"Oh, my art."

"Yeah?" I said hesitantly. "What did Mac say?"

"Just that he thinks I'm" (I prepared myself to hear the worse) "very talented. He says my work is really good, especially for someone my age."

"He did? That's terrific!"

"He also said I have to concentrate on discipline and stuff, but I can live with that."

I nodded. I felt confused, though. Mac had been hounding Claudia since our first morning at Falny: "Do it over." "Work more slowly." And he had said that my drawings were "nice" or "good." But he had never said I was very talented or anything like that. What was going on? I needed to talk to Mac.

"Claud?" I said. "I - I forgot something in our cla.s.sroom. I'll be right back."

I ran to our room at Falny and found Mac gathering up some sketches and putting them into a portfolio. "Mac?" I said.

He glanced up. "Mallory. I thought you'd gone home."

"Well, Claudia's waiting for me downstairs, but I have to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"Am I really a good artist?"

Mac stopped what he was doing. "You're dedicated," he replied. "Yes, you're good."

"But am I going to be a great artist one day? And have shows in galleries?"

"You're only eleven, Mallory. It's a little early to tell. But if you're asking me whether you have Claudia's talent, the answer is, I don't think so. If you keep drawing, though, I'm sure you'll become a better artist."

"Good enough to ill.u.s.trate books?"

"Maybe."

I thought about my field mice, Ryan and Meaghan. I liked them a lot. I was sorry they were in Deep Trouble. Then I thought about the actual drawings of Ryan and Meaghan. I knew they were good. Good for dressed-up animals, anyway, and good for an eleven-year-old.

"Thank you, Mac," I said, turning to leave.

"Mallory, I'm sorry. I know you're disappointed."

"It's okay," I said.

And it really was. As I walked outside to meet Claudia, I thought, There are lots of different kinds of art, and I don't enjoy Claudia's kind or Mac's kind. I like my own kind. And I like writing even better.

I thought of Ryan and Meaghan again, only this time I imagined them in New York City.

They went to the Museum of Natural History and scaled a brontosaurus skeleton. They snuck into Radio City Music Hall and watched all the shows for free.

By the time Claud and I were zooming back to Stacey's in a cab, I was writing a New York mouse story in my head. I was happy. I was excited. I had a terrific idea.

I planned to write a book soon.

Jessi.

Chapter 21.

On Thursday, I saw Quint again. We went to another special performance of a ballet. This time we saw a production of Coppelia, which I have actually danced in myself. When the show was over, Quint said, "Want to get a soda or something?"

"Sure," I replied. (Anything to lengthen the afternoon.) Quint walked me to a nearby coffee shop.

I ordered a diet soda.

Quint ordered a vanilla egg cream.

I changed my mind and ordered a vanilla egg cream, too.

In case you've never tasted one, an egg cream is a wonderful drink. It's made of soda and milk and either vanilla or chocolate syrup. (Surprisingly, it does not have any eggs in it.) I have never had one except when I've been in New York.

The egg creams arrived and Quint and I sipped them slowly.

Quint didn't say much. He looked thoughtful.

So I spoke up. "There are lots of good parts in Coppelia for guys," I said.

"I know."

"If you went to a professional school, you could dance in Copptlia. I have."

"Yeah."

"Yeah what?"

"You know what, Jessi. It's everything we've already talked about."

"I want to hear you say it again."

Quint sighed. "Okay. I know I'm a good dancer."

"You're better than just good if your teachers think you can get into Juilliard."

"All right, I'm better than a good dancer. I would like to perform onstage in front of a big audience someday. Just like you have."

"So?"

"Come on, Jessi. You know all this stuff."

"Tell me again."

"I'm not going to audition because if I do get into Juilliard, I'll never be able to walk down my own street again. Not even with the bowling bag. I just don't think I can take all the comments and yelling and stuff."

"There are all kinds of prejudice, Quint," I said. "I've lived with it. You've lived with it. My friend Claudia has lived with it because she's not such a great student. Mallory gets teased because - "

SJtAsviS "I know what you're saying, Jessi."

"And you're going to deprive America of your talent because of a few jerks?"

Quint smiled. "Well, when you put it that way ..."

"Do you want to go to Juilliard?" I asked.

"Yes, but - "

"So go! I mean, at least audition."

Quint stared into his egg cream for, like, an hour or something.

"Quint?" I finally said.

"I'm thinking."

After some' more staring and thinking, Quint shifted his gaze to me. "You convinced me. I'll audition. If I get in, then I'll decide what to do?"

"You'll audition?" I screeched, forgetting where I was.

"Shhh. Yes."

"All right!"

"On one condition."

"What?" (I should have known there was a condition.) "That you'll come home with me now while I talk to my parents. I'm not sure what they're going to think about this."

I thought I knew, but if Quint was worried, then I would give him moral support. It was the least I could do.

Maybe someday I would be credited with having pushed the famous Quint Walter into the spotlight when he was afraid to go ahead with his career.

We walked back to Quint's apartment. We reached it just as his father was coming home from work. Quint and I glanced at each other.

"Dum, da-dum, dum," sang Quint softly. Then he said, "Hi, Dad. How was work? Did you have a good day? Can we have a talk?"

Mr. Walter put down his briefcase. "h.e.l.lo yourself," he said to Quint. "Hi, Jessi." He kissed Mrs. Walter and was then tackled by Morgan and Tyler.

"How was the ballet?" Mrs. Walter asked Quint.

"Fine, but I really need to talk to you and Dad. I want Jessi here, too. But not . . . you know . . ." He gestured toward his brother and sister.

I'm sure Quint's parents thought we were going to tell them we wanted to get married, or something equally serious. They looked awfully worried. Maybe this was a good thing. Because when Quint said, "It's about my dance lessons/' his parents lost around twenty pounds, just by letting their breath out.

"What about your dance lessons?" asked Mrs. Walter.

"I sort of want to take more."

"That's okay."

"They'll be expensive."

I was going to say, "Quint, you're avoiding the issue/' when his father asked, "How many lessons each week?"

"A lot?" replied Quint.

I nudged him.

"What's going on?" asked Mr. Walter.

Quint looked helplessly at me, but I just looked back at him. I was not going to tell his parents about Juilliard for him. He had to do that himself.

"Go ahead/' I said finally. "Tell them."

"Tell us what?" asked Mrs. Walter.

Quint gathered himself up. "I want to audition for Juilliard/' he said. "I mean, if you can afford to send me there."

"Juilliard!" exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Walter at the same time.

"Yes," said Quint. "My teachers think I can get in. So I'd like to try."

"All right/' said Mr. Walter. "I think we can manage it. Especially if you look into scholarships."

"All right?" repeated Quint. "You mean you don't care?"

"Of course we care," Mrs. Walter replied. "We're so proud of you. And if you got into Juilliard, well, just imagine."

"Besides, we're behind whatever you want to do," added Mr. Walter. "We'll stand behind Tyler and Morgan, too."

"That's not what I meant," mumbled Quint. "I'm glad you're behind me. And I'm glad you're proud of me. I really am. But do you realize what's going to happen if I go to dance school every day? Do you?"

"You'll develop huge muscles in your legs?" suggested Mr. Walter.

"Dad, this is serious!"

"Okay. I know some of the kids tease you. You have to decide whether you want to put up with that. Or else, you have to find a way to change things."

"Right," said Quint. He didn't smile. He stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets. He walked around the room. At last he came to a stop in front of me. "Thaf s pretty much what Jessi said."