Patricia MacLachlan - Just Dance

Also by Patricia MacLachlan Edwards Eyes Fly Away The True Gift Waiting for the Magic White Fur Flying MARGARET K. M c ELDERRY BOOKS An imprint of Simon & Schuster Childrens Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Text copyright 2017 by Patricia MacLachlan Jacket illustration copyright 2017 by Amy June Bates All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. MARGARET K.

M c ELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or . The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Book design by Debra Sfetsios-Conover The text for this book was set in ITC New Baskerville. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: MacLachlan, Patricia, author.

Title: Just dance / Patricia MacLachlan. Description: First edition. | New York : Margaret K. McElderry Books, [2017] | Summary: On a farm in the middle of the prairie, ten-year-old Sylvie struggles to understand why her mother gave up singing on stage while she sets off on an adventure of her own as the town reporter. Identifiers: LCCN 2016040532 | ISBN 9781481472524 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781481472548 (eBook) Subjects: | CYAC: FamiliesFiction. | SingersFiction. | Reporters and reportingFiction. | Reporters and reportingFiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.M2225 Ju 2017 | DDC [Fic]dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016040532 This is Johns book
with thanks to Jack Barry, who began it P. M. My gratitude to Sylvia Lanka, who sings Life is simple, but we insist on making it complicated. Confucius Life is the dancer and you are the dance. Eckhart Tolle

But I know love when I see it. My mother was a professional soprano until she met my father. She studied in Europe and sang opera and performed concerts and wore big silk dresses until she came back to America and walked into a small diner in Wyoming. My father saw her. He stood up and walked over. He held out his hand.

And they danced. There was country music playing. My mother knew nothing about country music. Shed never heard of Johnny Cash or Tammy Wynette or Stand by Your Man or Ring of Fire. My mother danced with him. Later he would teach her the Texas Two-Step.

My father is a cowboy and my mother a classical soprano. They might seem far apart in life. But my mother loved my father right away. When I looked into his eyes I felt like I was looking into the eyes of a very wise horse, she said. My mother is better at singing than at words. Your mother was more beautiful than evening light, says my father.

My father is very good with words. He carries books of poetry and short stories in his saddlebag. So here is a rule. If you want to find the love of your life, go to the Hideaway Caf in Cheyenne, Wyoming. When a tall cowboy with a ponytail comes up to you and takes your hand, you dont have to speak. Its better not to speak, actually.

Just dance. By Sylvie Bloom Grade 4

The tiles bounce her voice around so she can hear herself. In the attic I found large posters of my mother, all dressed up in taffeta or silk, singing in great halls, fancy chandeliers above her. Her name, Melinda May, was written in large, important letters. Now my father calls her Min and she sings to the animals and in the tiled bathroom of our farmhouse. When she sings in the shower we come to hear her. Nate hears my whistle and hurries in from the barn.

My father comes in from the fields. Once he left his horse Jack by the back door and we later found Jack in the kitchen. We heard the slap of the screen door, and Bett, our herding dog, came down the hallway to lie down next to my father. The herd is safe. Bett has come to be with her pack and listen, said my father softly. My father set his cowboy hat on the floor next to him, his head leaning against the wall.

His eyes were closed. My mothers voice sounded lovely and clean, like newly washed glass. Un bel d , my father said softly. A fine day. My mother may not know all things about Johnny Cash, but my father has studied Puccini, who wrote the song my mother sings. My father knows all of my mothers songs and who wrote themPuccini, Bizet, Mozart, and Donizetti.

My brother, Nate, pointed to a stinkbug crawling down the wall. There is something about my eight-year-old brother, Natea sort of sly sweetness when he points out the strangely homely with the beautiful. Lovely, whispered Nate with a grin. My fathergood with words, remembersaid Nate understands the connection of opposites: the sleek, shapely body of the bug and his bad smell. Summer vacation soon, said Nate. I turned my head to look at Nate.

Do you ever want something exciting to do away from the farm in the summer? To see amazing things? Nate shook his head. Im happy here, he whispered. Its amazing here. And exciting. I need something new, I said. Something more interesting than cows and goats and chickens.

Chickens are very, very interesting, said Nate. Millie even likes to sit on my lap. Buddy plays tag with me. I need something different, I said. It will happen, said Nate. It will.

I smiled because Nate sometimes sounds like a wise old man. My mother finished her aria on a high, long note. She turned off the shower. My father quickly got up. He didnt want my mother to be shy about us listening when she sang in the shower. Nate hurried off.

Bett trotted after them. All that was left behind was my fathers handkerchief. And the stinkbug crawling back up the wall again, direction changed. My mother came out of the shower and bent down to pick up the handkerchief. She knew. My mother knew everything.

Almost everything. I wondered why shes happy singing in the shower instead of wearing a big silk dress and singing for a huge audience, who, when she is finished, leap to their feet and applaud. And someone gives her a huge bunch of flowers onstage as the velvet curtain falls. Today I found a letter left open on the kitchen table for me to read. It was from James Grayson, a famous tenor, to my mother. Melinda I will be singing a concert close to you.

Please come. Maybe we can sing together again! Ill send you tickets. James I turned the letter over as if hiding it from myself. I remembered a large, fancy poster with a picture of my mother and James, looking happy and famous. How could she leave that behind to live on a farm in the middle of the prairie? It is hard to believe that loving my father is enough.

I loved the fourth grade, mostly because I love my teacher, Mrs. Ludolf. Mrs. Ludolf loves me, too, which helps. I will miss her when I go to fifth grade. She knows I can write.