Ada, Laney, and I walked across the stage, pointing at stuff and miming conversation. But as hard as I tried to focus, I couldn’t tear my eyes from Diya as Kathy—she was hilarious. Brash. Fiery. I knew she was an amazing singer, but something about this scene was beyond even that. Jude was holding his own as Don, but the stage belonged to her. I recognized her extravagant poses—the head tilt, the arched back, looking down toward her right shoulder. They were fully developed versions of the movements I’d seen her cycling through at Waffle Country. She’d been practicing this part of the scene in her head, going over it again and again. The same thing I used to do when I listened to ballet music—little ghosts of the movements as I did the dance in my mind.

We ran through the scene several more times, and my path from stage left to stage right never changed. But Diya kept trying out different things—an inflection shift here, a broader gesture there. Once she found something that really worked, she polished it, run-through after run-through. Watching her work, perfecting every little word and movement, tugged at something inside me.

My brain had cycled through so many questions over the last couple of weeks. Questions about Jude and Colleen and ballet, and I hadn’t been able to answer any of them. But at least one thing was becoming clear. Why I’d felt the need to defend Diya ever since our conversation at the pre–cast party.

I understood her. She was like me.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE MOMENT MY REVELATION about Diya clicked, my brain did an unexpected thing. It was like a roller coaster that had been moving steadily up, and then it reached the top, but instead of flying forward, it fell backward. Fast. I tried to focus on my background miming, but I couldn’t keep my breathing in check, my eyes from blurring. All my darkest thoughts were flooding in.

You’ll never not feel sad. No one understands you. Quit the musical. Nothing and no one will ever compare to how you felt about ballet.

No. I’d admitted there were bad things about ballet. I’d talked about it with Mom, with Jude. I’d almost texted Colleen back. I was in the musical and I’d gone to Winter Formal and had friends and a guy I liked. I was moving on. The picture from Winter Formal flashed to my mind—the confetti, my smile. Thinking about it usually comforted me. But suddenly it felt fake. It wasn’t the real me in that starry silver frame. The real me was here, about to break down in this ugly auditorium, just like at auditions.

When Mrs. Sorenson dismissed the chorus, I rushed offstage and grabbed my bag. I felt a light brush on my elbow and spun around.