“You’re welcome. Again.” He’s got his hands in his pockets, bag slung over his shoulder, rangy. Taller than me, but not by much. And it seems like he’s laughing at me, just a little, maybe? I stare at him a second, shake my head, and speed away, screeching around the corner, skidding around Mr. Banerjee, my pre-calc teacher.

My phone buzzes before I hit the stairwell. Jack has sent me back an emoji—the monkey with its paws over its mouth. I shove my phone back into my pocket. Definitely laughing at me.

That night after dinner, the four of us meet in my room to try to catch up on the homework we’ve missed all week and talk about next steps, but Nevaeh finds the movie Burlesque with Cher and Christina Aguilera on a streaming service. Every burlesque and dance blogger hates this movie, we know, and by the time it’s ten minutes in, we’ve all abandoned our homework to climb up into my bunk to watch it with our hands over our mouths.

I don’t know how inaccurate it is (the bloggers say very inaccurate), but it is even more terrible, and bad, and kind of gross, than anyone said. We shriek with laughter until the hall assistant has to come and threaten to kick Taylor out.

“I got nothing done,” Katherine says mournfully at curfew, flipping through her calculus workbook and then shoving it into her bag. “I’m going to have to skip my run again tomorrow.”

“You are not sad about skipping a run,” Nevaeh says, tapping her folders together on my desk to line them up, and Katherine makes a face at her. Taylor shoves his notebook into his messenger bag.

“Before we go,” Nevaeh says, “I have a surprise.”

Taylor eyes her. “Is it a good witch or a bad witch?”

“You know we can’t do this without seeing a live burlesque show,” she says, ignoring him. “So. We’re going to Vaudezilla tomorrow night, in Chicago. An all-ages burlesque show for all ages! You all better have your off-campus permission slips signed this semester. Yes, I love you too,” she says to me, patting my back. “Don’t cry.”

“Stop making me cry,” I tell her.

Nothing could have prepared us for what it’s like to be sitting in the audience of a burlesque. The theater is old-fashioned, with a red velvet curtain, dark wood, gold-painted columns on either side of the stage, and a glittering crystal chandelier overhead. Our seats are flat green velvet, creaky, narrow, and so close to the front and center.

When the emcee swaggers onstage in a bustier and kimono and welcomes us all in their deep, vibrating bass, it’s a lightning strike. A spotlight bursts onto a woman in gold, slinking onto the stage to a low thrumming beat, a boa constrictor twined around her body.