Juba! by Walter Dean Myers

Dickens is one of the most famous writers in theworld,” a puffy man next to Mr. Dickens said. “I’m sure you’d like to dance for him.”
    When somebody admires what you do, and tells you to your face, you really do want to do something to earn his good opinion. I said I’d dance again.
    I told Miss Lilly that Mr. Dickens wanted to see me dance again, and she got her husband to clear people off the floor to give me room. The Jewish woman who had been playing piano was going toward the door, and I went and asked her to play one more time.
    â€œI don’t know. My husband doesn’t like me out too late,” she said.
    â€œI’ll get someone to walk you home. And there’s an extra fifty cents in it for you,” I said. “Do you know ‘Morrison’s Jig’?”
    â€œI sure do,” she said.
    â€œDon’t play it too slow.”
    Middle of the floor. I looked over to where Mr. Dickens was sitting and nodded toward him. He smiled and nodded back. I could see all the eyes around the rest of the room focused on me.
    The piano player hit a chord, then a second that I knew was a lead-in, and then began to play “Morrison’s Jig.”
    The music swept through the room as I began to dance. I had thought about dancing as well as I could, but suddenly there was no reason to think about dancing at all. I let themusic take me over and sweep me across the floor. I spun, I moved across the floor on one leg and back on the other, I double-stepped, slid on one leg as I moved backward, switched to a six-beat clog step. I danced faster than I had ever danced, with more precision than I had ever had before, and with more joy in my heart.
    Mr. Dickens had stood and was clapping his hands, and everybody who was still in Almack’s followed his lead.
    I danced until it seemed I couldn’t dance anymore. When the piano player got to the last chorus, I was tired and exhausted, and as happy as I had ever been in my life.
    Mr. Dickens came out onto the floor and put his arms around me. I was sweaty and hot, but he didn’t seem to mind.
    â€œThank you,” he said. “Thank you, Master Juba.”

CHAPTER
SEVEN
    â€œI do not need any smelly-breath Negro standing nose to nose with me spitting fool talk in my face!” Margaret was yelling at me. “If he is your friend, then he is your friend, but you keep his large black face away from my door. Do you understand me, Mr. Juba?”
    â€œNo,” I said, stepping away from the door.
    Stubby had tried to get me up earlier but had given up when I started fighting to keep the covers over my head. I was still exhausted from the day before and certainly wasn’t up to slowing down Margaret as she brushed by me.
    â€œThis morning Mr. Peter Williams came knocking on my door and offering me a job at Almack’s to run regular shows,”Margaret said. “I told him I didn’t run the show, that you did, but he said he couldn’t deal with you and offered me five dollars a week to—how did he put it—provide entertainment for the people.”
    â€œHe offered you five dollars every week?” I asked.
    â€œThat he did,” Margaret said.
    That didn’t sit too good with me. He hadn’t offered me anything, and I wouldn’t do it for what he was offering Margaret. I started explaining to Margaret how Peter was trying to get everything for nothing. She said I didn’t have to explain anything to her because she hadn’t been born the day before.
    â€œOr this morning!” she threw in. “Everybody is walking around talking about how great the show was and when the next one is going to be. One old codger with a Southern accent even asked me if I owned you!”
    â€œOwned me?”
    â€œDo you know how excited my boys and girls were when they were leaving?” Margaret asked. She was relaxing, and I could see she was really pleased with herself. “They