We’re in the air once again when clap, clap, clap, Madame George signals with three short slaps that time’s up.

“Fine for now,” she says crisply.

I’m stretching long and slow over my lifted, extended leg when Ellory takes a spot next to me at the barre instead of at the end, where she usually cools down.

“Any news?” she says, her voice too casual, locking eyes with me in the mirror.

I shrug. “I haven’t checked,” I say, and wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist. I can’t help but glance at my folded warm-up, where I’ve hidden my phone.

“Right,” she snorts, and then pauses. “So … you and Gavin had a thing?”

“Sort of,” I say cautiously. “Last summer.”

“That’s nice,” she says. She glides down to the floor, leaning forward over one outstretched leg, clearly dismissing me.

“What do you mean, ‘That’s nice’?” I blurt.

She glances up and shrugs. “Nothing,” she says, then adds after a beat, “Good luck with Angles.”

“You too,” I respond automatically, but she doesn’t look up again. I don’t know whether to move away to stretch or just pretend she’s not there.

But then the door of the studio opens in a rush of air, and my head snaps around when Madame George barks, “Ms. Valentine!” and my adviser, Carly, says, “May I borrow Addie?” They look at me along with everyone else in the room, halted midstretch.

Carly’s face is serious, too serious. Madame George nods and waves me away. I grab my warm-up and make my way to the door, keep my neck long and my expression neutral, and don’t even glance back at Ellory. The door swings shut behind us. I can hear the muffled sound of classical music from the studio down the hall, and my teeth are gritted for the bad news I am now convinced is coming, a panicked plan B already surging up: moving back in with my mother, maybe convincing her to let me go to the dance program at Florida State; it’s not bad, I can get state grants, maybe I can make this work, I tell myself, even as rebellion is boiling up in me. Carly grabs my hands, squeezing them hard.

“Look,” I say, clearing my throat. “I don’t cry over spilled—”

But she interrupts me. Her eyes are a pale, clear ice blue, and now she’s grinning.

“You got it, Addie.”

I stare at her. I don’t understand what she’s trying to tell me. I’m sitting at the top of a roller coaster for an endless, timeless instant.

“Addie?” Carly says. “You got it.” Every word is very firm and very clear, and I am still frozen, now because it’s too huge. It’s too much. It’s everything.