh, Jessi, lighten up. So you can't dance for a few days. If that's the worst that happens, that's not so bad." I knew Misha was right. And if my mother were there she'd agree with him. "Get over it, Jessi!" she'd say. I decided to take their advice - even if it was all in my mind.

    It was time to put all of this bad luck behind me. So I had to take a break from dancing. Big deal. When I came back, I'd be rested and better than ever.

    I pulled my new dance bag out from under the bench, and my heart sank. A piece of paper was jammed over the padlock. Another note. I picked it up carefully and unfolded it. I read it and gasped. Here's what it said: I TOLD YOU SO. FROM NOW ON, WATCH OUT.

    I felt a chill run down my spine. I thought of the wet spot on the floor, and how I'd slipped and fallen. Had somebody planned my fall? And if so, who? And why? How could anybody do such a mean thing? My head was full of questions. And my ankle was throbbing. I changed and got out of that place as quickly as I could. Chapter 7.