After the brief moments of quiet awe, we’re a whirlwind of planning. Taylor sits in the middle of the room, writing frantically in his notebook. Nevaeh has a measuring tape, because of course she does, and is shouting out numbers and ideas. Katherine is single-handedly shifting backdrops around to envision different possibilities for the stage setup. I’m filling them in on all the thoughts I’ve had since finding this place.

When I’m suggesting we add a curtain to the entrance that we can sweep aside for added drama, I get distracted by a clothes rack in the corner. I reach down to touch a bit of slightly faded pale pink tulle poking out of the bottom of a garment bag. It sparkles. I peer under the bag and then gently pull it up over the stiff fabric. The tutu is old, but still glowing. Heavy beads and crystals that trail down into sparkles glittering across a tulle skirt. I lift it off the rod with a little bit of a grunt and hold it up in the light of the room.

It’s spectacular. A practically vintage performance tutu, the romantic kind that falls to your calves, lush and full and over-the-top. The kind of tutu you dance as Giselle in so you can die beautifully of betrayal and heartbreak, sinking down into a heap of fluff and sparkles. It’s so full it is spilling out of my arms, beaded heavily and shining with diamond-like rhinestones. The velvety pale pink silk underlay glimmers beneath layers and layers of shining silvery tulle, softer and fuller than any tutu I’ve ever worn. It’s the most gorgeous skirt I’ve ever seen up close, expensive and lush and extravagant. I couldn’t borrow it—measured across my waist, it’s about half my size. But the gleam and glitter fill me with such an idea.

I can imagine myself in something like this, confident and brave and beautiful and breathtaking. Aloof, the audience leaning forward, wanting to catch my eye, get my attention, holding their breath. And then … boom.

I gather the tutu into my arms and hug it close to my chest. Taylor looks up from his notebook, his serious expression melting into a questioning one.

“From ballerina to badass,” I tell him. I shake out the beautiful tutu in front of me, hold it up so it glints in the light. “I’m going to strip out of a fabulous tutu and rock the audience’s world.”

Taylor’s face blooms into a grin. “Oh, shit!” he says, jumping to his feet to run his hands admiringly over the beading. “It’s such a perfect idea. It is so perfect for you, Addiebear; how did we not think of this before?”