"Don't you say that word!" says Miss Elaine. She gives Bridget's leg another gentle twist. "Feel that?"

      "Uh-huh!" Bridget moans.

      Miss Elaine lets go of her leg. Bridget holds it there for a second, then drops it to the floor.

      "Okay, girls, let's have a short break, then we'll come back and go across the floor some."

      I slowly amble out of the studio, trying to place the little tickle at the back of my mind. I buy a bottle of water and join the ballerinas who have congregated on the floor. They're chatting about something, but I'm not listening.

      "Don't say that word!" What was she referring to? "Can't." My old teachers used to say that to me, too, but I didn't learn about that in ballet. Where, then? I can't quite remember. I glance down at the floor, thinking, and I see my left hand my weaker side ever since I broke it in 3rd grade. Then it hits me gymnastics!

      Everyone learns life's lessons sometimes. Some learn them young, and some learn them old. Me? Well, I'm a quick learner in just about everything . . . expect for gymnastics. I take another sip of my water, remembering.

      I'd been dancing since I was 3, and my dance teacher would always tell me, "It's not that you can't, it's that you're not trying." Back then, I didn't understand, and quite frankly, I thought the whole thing was pretty stupid. There are some things the body simply cannot do, and that's a fact, whether she liked it or not. Yeah, I'm a pretty sassy character, if you haven't noticed. When I don't like something, I'm sure to let you know.

      When I was 8, I broke my wrist in a fall on a playground. After 6 weeks in a cast, the doctor told my mom that I needed to take an activity that would strengthen my arm (ballet would obviously not do this). My left wrist was about half the size of my right one, due to lack of use. So my mom signed me up for gymnastics. Oh, fun times ahead! Ha, ha . . .

      I'm gonna let you in on a little not-so-secret : I am NOT gymnast material. Some of it intrigued me: Send my body flying through space? Sounds like fun! But none of that was accomplished in an 8-year-old's class. Most of what we did do I was incapable of. My balance was off at the beam, and while the rest of the girls worked on round-offs, I attempted simple cartwheels. I wished I was dancing the whole time. All this tumbling and balancing truly pissed me off, and it seemed that everyone was better than me. We were practicing our middle splits when I finally cracked.

      "I just can't do it!" I yelled at Kate, the instructor. "I don't want to do it! I can't!"

      The girl must have been a saint. She remained cool while I wailed. "There's no such thing as I can't," she said sweetly. I glared at her. I'd heard that at LEAST 1,000 times. "That shouldn't even be in your vocabulary. I want you to go home and practice every day, so you'll get to be as good as the other girls."

      "I don't WANT to be as good as the other girls," I retorted. "I don't want to have anything to do with your stupid class. I quit." I marched away. Which really had no impact, as the class was over then anyway.

      Of course, I didn't quit the class. I couldn't. My arm wasn't strong enough yet, and my mom had paid for the whole session and wanted to get her money's worth, no matter how much I fussed. One day I found myself alone in my room, bored, and with nothing to do. I didn't want to be the worst in the class, even if I hated it. I couldn't stand being laughed at. The instructor's words echoed in my head. Practice every day. Well, why not? I did each split once, holding the stretch for 30 seconds as I'd been told to do to get my muscles to remember it. That wasn't so bad, I thought. Why don't I do it tomorrow?

      So I did. And the next day, and the next day, and the next, etc.

      I'm not doing this for Kate, I told myself. I'm doing this so I won't be the absolute WORST in that class and have all those prissy gymnasts yell at me. I'm doing this to prove that I'm better than all of them. And I am. They'll see.

      At the end of each session of gymnasts there's a ribbons ceremony. Not a ceremony, exactly, just a time for us to show off our so-called "skills" to our parents. They give out certificates that said that we had taken gymnastics there, and there are ribbons awarded to the girls who have gained their splits (right, left, center) and backbends. Several weeks had passed, and my right and left splits were nowhere near the ground, but my middle was SO CLOSE...yet so far. I didn't have it. I was sort of annoyed, but not really. I'd done my best, and it wasn't enough. So there, Kate.

      It came to be the last class of the session. They'd just announced for all the girls who had gotten their splits to do them. In the flurry of flying legs and ponytails, I pushed myself down as hard as I could. So close...so close...aww, who car....thump!

      And there I was, in the middle of the floor, sitting on my bum in a middle split. I was totally shocked.

      "Oh, Hannah, you got it?" said a teacher, scribbling my name on a ribbon and handing it to me. I slipped out of my split, shocked, rubbed my aching muscles and walked up to my mother, holding out the ribbon.

      "One last thing!" called Kate, as a few of the parents and students started to leave. They stopped. "We have a new ribbon to give out now," she announced. "It's called the Hardest Trier Award. The person who gets it doesn't have to be the best. They don't have to be the most talented or flexible or balanced. They just have to show up for each and every class, and try their hardest." She paused, and looked at me kinda funny. I sniffed and glanced at the clock on the wall. Hurry up, Kate, I've got mucho homework to attend to. "This session's Hardest Trier Award goes to Hannah Taylor."

      And you know what? As I walked up to her and took the ribbon, every single one of those prissy gymnasts who had laughed at me every time I fell, or slipped, or yelled at Kate, applauded me. I was shocked, but proud. I wasn't an Olga Korbut, but I had given it my all, and had a middle split to show for it.

      "Hannah, wait, I want to tell you something," Kate said as I started to leave. Mom waited by the door as I walked back to her. Kate was smiling sort of smugly. This didn't look good. "Did you learn something today?" she asked.

      I was silent.

      "I heard you got your first split ribbon."

      "Yup." I waved it in front of her nose.

      She leaned back and smiled. I dropped my arm. "Let me ask you something, Hannah . . ." she paused. "Is can't still in your vocabulary?"

      I thought, my 8-year-old mind slowly pondering the question. "No," I finally said. "No, it isn't."

      "I'm really proud of you, Hannah. I can tell that you've improved lots over the past few weeks. Are you coming back for the next session?"

      I shook my head. "No, I'm not. My arm's strong enough now." I held out my wrists. They were the same size. "'Sides, I hate gymnastics. When I grow up, I'm going to be a ballerina. Will you come to my recital?"

      At first she seemed sad, but then she smiled, as always. "Maybe."

      I never saw Kate again, and I still don't like gymnastics. Though I can't balance on the beam or turn a round-off, I must have learned SOMETHING, for I haven't said "I can't" for the past five years. I can turn a cartwheel now, and I'm in an Intermediate Pointe ballet class. I never lost my middle split, and you won't believe this, but I still have my two ribbons.

      "Come on, girls!" Miss Elaine called. The dancers groan as they stand up. It's been a hard class. Bridget sighes and caps her water bottle. I've already leaped up and bounced into the center of the studio.

      "Where do you get all your engery?" she moans. "I can't move a muscle, I swear."

      "Don't you say that word, Bridget!" I scold.

      She grimaces. "You sound just like Miss Elaine."

      Miss Elaine comes up by my side and smiles. "Does she really?" She studies my face. "I think Hannah knows the difference between can and can't."

      "Yup!" I grin. "You always can and you never can't."

      "So are you ready to turn that double pirouette today?"

      Um . . . well, maybe it's time to rethink that whole policy. I'll get back to you on that.