I can only do twenty-three so far, but I’m pretty sure I can see arm muscles popping out already. I have Mama’s brown skin and my dad’s mixed-up eyes-one is green and one is brown-and my hair is dark and wavy, just long enough to stick in a ponytail. I imagine Phoebe giving me an encouraging wink then I turn back to the mirror.Ī skinny nine-year-old looks back at me. Phoebe looks as out of place among all the ballerinas as I feel in my ballet-themed room. Aunt Jackie gave me an autographed poster of her for my last birthday. The only person on my wall who’s smiling is my idol, champion speed skater Phoebe Fitz. They stare down from their frames with stern looks on their faces, their eyes fixed on me as if they can tell I’m thinking Bad Ballet Thoughts. Janet Collins, the first black prima ballerina of the Metropolitan Opera Ballet. Virginia Johnson, who was the prima ballerina of the Dance Theater of Harlem. There’s Maria Tallchief, who danced with the New York City Ballet. Just as I think that, I look at the ballerina posters on the wall (all courtesy of Mama, naturally).
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