But we’re free of that, all of us together here. The room is swaying, hopping, spinning, twirling, all of us hot and alive, and no one’s caring if our skin is distracting or if our behavior is appropriate. And is it possible to smile even harder than this? Because there are my sweethearts, Nevaeh and Taylor.

Nevaeh—she’s serenity, ribbon-curling grace, heartbreaking precision, Instagram eyebrows, volcano heart. She’s your nuclear safe house. She has tampons. And she’s vulnerable, sentimental. Tenderhearted, if she loves you, if she trusts you. Now she’s glowing, a sheen of sweat and sparkle on her dark shoulders and neck and cheekbones, glittering lips, a mass of tiny braids threaded with gold and blue wrapped up like a bow on her head. She’s spinning pale, freckled, blushing Zoe, my first-year mentee who has a crush on her, in swooping circles.

Taylor is close to the center of the floor, surrounded by his usual selection of swooners and admirers.

He’s take-no-bullshit, take-no-prisoners, leave-no-heart-unturned, rule-the-world. Popping out to crush your enemies and steal their significant others, no big. Weight lifting, red lipstick, outrageous flirting, and burning across the stage. First-generation Korean American, a dancer like his mom was. Making me laugh always and right now when he gleams at me.

And then I glance behind him, and my own smile teeters right on the edge of fizzling out.

Gavin.

Crap.

Dark curls, dimples, beautiful face against the long, slim neck of a tall, elegant girl, copper skin against her gold. His lips moving up to her jaw; his hand tracing down her spine. She spins away, her black hair flying out like a flag, then moves back against him. His fingers grip her hips tight. His eyes close, but she catches my gaze. She smiles that cat smile of hers. Ellory. Of course Ellory. Of course my audition competition. Of course they’re a couple now. I mean, they’ve both already dated everyone else in this tiny-ass school. Nevaeh and Ellory were even a thing sophomore year.

I wonder—for only a second, the tiniest wallow of self-pity—why did he date me first? She’s got that it-factor and the kind of body I keep hearing that dancers are supposed to have, slim and ethereal, while my body is considered exactly the opposite of that. I can move. I am graceful. I am a powerhouse. Fat and fierce. Delicate, I am not.

All that jumbled in the longest split second in the world, before I remember to wrench my eyes away.

I keep up my performer’s smile, the one I’ve got a lock on, my bulletproof shield that says I’ve got nothing to prove to you. I’m trying hard to be nonchalant, but I fumble with the zipper of my coat, old and always sticking.