“That’s what’s important, right?” I say.

She’s sipping her wine, but her eyes widen over the rim of her glass at that, and she sets it down, points at me. “Speaking of important!” she says.

“Yes!” I say, sitting up taller, ready to share the good part of my Angles news.

“I got one of those silly parental alerts from your school! The emails? I swear I told them I don’t need them.”

“An alert?” My stomach wallops my insides.

“Something about a grade being low? I deleted it, of course. Is there a way you could tell them I don’t want to be bothered? We all know books aren’t your thing.”

“It’s not that low!” I blurt, and I feel myself getting defensive. I don’t even know what class it is. “I’ve just been—”

“Sweetheart, you’re a dancer, not a student,” she says. “You can’t be good at everything.”

“But what class is it?” I don’t want to fail my classes. Where did I screw up?

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Don’t fail, mind you. But stay focused on what’s important.”

“I am,” I tell her, “but—”

She glances over her shoulder. “I really do have to go, sweetie, but talk soon?” I see her finger reach out to hit END on her tablet.

“Mom!” I say, too loudly. She looks startled, and her eyes flick up to meet mine in the camera. “Angles!”

She blinks, so I repeat it. “Angles, remember? I got in. I got the senior spot this summer.”

She frowns at me, cocks her head. “Oh!” she says. I can see her smoothing out her expression, because wrinkles. “Right.” She brightens. “Of course I wouldn’t forget. You should have reminded me.” She lifts her glass, toasting me, affectionate. “You’re a star! I’ve been telling my girlfriends that. That while their kids are working at Target or wherever this summer, you’ll be dancing in Paris.”

“Milan,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.

“My talented girl,” she says.

“It’s great, right?” I enthuse. I can’t tell her I didn’t get the scholarship. She’s beaming at me, her contest winner, her star on the local dance-kids circuit.

“Oh! Clive and I get to visit and see you dance in Paris!”

“Milan,” I say.

“I’ll go up and give you a big bouquet at the end,” she starts, but I interrupt.

“It costs a lot of money to go.”

“Excuse me?”

Deep breath. “It costs six thousand dollars. And I—”

Her expression changes, and before I can admit I didn’t get the scholarship, she’s set down her wineglass, leaning forward, her voice clipped.

“What? They’re asking you for money? You won.”

I bite my lip and nod. “It’s the cost of the program plus—”

“No,” she says, holding up her hand. “That is ridiculous.”

“But Mom—”