Please, Please, Please by Rachel Vail

the goalpost.”
    “You’re kidding!” I smiled, imagining it. “I can’t believe I missed that.”
    “You would’ve died,” agreed Zoe. “That’s the kind of thing, though, when you said how many times do you get to be a seventh grader? Things like falling on the goalpost won’t crack you up when you’re old. Right?”
    I nodded. “Probably not.”
    “Your mom is so nice, she’ll understand. Maybe if you just tell her.”
    I grabbed History off my shelf and scrunched down in the corner of my room, between my dresser and the wall, like when I was little. “She won’t understand. She’ll say I have to think about my career.”
    “Your career?” Zoe asked. “You’re twelve!”
    “Exactly,” I said.
    “Well, but who does she want you to be friends with?” Zoe asked. “Filona?”
    “Fiona.” I unlaced my toe shoes.
    “Whatever. She’s a boring bimbo, you said.”
    I had to smile. “Morgan said that.”
    “You agreed,” Zoe argued. “Anyway, whatever. I’m sure she’s nice.”
    “She’s not.” I pulled my toe shoes off and didn’t look at the ribbons I hadn’t sewn in myself. Fiona thinks she’s so great.
    “I just . . .” Zoe started. I waited. I heard her sigh, then say quietly, “You would’ve had a really good time today. You really would’ve had fun.”
    “I know,” I agreed. “They really broke the goalpost?”
    “Shattered it.”
    I laughed. “I wish I could just quit,” I whispered, slipping my toe shoes inside each other. “I never laugh in ballet class.”
    “Probably no ballerinas are as clumsy as Roxanne, is why.”
    “Partly,” I said. “You know, if I’d been talking to Morgan, she would’ve said if you want to quit, quit.”
    “Aren’t you glad you’re talking to me?” Zoe asked.
    “Yes,” I said, truthfully. I rested my chin on my knees. “So tell me what to do. Seriously. I mean, how do I say to my mother, great—you spend all your money and time on seven years of lessons for me, you leave Paul with a baby-sitter he hates three afternoons a week and never have Christmas or Thanksgiving because of my schedule, but, you know what? Too bad if you already paid thousands for this season—I changed my mind! I’m blowing it off to play soccer with my friends?”
    “Well,” Zoe said. “That might not be the most convincing way to put it.”
    “I keep thinking of all you guys out there on the lower field having so much fun but then every time I’m about to tell her I quit, I just, I can’t figure out any way to make sense.”
    “Yeah,” Zoe said. “Forget it. It doesn’t make sense. It would just be that much more fun if you played, too. I’m selfish. You’re my best friend. But, I mean, you’re totally right.”
    “I guess.” Part of me was really hoping she’d come up with a way of looking at it differently. I snuggled my face into History’s fur.
    “Also,” she whispered. “It’s also not just your mom and how giving she is to you. I mean, I saw you last year in The Nutcracker . If I could do that . . .”
    “What?” I remembered my choreography with my feet, a-lum-ah-dah .
    “All that, twirling and graceful stuff,” Zoe said softly.
    I laughed. “I do like the twirling stuff.”
    “No, I really have a lot of respect for you doing it. I do.”
    “Thanks,” I said. It felt good, that she understood that part of the problem was how great ballet is, too.
    “I mean it,” Zoe insisted. “So don’t listen to me.”
    “Yeah.” I stood up and stuck History up on the shelf where he belonged, then went to flop down on my bed, depressed. “It would be so good, though, being on the team with all you guys.”
    “Ahh, you’re not that great a player anyway.”
    “Thanks a lot.” She’s the only person who can make you feel better by insults. “It was really fun?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Ouch.” I felt so lonely. “Tell me what else. Tell me everything.”
    “Well,” Zoe said, “the funniest thing was, my mom forgot to