Please, Please, Please by Rachel Vail

phone rings and grab it so Olivia’s mother doesn’t have a chance to tell my mom. And also, in case I figure out a way to tell her, you’ll be there, so she can’t get too furious at me.”
    “OK,” Zoe said again, blinking a lot. “Wow, talk about being in the movies. You should be a spy.”
    I smiled at her. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry about the whole Lou thing.”
    “Forget it already,” Zoe said. “Come on. I have to go cheat with Roxanne.”

thirteen
    T he way to tell my mother didn’t come to me Friday night. I was so busy trying to make sure she didn’t call Aunt Betsy, I didn’t really get much chance to think. While we were eating dinner, Mom said, “Oh, I have to call Betsy and see how Olivia did today.”
    “At what?” I asked, in my best imitation of a calm voice.
    “Her braces.”
    I had totally forgotten that Olivia was getting her braces put on after school.
    “Was she nervous at school today?” Mom asked me, passing the string beans to Paul, who took one.
    “Yes, a little,” I guessed. “But she said the whole family was planning to pick her up and go out for frozen yogurt for dinner and then, um, a movie. So, they won’t get home until very late. You know,” I added, “to take her mind off it.”
    I waited to see how they would react. Before this year I never even lied about if I’d brushed my teeth. Mom and Dad looked at each other. “Isn’t that nice,” Dad said.
    Mom nodded and passed Paul the potatoes. I felt myself smiling—such a powerful thing, lying. Before, I always thought they’d just know if I made something up—like they’d be able to tell, like there was no privacy inside my own head. But, there is.
    I swallowed my mashed potatoes and asked, “Can Zoe sleep over here, tomorrow, instead of me going there?”
    “Sure, of course,” Mom answered. “Why?”
    “She just really likes it here,” I invented. May as well make them feel good. I was feeling powerful enough to be generous.
    “I’m glad,” Mom said. “Maybe you and Zoe could baby-sit for Paul, then, and Dad and I could go out?”
    They smiled at each other.
    “I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Paul said.
    “You’re eight,” reminded Dad.
    “But I’m very mature.”
    “We’d be happy to,” I answered generously. It would be good to get Mom out of the house and away from the possibility of hearing my news from Aunt Betsy—worth having to pay attention to Paul. “Zoe likes Paul, too.” Why not? Zoe likes everybody. I think Paul blushed. “We’ll do fun stuff,” I told him. “I promise.”
    I was up this morning before Mom woke me, but I pretended to be asleep. She reminded me to use the exercise bands for my feet at the end of my stretching. I did an extra five on each foot, promising myself that on the way to dance, I’d tell Mom everything.
    But I didn’t. Where to start? She’d be so disappointed in everything I’d done—forging, quitting, backing out of my commitment, lying. . . . I decided I’d wait until after class. Another few hours of having her like me and trust me. As Zoe had said, “The longer you can avoid a conflict, the better.”
    Class was good, again. I wasn’t falling out of my turns. Sometimes dance class is even better than performing, because it’s like an hour and a half away from thinking anything. Your body works, your mind is in quiet mode. No words, just the teacher counting out beats: la, yum, ba-bi-bum . Position! And when you’re on, when you’re focused and pushing, higher on the jumps—straighter legs—longer line—hold! Ah. Yes. There’s nothing else but the clacking of toe shoes or the whispering of ballet slippers against the wood floor, the plonking of the piano, and your fingers brushing the barre.
    When Yuri clapped to signal the end of class, I looked up at the clock, surprised it had gone so fast. Next to me, Fiona bent to pull her black sweater pants over her tights. “Strong work today,” she said, the second time in