Firebird Waltz: Star Fire Academy, cartea 1
Autor Misty Copelanden Limba Engleză Hardback – 8 oct 2026 – vârsta până la 12 ani
Twelve-year-old Josie can’t wait to start classes at the prestigious Star Fire Academy for the Performing Arts. She has been dancing ballet since she was three years old and hopes she can live up to the expectations of the school—and make her parents proud.
When she arrives at the academy, it only takes one class for Josie to know she’s going to have to perform like never before to keep up with her talented fellow students, especially if she wants a shot at the coveted solo in the upcoming fall recital. As Josie digs deep for the confidence and inspiration required for the role, she grows closer to her ballet teacher, Miss Fiona, who tells Josie she’s destined for something far greater than a solo.
According to Miss Fiona, centuries ago an evil sorcerer attempted to turn himself into the most amazing dancer in the world. Instead, his spell went wrong, transforming him into a monstrous being full of rage and envy—but also creating a beautiful dance spirit full of goodness: the Firebird.
Ever since, the two timeless entities have been fighting for the souls of young artists. In every generation, the Firebird is embodied by a new hero, and Josie is next in line. Suddenly, Josie is faced with two roles of a lifetime. Can she rise to the occasion?
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781534475410
ISBN-10: 1534475419
Pagini: 240
Ilustrații: f-c matte lam jacket w- foil stamping & emboss
Dimensiuni: 140 x 210 x 18 mm
Greutate: 0.34 kg
Editura: Aladdin
Colecția Aladdin
Seria Star Fire Academy
ISBN-10: 1534475419
Pagini: 240
Ilustrații: f-c matte lam jacket w- foil stamping & emboss
Dimensiuni: 140 x 210 x 18 mm
Greutate: 0.34 kg
Editura: Aladdin
Colecția Aladdin
Seria Star Fire Academy
Notă biografică
Misty Copeland made history by becoming the first African American female principal dancer for the American Ballet Theatre. She is the author of Ballerina Body, The Wind at My Back, and the bestselling Life in Motion as well as the children’s books Firebird Waltz, Bunheads and its sequel, Black Ballerinas, and Letters to Misty. Misty is the recipient of the Leonore Annenberg Fellowship in the Arts and an inductee into the Boys and Girls Club Alumni Hall of Fame. In 2015, she was named to Time magazine’s 100 list and was one of Glamour magazine’s “Women of the Year.” She lives in New York City. Visit her online at MistyCopeland.com.
Extras
Chapter 1 Chapter 1
300 YEARS LATER
SAN PEDRO, CALIFORNIA
I COULD ALWAYS COUNT ON Patrick to attempt the impossible. In this case: the double tour en l’aire move from Swan Lake. It was one of the most difficult moves in ballet. He had already tried and failed four times, but Patrick wasn’t one to give up that easily—one of the many reasons he was my best friend.
“Okay, Josie, fifth time’s the charm,” he declared as he spread his arms and assumed the position.
“You got this,” I called encouragingly.
I raised my phone and pointed the camera at him. If he did pull it off, we wanted proof. Patrick raised his slightly pointed chin and stood in fifth position. He took a deep breath and quickly sprang straight up as he attempted to rotate twice in the air, landing back down (gracefully!) in fifth position. He groaned as he underrotated and only did one and a half turns. Even when not fully completing the move, he made it look easy, but trust—it is not!
“Just try again!” I said, a smile spreading across my face. He was so close. Maybe he really would get it this time!
Around the seventh try, I saw the beads of sweat begin to gather along his forehead. Patrick used to rock an Afro that had kept some of his sweat in check when we practiced here in my basement, which my parents had converted into a makeshift dance studio for me. But as Patrick had pointed out just before he’d shaved his hair off, it hadn’t been that aerodynamic. He’d wanted to keep his turns tight and quick, and he was convinced the Afro had been slowing him down. He’d vowed he’d grow it back twice as big someday, right after he retired from dancing. But we were only twelve. Retirement was a long way off for both of us. In the meantime, I liked seeing more of his face.
“C’mon, Patrick! You are so close,” I called out.
And that’s when he actually did both turns but stumbled out of fifth on the landing.
“Dang!” he shouted once he’d regained his footing. “Almost there!”
“That’s still really good,” I offered, lowering my phone. “Especially in those beat-up kicks.” I glanced down at his ballet slippers that looked like they’d been in a losing battle with feral alley cats. Not that mine looked much better. You did kind of have to beat them up to make them act right.
Patrick rolled his eyes. “I guess.” He looked away and pretended to fiddle with the waistband on his shorts.
He would never admit this out loud, but Patrick wanted to be the greatest dancer and was worried that he never would be. You might be thinking, Big whoop. Every dancer probably feels that way. But Patrick figured if he was going to risk his relationship with his father—who didn’t really get his interest in ballet—and risk getting bullied at school over something, he’d better at least be amazing at it.
“Wanna try again?”
“Nah, your turn,” he answered, reaching for the phone.
I handed it off and did a few more stretches, checking my posture in the mirror. I’d gained an inch or two of height over the past few months and had gotten into the bad habit of slouching around friends who hadn’t hit their growth spurts yet. But my ballet teacher, Ms. Atil, never let me get away with that. “Straighten your spine, Josephine!” she’d say in her mild Turkish accent, then tut three times while she tapped my shoulder blades with the back of her hand. “Don’t be a question mark—be an exclamation point!” How she’d ended up in our neighborhood teaching a bunch of Black and Puerto Rican kids how to do pirouettes, I didn’t know, but I was glad she had.
I pushed my shoulders back, lifted my head, and took fourth position.
Patrick raised the phone and hit record. “Show me what you got.”
With a smile as if I were onstage, I dived into the first turn. I tuned out Patrick’s voice counting down and the squeak of the floorboards beneath my feet. I didn’t hear the TV blaring a football game upstairs. Instead in my mind I heard Tchaikovsky, the swell of violins and cellos bouncing along to the rhythm. Soon I wasn’t even Josie Davis anymore but the Black Swan, Odile, desperately trying to convince the prince that I was Odette, the one who really had his heart. Ms. Atil had told us the story behind Swan Lake so many times, I could repeat it word for word. I knew Odile was supposed to be the villain, but I couldn’t help feeling bad for her. All she wanted was love. Each turn, every leg extension, was saying, Please, please, please. I could relate.
I heard the music in my head pause as I finished with a flourish, extending my arms like the wings of a bird.
Patrick lowered the phone and frowned at me. “I hate you. You know that, right?”
“Did I do it?” I panted as I lowered my arms and went back to being just Josie.
“You know you did. You didn’t even break a sweat, you jerk. You make me sick.” He paused. “You’re amazing.”
We were still grinning at each other when someone cleared their throat from the foot of the basement stairs. We both looked up to see our mothers standing there, each of them waving a thick white envelope.
“Mom? What are you—” Patrick started.
“They’re here,” my mom cut in with a huge smile. “The letters from Star Fire!”
Patrick and I gasped in unison.
Two months ago, we’d both auditioned to be admitted to the legendary Star Fire Academy for the Performing Arts for the upcoming school year. They’d told us it would be a while before we got the news, so we’d tried not to think about it. But it was hard not to picture what it would be like to head off to a boarding school in New York City, clear across the country, in a place packed with other artsy kids like us—a place rumored to be infused with magic. Some may think that’s silly, but if you’ve ever seen a former student perform before Star Fire and then after, it’s hard to argue there isn’t something supernatural going on there. I knew it was a long shot that even one of us would get in. The odds of them admitting two of Ms. Atil’s knuckleheads were pretty slim. But I’d held out hope anyway. Patrick and I had been dancing together for years. I didn’t want to stop now.
We ran forward and snatched the envelopes out of our mothers’ hands. I could see our fathers lingering just behind them now on the steps, looking almost as excited and anxious as we were.
“No matter what happens…,” I said, turning to Patrick, biting my bottom lip.
“No matter what,” he answered. He held up his index finger and smiled—our way of saying that we were Day One friends, and that would never change.
I turned my eyes toward the envelope, carefully sliding one finger beneath the seal, then slowly pulled out the letter inside. As soon as I unfolded the thick cream-colored paper, a swarm of paper ballerinas rose up into the air like butterflies, twirling and spinning above my head.
“Wow!” I breathed out.
“Josie? What are you looking at?”
I glanced at my mom, who was staring back at me, confused. I gestured over my head. “What do you mean? Can’t you see…” I trailed off when I glanced back up to where dancers had spun in the air moments before. They were gone now. Had they really not seen it?
“N-nothing,” I stammered. “I saw… Never mind.” I shook my head and continued to unfold the letter. Even without the floating dancers, the letter seemed like something out of a dream. The surface of the paper shimmered as if it had been dusted with a fine coat of glitter, and the words seemed to have been handwritten with dark gold ink, so thick that it rose slightly off the page. At the very top was the Star Fire logo—a blazing star with the silhouette of a dancer in an arabesque position at the center. I stared at it so long, I could have sworn I saw it move.
“Josie, you’re killing us,” my father said with a groan. “What does it say?”
I blinked, fighting to regain my focus. Even then, the letters seemed to lift up off the page and swim around, rearranging themselves until they finally made sense.
“It says,
“ ‘Dear Ms. Davis,
Thank you for auditioning for admission to the Star Fire Academy for the Performing Arts. We are pleased to inform you…’ ”
“You’re in!” Mom shouted. “You’re in!”
I didn’t even get to finish reading the second sentence before Mom and Dad swept me up into a lung-crushing hug. Dad laughed and said, “I knew it! Didn’t I tell you, Erica?”
“You did, baby,” Mom answered, tears welling in her eyes.
It was several moments before they pulled away and I remembered Patrick. He was still standing there, staring down at his letter. Not saying anything. My heart sank.
“Oh, Patrick… I’m so sorry.” I reached out to touch his arm.
He glanced at my hand, then looked up at me with one thick black eyebrow quirked. “What are you sorry for? That I’m about to show you up in all our dance classes at the academy?”
The corners of his lips curled into a slow smile.
“Our? You mean…”
“I’m in too!” He flashed his letter at me, which contained the same welcome message.
I squealed loud enough to wake all the old dogs in the neighborhood.
After his parents hugged him, I moved in for mine, squeezing him as hard as his wiry frame would let me.
“We’re going to run that place!” I whispered into his ear.
“And you know this,” he replied.
“Even the invitation was incredible,” I said.
Patrick looked at me curiously. “What are you talking about?”
I blinked. Had I really been the only one to see it? I shook my head. I was probably just imagining things in all the excitement.
But as happy as I was, I had a thought that made my mouth go dry. While the others went upstairs to get some celebratory iced tea, I grasped my mother’s hand to hold her back. When I was sure we were alone, I looked up into her dark brown eyes.
“Mom…,” I said quietly. “Can we really afford this? Tell me the truth.”
My parents had always supported my dreams, since I was little. They’d made sure I had leotards, tutus, pointe shoes… whatever I needed. But none of that was cheap, and if they thought I hadn’t noticed them packing their own lunches for work or cutting coupons before we went to the supermarket, they were wrong. I didn’t know exactly how much human resource coordinators or IT technicians made, but I doubted it was enough to cover the school’s tuition. The only reason we had the house we did was because Grandpa had bought it through the GI Bill and had left it to us in his will. I also knew that parents who loved music and dance enough to name their youngest child after the legendary Josephine Baker would go to any lengths to make this happen for me—even if it meant denying stuff for themselves. I wanted to go to Star Fire, but not if it would hurt them.
All of that must have been written on my forehead, because Mom just held my face in her hands, smiled kindly, and said, “Did you really think your father and I hadn’t thought about that, baby girl? We met with the administration when we took you for the audition. They assured us that if you got in, it would come with a full-ride scholarship.”
I breathed out in relief. “For real?”
“Yes. All you need to worry about is becoming the beautiful dancer we know you’re meant to be.”
I wrapped my arms around my mother’s waist and rested my head against her chest, breathing in the smell of her lilac-scented perfume. I knew she hadn’t always gotten to follow her own dreams. But thanks to her and Dad, I would get to follow mine.
300 YEARS LATER
SAN PEDRO, CALIFORNIA
I COULD ALWAYS COUNT ON Patrick to attempt the impossible. In this case: the double tour en l’aire move from Swan Lake. It was one of the most difficult moves in ballet. He had already tried and failed four times, but Patrick wasn’t one to give up that easily—one of the many reasons he was my best friend.
“Okay, Josie, fifth time’s the charm,” he declared as he spread his arms and assumed the position.
“You got this,” I called encouragingly.
I raised my phone and pointed the camera at him. If he did pull it off, we wanted proof. Patrick raised his slightly pointed chin and stood in fifth position. He took a deep breath and quickly sprang straight up as he attempted to rotate twice in the air, landing back down (gracefully!) in fifth position. He groaned as he underrotated and only did one and a half turns. Even when not fully completing the move, he made it look easy, but trust—it is not!
“Just try again!” I said, a smile spreading across my face. He was so close. Maybe he really would get it this time!
Around the seventh try, I saw the beads of sweat begin to gather along his forehead. Patrick used to rock an Afro that had kept some of his sweat in check when we practiced here in my basement, which my parents had converted into a makeshift dance studio for me. But as Patrick had pointed out just before he’d shaved his hair off, it hadn’t been that aerodynamic. He’d wanted to keep his turns tight and quick, and he was convinced the Afro had been slowing him down. He’d vowed he’d grow it back twice as big someday, right after he retired from dancing. But we were only twelve. Retirement was a long way off for both of us. In the meantime, I liked seeing more of his face.
“C’mon, Patrick! You are so close,” I called out.
And that’s when he actually did both turns but stumbled out of fifth on the landing.
“Dang!” he shouted once he’d regained his footing. “Almost there!”
“That’s still really good,” I offered, lowering my phone. “Especially in those beat-up kicks.” I glanced down at his ballet slippers that looked like they’d been in a losing battle with feral alley cats. Not that mine looked much better. You did kind of have to beat them up to make them act right.
Patrick rolled his eyes. “I guess.” He looked away and pretended to fiddle with the waistband on his shorts.
He would never admit this out loud, but Patrick wanted to be the greatest dancer and was worried that he never would be. You might be thinking, Big whoop. Every dancer probably feels that way. But Patrick figured if he was going to risk his relationship with his father—who didn’t really get his interest in ballet—and risk getting bullied at school over something, he’d better at least be amazing at it.
“Wanna try again?”
“Nah, your turn,” he answered, reaching for the phone.
I handed it off and did a few more stretches, checking my posture in the mirror. I’d gained an inch or two of height over the past few months and had gotten into the bad habit of slouching around friends who hadn’t hit their growth spurts yet. But my ballet teacher, Ms. Atil, never let me get away with that. “Straighten your spine, Josephine!” she’d say in her mild Turkish accent, then tut three times while she tapped my shoulder blades with the back of her hand. “Don’t be a question mark—be an exclamation point!” How she’d ended up in our neighborhood teaching a bunch of Black and Puerto Rican kids how to do pirouettes, I didn’t know, but I was glad she had.
I pushed my shoulders back, lifted my head, and took fourth position.
Patrick raised the phone and hit record. “Show me what you got.”
With a smile as if I were onstage, I dived into the first turn. I tuned out Patrick’s voice counting down and the squeak of the floorboards beneath my feet. I didn’t hear the TV blaring a football game upstairs. Instead in my mind I heard Tchaikovsky, the swell of violins and cellos bouncing along to the rhythm. Soon I wasn’t even Josie Davis anymore but the Black Swan, Odile, desperately trying to convince the prince that I was Odette, the one who really had his heart. Ms. Atil had told us the story behind Swan Lake so many times, I could repeat it word for word. I knew Odile was supposed to be the villain, but I couldn’t help feeling bad for her. All she wanted was love. Each turn, every leg extension, was saying, Please, please, please. I could relate.
I heard the music in my head pause as I finished with a flourish, extending my arms like the wings of a bird.
Patrick lowered the phone and frowned at me. “I hate you. You know that, right?”
“Did I do it?” I panted as I lowered my arms and went back to being just Josie.
“You know you did. You didn’t even break a sweat, you jerk. You make me sick.” He paused. “You’re amazing.”
We were still grinning at each other when someone cleared their throat from the foot of the basement stairs. We both looked up to see our mothers standing there, each of them waving a thick white envelope.
“Mom? What are you—” Patrick started.
“They’re here,” my mom cut in with a huge smile. “The letters from Star Fire!”
Patrick and I gasped in unison.
Two months ago, we’d both auditioned to be admitted to the legendary Star Fire Academy for the Performing Arts for the upcoming school year. They’d told us it would be a while before we got the news, so we’d tried not to think about it. But it was hard not to picture what it would be like to head off to a boarding school in New York City, clear across the country, in a place packed with other artsy kids like us—a place rumored to be infused with magic. Some may think that’s silly, but if you’ve ever seen a former student perform before Star Fire and then after, it’s hard to argue there isn’t something supernatural going on there. I knew it was a long shot that even one of us would get in. The odds of them admitting two of Ms. Atil’s knuckleheads were pretty slim. But I’d held out hope anyway. Patrick and I had been dancing together for years. I didn’t want to stop now.
We ran forward and snatched the envelopes out of our mothers’ hands. I could see our fathers lingering just behind them now on the steps, looking almost as excited and anxious as we were.
“No matter what happens…,” I said, turning to Patrick, biting my bottom lip.
“No matter what,” he answered. He held up his index finger and smiled—our way of saying that we were Day One friends, and that would never change.
I turned my eyes toward the envelope, carefully sliding one finger beneath the seal, then slowly pulled out the letter inside. As soon as I unfolded the thick cream-colored paper, a swarm of paper ballerinas rose up into the air like butterflies, twirling and spinning above my head.
“Wow!” I breathed out.
“Josie? What are you looking at?”
I glanced at my mom, who was staring back at me, confused. I gestured over my head. “What do you mean? Can’t you see…” I trailed off when I glanced back up to where dancers had spun in the air moments before. They were gone now. Had they really not seen it?
“N-nothing,” I stammered. “I saw… Never mind.” I shook my head and continued to unfold the letter. Even without the floating dancers, the letter seemed like something out of a dream. The surface of the paper shimmered as if it had been dusted with a fine coat of glitter, and the words seemed to have been handwritten with dark gold ink, so thick that it rose slightly off the page. At the very top was the Star Fire logo—a blazing star with the silhouette of a dancer in an arabesque position at the center. I stared at it so long, I could have sworn I saw it move.
“Josie, you’re killing us,” my father said with a groan. “What does it say?”
I blinked, fighting to regain my focus. Even then, the letters seemed to lift up off the page and swim around, rearranging themselves until they finally made sense.
“It says,
“ ‘Dear Ms. Davis,
Thank you for auditioning for admission to the Star Fire Academy for the Performing Arts. We are pleased to inform you…’ ”
“You’re in!” Mom shouted. “You’re in!”
I didn’t even get to finish reading the second sentence before Mom and Dad swept me up into a lung-crushing hug. Dad laughed and said, “I knew it! Didn’t I tell you, Erica?”
“You did, baby,” Mom answered, tears welling in her eyes.
It was several moments before they pulled away and I remembered Patrick. He was still standing there, staring down at his letter. Not saying anything. My heart sank.
“Oh, Patrick… I’m so sorry.” I reached out to touch his arm.
He glanced at my hand, then looked up at me with one thick black eyebrow quirked. “What are you sorry for? That I’m about to show you up in all our dance classes at the academy?”
The corners of his lips curled into a slow smile.
“Our? You mean…”
“I’m in too!” He flashed his letter at me, which contained the same welcome message.
I squealed loud enough to wake all the old dogs in the neighborhood.
After his parents hugged him, I moved in for mine, squeezing him as hard as his wiry frame would let me.
“We’re going to run that place!” I whispered into his ear.
“And you know this,” he replied.
“Even the invitation was incredible,” I said.
Patrick looked at me curiously. “What are you talking about?”
I blinked. Had I really been the only one to see it? I shook my head. I was probably just imagining things in all the excitement.
But as happy as I was, I had a thought that made my mouth go dry. While the others went upstairs to get some celebratory iced tea, I grasped my mother’s hand to hold her back. When I was sure we were alone, I looked up into her dark brown eyes.
“Mom…,” I said quietly. “Can we really afford this? Tell me the truth.”
My parents had always supported my dreams, since I was little. They’d made sure I had leotards, tutus, pointe shoes… whatever I needed. But none of that was cheap, and if they thought I hadn’t noticed them packing their own lunches for work or cutting coupons before we went to the supermarket, they were wrong. I didn’t know exactly how much human resource coordinators or IT technicians made, but I doubted it was enough to cover the school’s tuition. The only reason we had the house we did was because Grandpa had bought it through the GI Bill and had left it to us in his will. I also knew that parents who loved music and dance enough to name their youngest child after the legendary Josephine Baker would go to any lengths to make this happen for me—even if it meant denying stuff for themselves. I wanted to go to Star Fire, but not if it would hurt them.
All of that must have been written on my forehead, because Mom just held my face in her hands, smiled kindly, and said, “Did you really think your father and I hadn’t thought about that, baby girl? We met with the administration when we took you for the audition. They assured us that if you got in, it would come with a full-ride scholarship.”
I breathed out in relief. “For real?”
“Yes. All you need to worry about is becoming the beautiful dancer we know you’re meant to be.”
I wrapped my arms around my mother’s waist and rested my head against her chest, breathing in the smell of her lilac-scented perfume. I knew she hadn’t always gotten to follow her own dreams. But thanks to her and Dad, I would get to follow mine.
Descriere
A brand-new middle-grade fiction project that is Bunheads meets FAME against the backdrop of the Firebird ballet from New York Times bestselling author and American Ballet Theatre Principal Dancer Misty Copeland.