The doors rattle again, and Elsie shouts, “There’s no sign-in sheet at all! I know you’re lying!”

“She’s got a great sense of timing,” Taylor says.

“And we’re ready to go?” Katherine says.

“Full-speed ahead,” Nevaeh says to her.

I raise an imaginary glass. “To—” I pause. Did we ever come up with a name?

“Dirty Little Secret,” Taylor says.

I laugh. “Okay, fine. To our Dirty Little Secret!” We pretend to clink our glasses, and we pretend to down our drinks, but there’s nothing pretend about the sunburst of excitement in my stomach, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Could there be a better way to send off senior year? There’s never been a better one.

“Do you think she’s got a crush on Jack?” Nevaeh says to me in a low voice, pushing open the stairwell door to our floor. Katherine’s running downstairs to sign Taylor out.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never seen her have a crush.”

“I just don’t want her to get hurt,” Nevaeh says.

“We’ll protect her with our lives,” I say.

“Good point,” she says, poking me.

I’m still smiling in front of the bathroom mirror in my fuzzy bathrobe, listening to the shuffle of seniors through the hallway, slamming doors, scraps of conversation: good night and shut up! and don’t forget tomorrow—and no, she did—and a scrap of a song. While I brush my teeth, bubbles of anticipation are still frothing inside me as I think about this ridiculous plan we have. Where to start choreographing a number so far removed from anything else I’ve ever done. Fascinated already by all the ways it might be the same, and all the ways it’s going to blow what I already do out of the water. A dreamy image of peeling off a long satin glove to the whoops of glee in the audience, flinging it out to the crowd, gleaming bare neck. You may enjoy me. You’re welcome. I smile experimentally at the mirror, big and confident, then squeeze my eyes shut. Confident, powerful, fat, beautiful, proud show-off under warm spotlights, never afraid. I spit my toothpaste into the sink as the door swings open and a group of girls in camis and sleep shorts come chattering in—and I’m automatically sizing myself against them before I can cut off the knee-jerk thought, the habit that’s so hard to break. I straighten up, clutching my toothbrush, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m going to have to practice.

7