“I don’t know!” I say. “But now I have some planning to do.” It feels like I can stop worrying—ballet is my home. I can imagine myself dancing confidently onstage, familiar steps baked into my bones, building up my confidence, a store of confidence before the big reveal. This feels right.

I call over Nevaeh and Katherine, so relieved I’ve found an idea, a costume I can imagine myself in. They’re bursting with ideas for bedazzling a tutu, for making it easy to whip off.

I can’t stand still anymore, and I bounce and spin into chaîné turns across the room, and there is the story in my head: I’ll emerge as the traditional ballerina, dance with precision and control in every move—then tear off the skirt and whip into burlesque extravagance. Strip down to—sequined booty shorts and a bralette. It’s not any more naked than the shorts and lacy sports bras we wore for the Fosse piece in junior year, right? Maybe a little more sparkly. I’m doing this!

“Okay! Last vote,” I say, smiling. “Ballerina burlesque or robot come to destroy the earth?”

Taylor lifts his hand. “Come on. The robot. Lasers! A smoke machine.” He sighs, shaking his head mournfully. “Such a missed opportunity.”

I whack him with my notebook. He’s outvoted, and Katherine hugs me.

“I love it. You are so beautiful. You will be so beautiful!”

“I will!” I say. I fumble, trying to work the clasps on the hanger and wrestle the tutu back into its place.

I smooth the skirts down as the others gather up their stuff. The costume we put together—it’ll be gorgeous. We even have some pieces already, I think. A wedding dress from the thrift shop with a bustier top that we can hack, maybe. I already own a dress tutu that I can wiggle out of. We can figure out underthings. That part will be fine. Can I take it all off gracefully? There’s a good question for me. And then, of course, there’s the other one that’s been following me around—can I take it all off gracefully in front of an audience?

“You ready, Addiebear?” Taylor says, holding up my coat.

He settles the coat around my shoulders as I slip my arms through the sleeves. When I turn, his face is serious.

“That’s your ‘I’m worried but I am not going to tell anyone about it because I am so brave and stoic,’ face, which is your most annoying of faces,” he says.

“Ugh, I’m fine,” I say, flapping my hand at him.

“Your idea really is great,” he says, his hands shoved in his pockets. “And you know, we’re all going to be there. We’re in this together. Like we always are. We’re annoying like that.” He regards me for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Jerk.”