Miss Tynes is, I think, flabbergasted—or at least I imagine so now. Who is this boy who pirouettes in his Husky Boy jeans as if he hadn’t a shred of shame? At the time it seemed to me so matter-of-fact: who wouldn’t give themselves over to such an outpouring, who wouldn’t let that music come welling up as if it came not out of our portable phonograph but from the depths of the body? That is what has fallen away, like the firebird’s scorched and immolated veil: my shame. How could I even know I carried it, until I laid it down?

She must think this scene something of a marvel, because she institutes this plan: the next day she invites me to perform an improvisational dance to the music again, but this time alone. The other children will sit at the desks pushed to the rim of the room; they can watch if they like, or sketch or read: Today Mark is going to dance for us. They don’t seem to matter right now, to her or to me, and in fact I erase them, I accept the invitation without hesitation. Of course I will dance again, and this time in an open space, without the distracting hazard of other dancers.

I’m alone in the center of the room, and of course the lights don’t change but in my memory they do, the edges gone shadowy while I stand at the heart of a circle of light. Opening swell of the strings, looming on the horizon, waver of the firebird’s theme, little glimmers of light in the depths of the forest, scents of sandalwood and fragrant roots. Mad skitter of violins, and I am lifted, all sudden speed and purpose; I am l’oiseau de feu; nothing in my body holds me in place. If the other children watch, what do they think, do they think of me at all? Do they find me a little ridiculous, heavy little sissy in glasses and a plaid short-sleeved shirt? No idea. Miss Tynes watches, and appreciates, but even she is receding into the dark ring which surrounds this space in which I am coming to live.