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sinewed, strong along the inner thigh where ballerinas should have muscle and streamlined along the exterior where they shouldn’t. She stretched her chest onto her leg and reached for her foot. It was a perfect ballet foot with a high, convex arch, an instep that could almost fold in two.
    “If you’re really shitty then I’ll just look extra good beside you. And if you’re really good…” She paused and met my eye in the mirror. “Well, that’s even better.” She smiled slowly, her mouth wide. “They’ll spend the whole time looking over at the two of us.”
    A woman stepped into the studio and told us to line up in numerical order. I looked around me, meeting the eyes of other girls looking around too. I felt a tug on my hand.
    “We’re at the back,” number 60 said, pulling me toward the barre. Her hand felt bigger than mine. “Which is perfect for standing out.”
    I stood in front of her as the other girls lined up. When the line started to move into the hallway, she yanked me toward her.
    “Don’t fuck up,” she whispered.
    Studio A was large and yellow with sunlight. The room was split in half, one side reserved for the audience on fold-out chairs, the other set up for dancing. We walked up the side of the studio, past the audience. Six movable barres were lined horizontally across the dancing area. Behind that was a long table at which sat five adults. They leaned into the table and held their faces toward us at curious angles. This was the faculty. I registered them with a jet of nerves in the pit of my stomach.
    The woman explained that we’d be taken in front of the panel in groups of five. They’d look at us from every perspective, front, back, and both sides, and then we’d be asked to bend over and touch our toes.
    “If you can place your palm flat on the floor that’s even better.” She raised her eyebrows, made peaks sharp as tents. “Then I’ll direct you to a barre. Once everyone’s at a barre, the class will begin.”
    The first five girls were led forward. I watched their bums as they walked away, the syncopated strides of their legs. I wondered who would be able to lay their hands flat on the floor and who wouldn’t. They were positioned at even intervals in front of the table, one girl to one faculty member. I watched the teachers’ faces. They were wired with curiosity. I looked at the girls’ heads, the row of tiny shoulders, and wondered how it felt standing there, being stared at. The teachers made notes on their notepads.
    When it was my turn, I walked forward keeping my neck long and my gaze just above eye level. I could feel Sixty behind me and I knew she was doing something similar, trying to walk the way a dancer should. I was placed in front of the second-last teacher, the only man. My pulse quickened. I’d never had a male ballet teacher before. I knew they weren’t unheard of, but still. It seemed suspicious. Maybe he was gay. I pressed my thighs into first position and tried to see out of the corner of my eye. Isabel could always tell if a guy was gay. She said her methods weren’t foolproof but maybe right 85 percent of the time.
    When it was time to touch our toes, I lowered my chest to my shins, my back level as a table. I placed my hands flat on the floor. Then, to intensify the stretch, I turned my hands around so that my wrists pointed forward. I put them down on either side of my feet and curled deep into my legs. In Mrs. Kafarova’s class, I was the only girl who could do this. My nose stuck between my ankle bones.
    A voice told us to roll up. I unwound through each vertebra, rolled my shoulders back. We were instructed to take our places at the last barre on the right. I turned to follow Sixty and, as I did, I glanced over my shoulder at the panel. The man was looking at me. On his face was a look of supreme insight, like he knew something about me that I didn’t even know myself. It made me feel naked, but even stranger was the realization that I