Cress in homeroom the next morning.“Finally!” she said. “But Ms. Masters won the cookie.”“Sorry.”She shrugged. “Sometimes you win, usually you lose.”“Oh,” I said. “And I was, is it, I mean, can I still get on the soccer team?”“I thought ballet interfered.”“No,” I said. “We just decided it was too much, ballet four times a week. It didn’t leave time for anything else.”Ms. Cress nodded. “It did seem like a lot.”“Mmm-hmm,” I said. “So I’ll just, take ballet Fridays, because we don’t have soccer Fridays, right?”“Right,” she said.I smiled, surprised by how calm I felt. I’d had this weird, foggy, relaxed feeling from the moment I forged my mother’s signature on my permission slip. All through dance class yesterday I felt it, and ironically I danced better than ever—even Fiona complimented me. At dinner, Paul told us about giving his oral report on the four senses—he totally forgot the sense of taste. He was really funny; we all laughed until our eyes were watering.
