No reason to think that, but not easy to stop.

Anxiety shakes me awake early on Sunday to find a photo from Jack to our group. He took it from the top floor of the arts building, and it shows that the snow is unbroken all the way around the sides of the theater, and along the side of the art building too. Just a gleaming expanse of bright white.

Oh, thank god.

We are a little giddy for the rest of the day. There’s always been an element of getting away with something about this whole whackadoo plan, from being able to pull off burlesque acts in just a few weeks to getting people to show up to never getting caught.

It feels like we’re almost in the homestretch, that we might even make it, that our luck might hold out, until the dick pics arrive in all three of our DMs on Monday night. No hand in the frame to give away who it is, and none of us want to look closely enough to see if we recognize it.

The caption is sorry not sorry.

“I’m really sorry I had to look at that picture,” Nevaeh says at dinner, pushing her phone away to pick up her fork. “Why don’t they ever give up?”

“I don’t like the ‘sorry not sorry’ thing,” Taylor says.

“I’m trying to not panic,” I say.

“Maybe it’s just ‘sorry not sorry I sent all of you a photo of my penis’?” Katherine suggests.

Nevaeh shakes her head. “Maybe.” She sounds doubtful.

I think all of us are worried about the same thing. No tracks in the snow, no evidence. No reason to believe it’s a real threat. But no way to respond.

We try to shrug it off. But the idea that it could be Christopher—Mr. “I like to send dick pics”—the idea that he might know about the burlesque show, sticks with me the rest of the evening and through the day on Tuesday, making me a little bit of a wreck. I don’t want to share my panic with the rest of them. I don’t want them to worry.

I’m off my game when we rehearse our performances on Tuesday night; in technique on Wednesday morning, I fumble a triple turn, teeter to a messy halt, only barely missing the dancers to either side of me. My heart is pounding and the shock keeps me frozen—how could I have lost my focus like that?—and the look on Madame George’s face is thunderous.

“Adeleina,” she says in a rock-hard voice, and I brace myself for the lecture but look up with everyone else when the studio door opens and another student appears, hands an envelope to Madame George, and waits, staring at all of us like she’s never seen a roomful of dancers.