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"I like a challenge." she replied, and Ice laughed.

"I have other words for him beside 'challenge' that I'm sure are much more descriptive, and you know me. girls. I'm not one to rely on words," she said.

We laughed.

It amazed and even excited me how close the impending danger and risk made us all. Would I ever again have friends as wonderful as these? I wondered. If nothing else ever came of my experience here, this alone was worth it.

We did what Cinnamon ordered. however. We put on the act. Rose even added a nice touch by asking Howard questions at dinner, as if he was truly our resident expert about theater, agents, producers, and audiences. He gave long-winded answers rife with references to this performer and that, quoting directors and producers. All of us listened, our eyes barely shifting toward each other for fear we might laugh aloud or in some way give away our own performances. It was so easy to humor someone who had an ego as swollen as Howard's ego was.

It was far more difficult to keep our intentions hidden from Madame Senetsky. Fortunately, she was busier than usual preparing for this particular Performance Night, Ms. Fairchild made it a point to impress upon us how hard Madame Senetsky was working to bring in the most influential and wellknown people. The names were leaked out in dribs and drabs: told to our teachers in front of us, casually mentioned at lunch and dinner, thrown in with orders to staff and to Mrs. Churchwell while we were present.

It was almost as if Madame Senetsky had decided to psych us out, to bring us to the cliff of nervousness and taunt us with being pushed over the edge just to see how well we would perform and stand up to it all. She was turning up the pressure like some sadist working a torture chamber to discover what we were really made of. Could we survive in this competitive world? Better to find out now, she surely thought, and not waste anyone else's time.

Building up the night this way made us even more anxious about Cinnamon's plan.

"Maybe we should wait," Rose suggested, "Maybe when there aren't so many important people here."

"No," Cinnamon insisted, "The more significant the audience, the better it will be. I want to repeat what I told you all at the start. If anyone feels more comfortable not being a part of this, no hard feelings. I can't blame anyone. All of you have worked hard to get to this point. It's understandable you wouldn't want to throw it away."

"So have you worked ha

rd,' Ice said sharply.

"I've got to do this," Cinnamon replied.

"So do we." I said. I looked at Rose. She nodded.

"I just wondered." she said with a shrug.

"No," Cinnamon corrected. "just a case of basic stage fright."

"And remember,'" we all chanted imitating Madame Senetsky, "even the most seasoned actors and musicians experience stage fright, butterflies, shattered nerves before stepping on stage."

Our laughter at ourselves brought us our only small moments of relief. The rest of the time, tension was our shadow, following us everywhere, even into our dreams.

On the morning of Performance Night, we were brought together for our instructions concerning the usual reception that would take place immediately at the end of the show. We were reminded about our behavior and what Madame Senetsky's expectations would be.

We were then permitted to relax and prepare ourselves mentally and emotionally for the evening's activities. Steven went off to his computer games. Howard decided to review his lines and practically demanded Cinnamon join him, but she turned him down again, claiming a bad headache this time. Rose occupied herself with warm-ups in the dance studio. Ice went for a walk and then retreated to her room, and I took my violin and sat alone, playing some of the music I remembered Uncle Simon loved to hear. We were all like firecrackers, afraid to get too close to each other because we might set each other off and blow ourselves to bits.

When I went upstairs to get ready for the show. I met Steven in the hallway.

"What is it with everyone today?" he asked. "No one wants to talk. I nearly got my head chopped off when I poked it in to watch Rose go through her exercises. and Cinnamon just glared at me as if I was a child pornographer or something. I feel like I'm in the movie High Noon and it's ten to twelve. The clock is a monster!" he cried, throwing his arms up.

I had to laugh,

"That's it," he said quickly, encouraged by my mirth. "If you're too serious, you'll make mistakes.'

"You know something. Steven," I said. "When I first met you, I thought you had to be a mistake, but now I'm convinced that, of all of us, you have the best chance of success in this business."

"Huh?" he said.

"See you downstairs," I said, and left him scratching his head.

I tried to get some rest. Mommy called again to wish me luck and Uncle Simon got on to apologize for not sending flowers in time. I kept thinking about what we were about to do and how it would affect all of us. I hoped my family wouldn't be disappointed in me if it went badly, but I was in firm agreement with Cinnamon. It was something we had to do. No opportunity, no chance for success was worth having to live with not doing something to correct what we were all convinced was a terrible wrong.

Incredibly. I fell asleep, and woke in time to dress and prepare for my performance. Ms. Fairchild had already informed us that Madame Senetsky wished us to follow the same order of appearance, which worked fine for Cinnamon. In fact, it was what she had hoped would happen. What she forgot to consider was how we would all perform, knowing what we knew was about to occur. It was like stepping on a hot stove, not a stage.

Edmond Senetsky came backstage twenty minutes before it was to begin. Except for his attending some dinners and occasionally stopping by to watch and listen to us work in class, we hadn't had much opportunity to speak with him or he with us. He looked very dapper and energized in his bright red ascot and black tuxedo,