With a flurry of blown kisses, she’s off to her club. I’m still a little dazed as I grope for my phone. Congrats from Jack and an invite to lunch, and forty-nine million message notifications between Taylor and Nevaeh.

we missed you, I message him.

i’m your behind the scenes operative, he says. ((((but my act would have killed))))

I’m not convinced Angles is a go, not yet, but I am bubbling up with a little bit of hope. And what feels like absolute, undiluted pride in myself for killing it, in my friends, who never stopped working, in how beautifully we pulled this all off.

In the shower, midscrub, I have a sudden urge to tell Carly about it. About everything—that feeling of letting loose, how playing this ballerina character who breaks free makes me feel more real and raw, more honestly me, beautiful and radiant onstage. Completely seen, inside and out. How strange it is. Overwhelming. Scary. Good. Overwhelming. Good. I want to spill these jumbled thoughts out, share all those feelings with her, like I always have after performances, after my Angles auditions. I want her to be proud of me. Proud of the ways I’ve grown.

But … what do I really expect her to say? I stop, washcloth in hand and water pouring hot over my shoulders. What would she really think about us up onstage? Would she see that we were shining, beautiful, proud of our bodies and skin, funny and clever and expressing ourselves in ways we were never taught in class? Not caring about who’s looking at us, only about how we see ourselves. Would she understand? It just feels like this wild epiphany, and I want so badly for her to understand. I think she would. I really do.

Before I can change my mind, I dress fast and find her in her office, prepping for the week. She looks up with a big smile, scolds me for going outside without drying my hair when she sees that it’s all icy, then jumps up to push a cup of tea into my hands. She looks a little tired, her face pale. Her shoulders look narrow in the old beigy-pink cardigan she keeps on her chair, and she’s in the black tunic, black leggings uniform she wears even on the weekend. I think I’d die of shock to see her in anything else.

“Is this a bad time?” I ask her, cupping the tea mug in my hands.

“Lots of coordination with donors. Lots of arguing with parents. The usual.” She smiles at me. “But you look happy this morning.”

“I’m happy,” I say.

She settles next to me on the couch. “Well, then tell me about it.”

Her face is open, expectant. She’s waiting. Where do I start?

“Addie?” she says, tilting her head.

“Well,” I say cheekily. “What do you think about burlesque?”