Fleeing is slow going, since everyone has crowded between the tables, trying to get a look at top hat boy and his enormous bouquet of gold roses—I am not even sure where gold roses would come from. He and his boyfriend have got their foreheads pressed together by the time I am close to the exit. Most people are applauding, but a lot of the non-arts kids are rolling their eyes at one another. Another day, another stunt from the performing-arts kids, showing off how cool and weird they are.

Ok? Katherine texts me. I send her a row of hearts, shouldering out the door. It’s fine. If getting to Angles means trusting the most pompous dude in the world with our secret, so be it.

I’ll endure the ridiculous socks for us to get this right.

8

This is the week we fall deeply, madly, inevitably in love with burlesque. We go in thinking you know, vintage-style striptease! and have vague ideas about nipple tassels. We come out glittery with excitement because it’s so much cooler than we even realized, a parallel world of dance and performance and art and inclusivity. It’s an art form all its own, and women invented it. And so many of the women we see in photos and videos look like me, or a little like me. They’re rounder, lusher, built on a grander scale, soft and dangerous. Less white than she figured it’d be, Nevaeh said, with Ada Overton Walker and her Dance of the Seven Veils, Josephine Baker setting Paris on fire, the recent boom of dancers and shows and festivals all over the world. And we love it, filling up to bursting with inspiration and ideas. Even Jack challenging me in history on both Tuesday and Thursday when I answer a question, always turning everything into a debate, doesn’t dim the spotlight shining in my heart. Even when he stops me on Thursday after class and asks me for my number.

“I was going to ask Katherine for it, but I thought it would be more seemly to get it directly from you.”

“Right,” I say. “Seemly.”

“Mm,” he agrees. “Seemly.” He is very deadpan.

I take his phone from his hand and text myself a poop emoji, and then hand it back.

He looks at the screen, and it seems like he is about to laugh, but instead he says, “I’ll text you about, uh, getting together?”

“This weekend, maybe,” I throw over my shoulder, hurrying away. I have to get to ecology on time for once. I stop, though, thinking about Katherine, and about not being a jerk, and rush back. “Thank you! Again.”