“Not naked,” he says, like he heard my thought or read it on my face. “Skin is important, of course—that’s part of the rebellion of the art.” He’s struggling to be very professional and not awkward, but we’re both quivering with the uncomfortableness of this discussion.

“Oh, sure,” I say. “The naked art.” I don’t even know what I’m saying, but he nods like it makes sense. “I’ll ask everyone,” I tell him. “I’ll text you. Or Katherine will.”

“Right,” he says. We stand there for a moment, waiting for the other person to talk. Then he lifts his hand and turns toward the stairwell, letting me watch him go.

I sigh and lean back against the wall to pull out my phone. I type sexy dump truck to the group, for the usual flurry of groans, and then fill them in on the invitation plans, if they’re up for it, my heart bumping along as I type. Within seconds, they’re all in. But photos! I want to say. Still pictures. Every divot and pimple and fold and dimple. An accidental double chin, a roll of fat on my belly, all captured forever for someone to judge. I’m judging, and I hate that.

dirty photos for my portfolio, Taylor types.

need to hem my dress this afternoon, Katherine types.

Nevaeh says, glue gun and glitter party before the real fun.

We’re headed over to the theater tonight, after dark, so they can see the place themselves. Then we can start bringing over supplies and materials, crafting our plan to transform the space into something glamorous and gleaming, a darkened, secret burlesque club, the one I see pretty much every time I close my eyes now.

Photos, though. And Jack the one who’s taking them.

Settling my bag on my back, I tromp down the stairs.

12

Dry tech is more nerve-racking than opening night sometimes, and my heart is rattling. Curfew is an hour away but we’re going to sneak our way from the dorm to the theater, a practice round just to make sure there are no surprises, and that we’ll be able to smuggle in the supplies we need before the show. Jack texted to offer a distraction—he could set a small fire somewhere! But I assured him we’d be okay and were very brave, my thumbs flying over the keyboard, grinning despite myself.

Nevaeh, Katherine, and I all haul our laundry bags down to the dorm basement, because they’re a great cover. Taylor leads the way, holding open doors. But we have to loiter by the machines for a few minutes, Nevaeh pretending to mess with her laundry card, waiting for Amy to leave. I’m bouncing up and down the whole time, filled with ants and grasshoppers and butterflies.