THE AUDITIONS HAD overrun. They had had so many people trying out that the queue had snaked all along the corridor and outside the building and down the street. Gracie actually couldn’t believe it. Even though she had gotten there early, she had had to queue outside for almost the whole day, and then, when she was just about in the front, they had closed the door and told everyone to come back in the morning. Gracie had tried to protest. Marty and Grandad would be sailing in the morning—she’d tried to leave a message for them, but since Grandad had a phone only in the flat and they’d be staying at the allotments, she didn’t hold out much hope of them getting it. The organizers of the competition had offered a bed for the night for anyone who had traveled far, and Gracie had accepted, saying that her dad was with her. After she reached the cheap hotel, she’d texted her dad, saying that she was staying at Poppy’s house and had crossed her fingers that he wouldn’t ring and check. Then she’d lain on the bed feeling like her heart was being torn in two. She really, really wanted to do the competition. After all, she’d put so much work into it, but she really, really wanted to sail with Marty and Grandad. She had hardly slept a wink.

In the morning, she’d gotten up and come straight back to the audition venue and stood in line with the other girls. They had been chatting happily. They obviously knew one another from their dance classes. Their hair had been tied in tight buns, and they had regulation clothes on. Gracie had run her fingers through her hair, but she hadn’t tied it back and her clothes were. Well. Not regulation.

At last it was Gracie’s turn. She stood in the middle of the dance studio. The judges were sitting in a line. Four of them looking at her. She heard one of the judges clear her throat.

“So, which dance will you be performing?”

Gracie looked at the judge’s lips.

“Well”—she cleared her throat, looked sideways and to the floor—“it’s a dance I made up…”

One of the other judges sat back, a bored look on his face.

“Oh really?”

Gracie nodded.

“And how long have you been dancing?” another woman asked.

Gracie could feel herself getting hot. Too hot.

“Er, I don’t know. About as long as I’ve been breathing, I suppose.”

“I see,” she said tartly.

Gracie watched as they looked at her with scornful bemusement.

“And…,” said the last woman, “which grade are you? Which disciplines do you study? Ballet? Modern? Tap?”

Gracie had dreaded this question. She looked squarely at them. Tried to stand tall.

“None. I mean, I haven’t had any training.”

Even from this distance Gracie could see her raise an eyebrow.