The Scratch on the Ming Vase by Caroline Stellings

I’m sorry, Miss Nicki. I thought for sure it was a real Ming.” Fenwick carried the vase to the mantle and placed it next to an antique clock. “It may be only a replica, but it’s lovely nevertheless.” Because Nicki was standing on her head, he bent over sideways to talk to her. “What would you like for dinner tonight?”
    â€œAnything—anything at all. But I’ll have to eat early. I’m meeting Margo Bloom at the deli before we go to the dance.”
    â€œHow long do you have to stay like that?” asked the butler.
    â€œJust a few more minutes,” she replied. “A correct Wing Chun stance is like a piece of bamboo, firm but flexible, rooted but yielding. It’s all about balance, Fenwick. A well-balanced body recovers faster from any type of attack.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œYou must be like a young tree that bends in the wind, then snaps back with force.”
    â€œIndeed.” He nodded his head.
    â€œSpaghetti.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œSpaghetti,” said Nicki. “For dinner.”

    â€œYin!” Margo called from the back of the deli. “Here I am!” She had a platter of smoked meat sandwiches in one hand and a plate of sour pickles in the other.
    Ira and Ruthie were in the kitchen shoving dishes under a heat lamp and arguing about who it was that mixed up an order.
    â€œExtra speck, Ira. Mrs. Eisenberg wanted extra speck.”
    â€œMrs. Eisenberg doesn’t need extra speck!”
    â€œBe quiet, Ira,” said Ruthie. “She’ll hear you.” Margo’s mother pulled a tray of pickled fat out of the fridge.
    â€œBusiness is better tonight,” Nicki commented.
    â€œBusy for a Friday,” said Margo, rushing past with a coffee pot.
    â€œYou think this is busy,” yelled Ira. “You should have seen this place twenty years ago. Now that was busy!”
    Nicki followed Margo out of the kitchen.
    â€œSit down anyplace,” Margo said. “I’ll be ready in a minute or two.” She served a table of six, carried several loads of dishes to the back, wiped and reset a booth, and put on another pot of coffee.
    â€œOkay, Yin,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
    The two girls headed up to Margo’s room. It was clean and bright and had a mural of a garden painted on the wall.
    â€œPretty good, eh?”
    â€œDid you do that?”
    â€œSure did. I love flowers.” She smiled. “I’m so glad you decided to come tonight.” She looked at Nicki. “But you can’t wear that.”
    â€œI’m just coming to watch. I won’t be dancing.”
    â€œSure you will. And here’s what you’ll be wearing.”
    She pulled a red dress out of her closet. It still had the price tag dangling from it.
    â€œThat’s your new dress, Margo!”
    â€œIt’ll look better on you.”
    â€œNo, I don’t want—”
    â€œI won’t take no for an answer. Put it on.”
    â€œIt won’t fit. I’m too short.” Nicki slipped into the dress. “See?”
    â€œCome on,” said Margo, grabbing Nicki by the arm.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œJust come,” she insisted, and she dragged Nicki back down into the deli.
    â€œMom!” hollered Margo, “can you hem this up for us?” Margo turned to Nicki. “My mother is a whiz with a needle and thread.”
    â€œBut this is your dress, Margo. I can’t take it.” I don’t want it! said Nicki to herself.
    â€œI’ve got lots of dresses,” chirped Margo.
    â€œToo many dresses,” echoed Ira.
    Mrs. Bloom shoved Nicki onto a stool in the middle of the kitchen, and the two of them had the dress shortened and taken in at the waist in less time than it took Ira to grate a chunk of cabbage.
    â€œOh, that’s great.” Margo went up to her room, threw on a blue dress, and ran back down.
    Nicki felt like a