Rat-a-tat-tat, my feet hit the ground, and the sound sings up like music. I am dancing on the sidewalk, skipping home from school, free as a bird, and my feet are flying. People stare then look away fast, but I don’t stop dancing. Not for them, not for no one.
With small, soft steps, I glide over the ground, kicking up dust in little red clouds around my toes. Dangling from its strap, my school bag bangs against my legs as I go. I can feel Miss Priss and her posse behind me, walking to Vicky’s Ballet Studio for their class. They’re all sweater sets and saddle shoes, but I know they’ve got pink tights and pink leotards and pretty pink satin ballet slippers in their bags, locked up tight against the red, South Carolina dust.
About the book
Looking at her skinny chicken legs poking up from the ground, you'd never think that Casey Quinn could ever be a ballerina.
But just because Casey can't do ballet in high-tops doesn't mean she can't dance. She has more grace in her pinkie toe than the local rich girls put together. And Casey has a dream to dance in New York – and no one is going to stop her.
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