We start again. And again. And again. Once I finally get to enter, I feel as lost as everyone has looked since we started rehearsing this. All the music on the rehearsal track sounds the same, and not everyone is singing their harmonies. It’s all just sonic mush at this point.

Mikey comes to lift me. I realize belatedly that I’m standing too close to the person next to me to execute this fancy lift Brittany has us doing. I jerk my head at him and take a step forward, but he doesn’t get the memo. He goes straight for the lift, wrapping his arm around my waist and bending his knees.

“Mikey, no,” I whisper, but it’s too late. Because I don’t jump, he essentially throws me to the floor. I land flat on my face out next to where Ed is singing in the front, and the dance grinds to a halt.

“I’m so sorry!” Mikey yelps, rushing over to me. He reaches out to help me get up, but Ed has already offered his hand. I almost regret taking Ed’s help getting up, since Mikey stands there wringing his hands uncertainly. “Sorry!” he says again.

“Shay, are you okay?” Mr. B says, bounding onstage. “Did you hit your head?”

“I’m fine,” I say, wiping my hands on my damp shirt. I landed in one of the puddles from the fire hydrants, so now I’m wet as well as bruised.

Mr. B’s gaze flashes quickly over the floor, and the puddles evaporate. “You’re bleeding,” he says, pointing at my knees.

That would explain the pain. It doesn’t look bad, though. They’re just skinned.

“Take ten, everyone,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I follow Mr. B off the stage and into the dressing room backstage, trying not to visibly limp as we walk. Now that the adrenaline from my fall has worn off, it turns out that my knees hurt more than I initially thought.

He grabs a first aid kit from a side cabinet while I sit in front of one of the mirrors. My hair is a mess. I retie my ponytail and flip the chair around so I don’t have to look at my tired reflection. Mr. B hands me an antiseptic wipe and a vial of Minor Wound Healing potion.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a look at my knees.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You went down pretty hard,” he says.

“I’m fine. Seriously.” I wince as I clean my right knee with the wipe, which probably doesn’t help me make my point. But still, I have a skinned knee. I’m not exactly dying.

“Okay,” he says, giving me a skeptical look. “But you can go home if it’s too much.”

“Thanks. I’m good, though.”