The Red Slippers (Nancy Drew Diaries #11)(2)

“You’re the most compassionate and empathetic person I’ve ever met, Bess,” I said finally.

“That’s different,” Bess countered.

“Yes, but it’s still an amazing ability. Don’t dismiss that.”

“She’s right,” George agreed. “People like you; that’s a skill! Besides, lots of people our age don’t know what they’re good at or what they’re going to be when they grow up. You have time to figure it out.”

Before we could try to console Bess any further, the café’s door flew open and a voice boomed out, “Nancy Drew and Bess Marvin? I thought I saw you through the window!”

Bess and I turned. A tall, statuesque girl stood in the doorway, looking at us expectantly.

Bess and I exchanged a confused glance. Neither of us had any idea who she was.

The girl didn’t seem to realize our obliviousness and approached our table with a big grin on her face. “I’m going to grab some green tea, but then we have so much to catch up on!”

I sat there with a frozen smile on my face, not sure how to respond. “We can’t wait to find out about you as well,” Bess said genuinely. That’s what I mean about Bess being a people person. She always knows exactly what to say and never makes anyone feel uncomfortable.

The girl smiled broadly. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, and got in line to buy her tea.

“Who is that?” George asked once she was out of hearing range.

“I have no idea,” I answered.

“Me neither,” Bess confirmed.

“Well, this is going to be supremely awkward if you don’t figure out who she is before she gets back,” George said.

The girl was just waiting for the barista to pour her hot water. She waved at us with a smile. Bess and I smiled back.

Bess turned toward me urgently. “You need to solve this case and figure out who she is.”

By my estimate the girl would be back at our table in less than a minute. There wasn’t time to do much investigating.

I studied her as discreetly as I could, looking for any important details. Her hair hung loose, just brushing her shoulders, but instead of parting in the middle, it flowed back, as if she wore her hair tied back most of the time. She was carrying a small duffel bag; it looked like a gym bag but had a pink satin ribbon poking out of it. I knew that was important, but I couldn’t figure out what it signified. She wore a skirt, and I noticed the muscular definition of her calves through her tights. She was absentmindedly rotating her ankle, turning her foot out at a ninety-degree angle.

All of a sudden, a memory flooded back—standing behind a girl doing the same move in Miss Taylor’s ballet class eight years ago.

As the girl approached us, I could feel Bess’s nervous eyes on me. I stood up, holding my arms out for a hug. “Maggie,” I said. “It’s so good to see you again!”

“George,” I said, “this is Maggie Richards. She was in Miss Taylor’s ballet class with Bess and me.”

“But then she moved to Cleveland to attend a prestigious ballet academy,” Bess continued, her face alight in recognition.

Maggie nodded, blushing a little.

“From our very first class,” I explained, “it was clear Maggie was a star.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” Maggie said bashfully.

But it was true. Even at five years old, you could tell that Maggie truly had a gift. Miss Taylor was always complimenting Maggie on her technique, her extension, and her line, but more than that, there was something inherently expressive about the way she moved. When she danced the part of one of the polichinelles (the children who emerge from Mother Ginger’s skirt) in The Nutcracker, you could see true joy in her movements. Even just doing barre work, the exercises we did to warm up, you couldn’t take your eyes off Maggie. She was magnetic. No one had been surprised when she was accepted into the Cleveland Ballet Academy to train as a professional ballerina.

“What are you doing back in town?” Bess asked.

“I’m in a touring production of Sleeping Beauty, and there’s a performance tomorrow in River Heights,” Maggie explained.

“That’s great!” I exclaimed. “Does this mean you’re a prima ballerina now?”

Maggie shook her head. “Not yet, but this tour is specifically for the most promising dancers in the region. They auditioned dancers from the top dance schools in three states. It’s to give us a taste of what touring would feel like if we did turn professional.”

“Fantastic,” Bess said. “We’re so happy for you!”

Maggie looked around the shop for a second, then leaned in close, as if she was going to tell us a secret. “Actually, this River Heights performance could be my big break,” she whispered.

“How so?” I asked.

“Supposedly, Oscar LeVigne will be in attendance.”

For the second time that day, Bess and I exchanged confused glances. We didn’t have any idea who Oscar LeVigne was.

Maggie noticed and started laughing. “Wow, you guys must have quit ballet ages ago if you’ve forgotten Oscar LeVigne. Miss Taylor used to talk about him all the time.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I stopped in middle school. I just didn’t have the time with my cases.”