Katherine leans into my shoulder, because she can always tell when I’m faking it. “Right?” she says, rolling her eyes. “Nevaeh was like Oh my gosh, just get a room already.”

I snerk at that and then murmur in Katherine’s ear. “Is ‘man slut’ a thing? Because if it isn’t, that’s sexist.”

She laughs, the big braying cackle that carries, and that is maybe the only not-dignified thing about her. Taylor’s and Nevaeh’s heads both whip around, and when they see us, their faces are the best thing in the world, knocking Gavin and Ellory and that tiny bit of self-doubt out, out, out of my head.

I wave at them and then give up on my coat with a huff of disgust to kick off my clunky, stiff boots and yank off my itchy, woolly socks. I stuff it all into a pile near the couch and sigh, flexing toes that are red and aching. My focus is contemporary dance, but classical ballet is my first love, and it’s the foundation of my ensemble piece this term. I’ve been en pointe since after dinner, because the winter showcase is less than a month away. But there’s no taking a break, because Taylor is skidding up to me, taking me by the shoulders.

“Oh my god, it’s you!” he shouts, ridiculous, so good at making a scene. “It’s really you! You made it!” I love the drama of his face, impossible to ignore. The broad cheekbones and the thick, swept-back black hair, his shoulders wide in his white tank. He likes boys more than girls, and he’s got a superhot Damien back home in Queens, but he knows that smile tempts everyone.

“I did!” I shout back. “I made it! Everyone keeps telling me that!” I press my cheek against his and breathe in his good, comforting, so familiar clean-sweat smell.

Then the music stops for a split second, just a breath—and it comes back with a boom that makes him whoop, grab my hand, and yank me through the crowd. I’m laughing, protesting, when he slides across the floor on his socks, clearing a space around us in the mass of bodies. I don’t recognize this song—lush, weird midtempo, heavy bass, irresistible—but I realize that my body is so ready to play, aching for it, sinking into the music as my muscles respond to the beat. We’ve already got an audience circling up, because performing-arts kids, they have an instinct for drama.

“Let me take off my coat, for god’s sake, Taylor!” I shout, fumbling again with the half-undone zipper, feeling it finally give. But I still my hand. Because Taylor’s dropped bang to his knees with the most wicked smile.

“Take it all off, girl!” he calls. He is just daring me.