The Mischief in the Hem — Every day after math, Juniper hurried to Studio C, tied her shoes by the long mirror, and checked the tiny silver washers sewn inside her tutu hem. Read the full story →
Every day after math, Juniper hurried to Studio C, tied her shoes by the long mirror, and checked the tiny silver washers sewn inside her tutu hem. They looked like nothing—just flat circles from her dad’s toolbox—but she had stitched every one herself, pricking her thumb twice and feeling grander than a costume maker. They were supposed to flash like moon dots when she turned. Until one day, during pliés, they began to ching-ching-ching like a bicycle bell.
Madame Perri’s eyebrow climbed. “Did someone bring a tambourine?” The class giggled, and Juniper’s ears went hot. Because of that, she tried to dance smaller, but smaller made the washers clatter faster. Because of that, Pip in the back copied the sound with his tap shoes, and soon the whole room was a sneaky storm of chings, taps, and squeaks across the polished floor.
At last the piano bench snapped—crack!—and the music stopped. Juniper lifted her chin, spun once, and let her handmade hem keep time. “Follow my bells!” she whispered. The class finished perfectly to her bright little rhythm. Next time you spot those stars by the mirror, see if Juniper’s moon-dot hem is still acting innocent.
