Upstairs in my room, my mind went right back to everything I’d been avoiding thinking about. The ice rink. Rehearsal. I wondered if Jude and Margot and Ethan were relieved I didn’t show up today. If Ms. Langford and Mrs. Sorenson were mad. We were supposed to email them if we had to miss rehearsal, and we had to have a good reason. I didn’t think “I freaked out at an ice rink and realized I’m a horrible person and now my friends hate me” would count, so I didn’t email.

As I changed into pajama pants, the exhaustion hit me. The lack of sleep, plus the dancing at Diya’s, plus the sheer amount of sugar I’d eaten in the past few hours, made me want to crash. But I couldn’t sit still. My leg kept bouncing up and down, my mind going in a million directions.

My phone buzzed on my nightstand, and I jumped.

Thanks again for helping me. I think it’s going to work. I owe you. Diya.

You’re welcome, I typed back, smiling involuntarily.

The dance we’d choreographed was the most ridiculous thing in the world. But helping Diya had actually been fun. And something more, too. It felt important somehow. Like we were breaking a rule that needed to be broken. At least I’d done one thing right over the last horrible few days. One thing that wasn’t mean or bitter or jealous or…

I stood up so suddenly I got a head rush. I’d helped Diya. Even though her chance to fulfill her dream should have made my jealousy bomb explode, it hadn’t.

I paced my room.

I still had this underlying feeling of awfulness about how things were with Margot, Ethan, and Jude. But another feeling was forming now, on top of that one. I’d helped an artist get one step closer to her dream without getting jealous or melting down. My brain, my heart—maybe they weren’t so broken after all. Maybe they could handle more than I thought they could.

And just like that, I knew what I had to do.

I jumped back onto my bed and typed ABT summer intensive auditions into my laptop. When the page came up, I scrolled through the national audition schedule, passing by the Philadelphia one on January eighteenth. The last thing Colleen had texted me about was Giselle two weeks ago. If I had actually sent her the text I’d typed out at Fly Zone, we could have been back in touch. She would have told me about the appendectomy. I could have been there for her. I hoped it wasn’t too late.