He’s finished the website.

We’re putting the money back into the world, giving the money to the dancers who deserve the kind of financial support I was so desperate for.

My mother brags to her friends that we’re doing important things, the four of us, she tells me.

I want to do important things.

“Here’s to the scholarship!” Nevaeh says, toasting with her mocha.

“And to leveling the playing field a little bit,” Katherine says. “For girls who are fighting the odds.”

“And who are playing to win,” Taylor says.

“To Addie,” Jack says, snugging up against me.

“To all of you jerks who keep making me cry,” I say. “I’m eating the last cupcake.”

EPILOGUE

I’m sweating in my graduation gown. I’m sweating because it’s gloriously hot, but also because I’m standing up onstage in front of everyone—teachers and administrator-type people and a whole sea of graduates, like me. My whole class. The kids who supported us and the kids who laughed at us and the kids who had no idea what was going on, because their own lives come fast and furious too.

Katherine and Nevaeh and Taylor and Jack are all out there somewhere, seated at the whims of the alphabet, and my voice is hoarse from screaming for them when their names were called, when they walked across the stage. I’m sure I heard my mother’s own hooting and hollering from the back, where all the parents are sitting, fanning themselves with their programs and checking their phones and looking bored.

I walked, too, got my diploma, and then I was surprised when Grace—our valedictorian and the only other full-scholarship student—called me back up onstage.

“You might have heard the story of the underground burlesque club here at Lakeshore,” Grace says now, and the audience laughs. I cover my mouth with my hand, but I’m grinning. “And how three senior dancers started a conversation on campus. Made a lot of us wish we could be as cool.”

She grins at me, and I am flushed sunburn red—I can feel it across my face and down my neck. The audience cheers, and I clap my hands over my cheeks, grinning, shaking my head. This is so weird, and so wonderful.

“We thought it was only appropriate,” Grace says, turning to me, “that you be the one to lead us in the removal and tossing of these unflattering hats.”

There’s a ripple of laughter.

“No!” I say, laughing too.

“Yes!” she says, and urges me to the podium. “Just ask them to ‘Please stand and applaud for the graduating class,’” she tells me, low.

“Okay,” I say into the microphone. “Let’s do this.” Cheers break out. “On the count of three: Please stand and applaud for the graduating class!”