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very select few of you this afternoon, I hope this doesn’t diminish the pleasure you derive from your dancing and I encourage you to continue your studies at the amateur level.” He frowned. “We’re going to take five minutes now. Then we’ll be back with our decision. To avoid any unnecessary commotion, it’s probably best if the dancers remain on this side of the room and friends and family stay on the other.”
    The other teachers collected their notes and stood up. The man took a step away from the table and let his colleagues file out ahead of him. As they passed the line of us against the wall, I let my body slouch into the barre. The man took up the rear and as he got closer to me, I looked down at my feet. I wanted him to pass, for the moment to be over. He got closer and closer, and then he stopped. His eyes went to Sixty, then volleyed back to me. A smile dangled, favored his left cheek.
    “How’s your ankle?” he asked.
    “Okay.”
    He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. “You two are lucky that I like risk takers.”
    He turned and walked away. His shirt creased as he moved his arms, one side, then the other, like the crease itself was moving.
    “Roderick Allen,” Sixty whispered.
    “What?”
    “The artistic principal.”
    “Oh.”
    “Oh.” She rolled her eyes at me. “He’s famous.”
    After a few minutes, Roderick Allen stepped back into the room. He was holding a piece of paper and he walked to the center of the studio.
    “We’ve made our decision.” His eyes scanned the audience for a moment, dropped back to the sheet. “Number forty-two, Miss Molly Davies. Number fifty-nine, Miss Georgia Slade. And number sixty, Miss Laura Feinstein. Could those three ladies please make their way to the main office.”
    Sixty extended her arm out in front of me, her elbow locked, as though she needed to hold me back. She flashed hot eyes at me. In the audience I saw Isabel. She had gotten up from her seat and, even from a distance, I could see her excitement, all her weight on the tips of her toes. Her hands were clasped in front of her and there was a giant smile on her face. She gave me a big thumbs-up. I smiled at her, but my smile hid a confusion of freshly churned feeling. Sixty grabbed my hand. She folded her fingers into mine, the way lovers hold hands, and we walked across the studio.

 
    THREE
    My mom came into my room that night. I was sitting on my bed with a bag of frozen peas on my ankle and two pillows beneath my foot. I had taken the calendar of Gelsey off my wall so that I could flip through the photographs up close.
    “Congratulations.” Her voice was soft.
    She was in her pajamas, the same pajamas she’d worn earlier, although an undone cardigan ballooned over her torso. It was beige, the tone inconsistent like oatmeal, and I figured it belonged to my dad. I wondered if she’d gotten dressed at all that day. She’d fixed her hair, though. A ponytail rested on one shoulder.
    “How do you feel?” She sat on the edge of my bed.
    “Good,” I said.
    She looked down at the bag of peas. I waited for her to ask about my injury but she just tugged on the serrated edge of plastic, centered the bag over my ankle. She placed her hand on my other foot. I was wearing a thermal sock, but I could still feel her hand. There was a warmth to it, an instant familiarity.
    “Sweetheart, I feel like a real jerk for not taking you there today.” She was leaning over my foot and her ponytail obscured her eyes. “Really,” she continued softly. “I should’ve been there.”
    “It’s okay,” I lied.
    “Yeah.” She sighed. “I know it’s okay. I mean, your dad wasn’t there either.” She lifted her head and looked up at me. “But still.” She pulled herself up so that she was lying beside me, her head in her hand. “I wish I had been there. I’m so proud of you.”
    I looked into her eyes. I loved my mom’s eyes, so dark you could barely make out her pupils.
    “I do take