Margot shrugged one shoulder. “Whatever. It wasn’t completely your fault. I called you Robobitch, so I guess we’re even.” Her tone was cold and final, and I felt a pang in my chest. I didn’t want to be even. I wanted to be friends again.

Since the first day of school this year, Margot and I had clicked. She’d opened up, which she didn’t do for nearly anyone else. I knew what a privilege it was now, for Margot Kilburn-Correa to let you in. I hoped I hadn’t lost it forever.

“I really miss you.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, I miss you, too. But look, sometimes friendships just don’t work out. And if you reach the point where you’re yelling at each other at an ice rink, it probably means things are over. I should know.” Her eyes flicked to the mantel, where several picture frames were arranged.

I looked at the photos. One showed Margot and her abuela at Hersheypark. Another showed Margot and Izzy at their middle school graduation, Margot dressed in the preppiest of preppy clothes, her reddish-brown hair in a long side braid.

I stared at the picture. “You still have a picture of you and Izzy,” I said, confused. Margot seemed 100 percent done with that part of her life.

“I told my mom to get rid of it. But she was all, ‘You shouldn’t forget your past, even if you don’t like it,’ and I was all, ‘Not everything has to be a lesson, Mom.’ Anyway, she won.” Margot clicked her phone on to check the time.

“That’s… interesting.”

“What?”

“So, after I found out I could never do pointe again…,” I started, pushing through the resistance I’d always had to talking to Margot about ballet. I’d wanted to keep things light and surface between us, but that wasn’t how friendship worked. You had to talk about the hard stuff. You couldn’t just bail.

“When I found out, I took down all the ballet pictures in my room, and then my parents took down all the ballet pictures everywhere else in the house. They were following my lead, and I know they genuinely thought it would help me, but… I don’t think it’s a bad thing, to have reminders of who you were. Even if you can’t or don’t want to be that person anymore.”

Margot was eyeing me with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, probably wondering why I was telling her all this. She dropped her eyes to her lap, not saying anything.

“But whatever,” I said lightly. “I’ll break in and steal the picture. I’ll take some valuables, too, so no one will be suspicious.”

One corner of Margot’s mouth turned up and then back down again.