My satin gloves have fallen onto the carpet, still inside out from the last performance. I scoop them up to turn them right side out, but—no. My stomach clenches because of course it doesn’t matter if I fix them. I ball the gloves up in my fist and throw them across the room. I yank the hanger off the back of the door because I want to throw that, too, ball up the whole thing and stuff it in the garbage compactor downstairs, but then that thought is terrible also. Never wearing it again. No one ever seeing me wear it again. How could the dean ever understand what it meant, to wear it?

Showing our skin is immoral. The thought a steady thump.

Detention for bare shoulders. Detention if our skirts are too short. Sent away to change, because hiding all that skin is more important than our education. Because our arms distract boys. Maybe they should be taught that we’re literally not sexual objects who spend our lives trying to give them boners. Maybe they should get told to focus and leave us alone. Maybe all this is bullshit, and I’m tired of it. My skin is not immoral.

Carly’s not in her office, but the door is open. I hesitate for a second, and then set my bag on the couch, sit next to it. Pull the pillow into my lap like I’ve done a thousand times. She doesn’t seem surprised when she finds me waiting for her. She makes me tea, sits across from me with a glance at the garment bag.

A cup of tea doesn’t mean she understands, though. She was supposed to understand.

“What were you thinking, Addie?” she says. “You risked your entire future for this!” Her voice is tired. Frustrated. Angry.

“I was trying to save my future!”

“This wasn’t the way to do it,” she snaps.

“The immoral-conduct charge is crap.”

“The dean doesn’t think so.” She throws her glasses on her desk and leans back against it, rubbing her eyes.

“He’s wrong,” I say. “Look at this!” I stand and unzip the bag, lift out my glittering tutu skirt, the breakaway bustier, and lay them over the couch.

“What is this?” she says.

“My sex-show costume.” I feel like I can’t catch my breath.

She crosses her arms, frowns at the garments on the couch.

“Burlesque,” I say. “I tried to tell you about burlesque. It’s beautiful.” I wave my hand at my costume. “I danced in this.” I pull out the tap pants and the sparkling strapless bra, throw them down on top. “I took them off. And this is what I was wearing underneath.”

“Addie,” Carly says.

“I have never felt better onstage. Or more in control. Or more beautiful, or powerful,” I say. “I loved feeling sexy on my own terms.”

“Addie—”