When she exited into the wings, we hugged. I wanted to whisper that she’d done awesome, but I felt emotional all of a sudden. Performing did funny things to you. I kept quiet—I knew Diya would understand what I meant to say.

And then, before I knew it, it was time for “Broadway Melody.” Sitting onstage behind the Charleston dancers, I could feel the audience beyond the fluorescent costumes. I knew that in a few seconds, there would be nothing between us anymore. I’d be dancing by myself for a real audience, for the first time since the injury.

The dancers dispersed, and I was alone in the spotlight, leg extended, hat on the tip of my toe. I looked out into the audience. And I saw the stupid Happy Crack.

I kept looking at it, during the Vamp dance and the ballet part afterward. In its pitiful mouth and mismatched eyes, I saw all the kind but woefully inadequate “maybe it’s for the bests” I’d heard over the past year. I still didn’t believe in that sentiment. Those words—best, beautiful—used to mean only one thing to me. Now I realized they weren’t always straightforward. Beautiful things had bad parts, and bad things had beautiful ones, and I knew now that I could work with that. I could hold on to the beauty and the good. I could try to fix the bad. I wasn’t certain anymore about what I wanted to devote my life to. But that was okay. I was okay. I was here. I was dancing.

At the curtain call, I watched the chorus run onstage to take their bows as everyone belted out a reprise of “Singin’ in the Rain.” Mrs. Sorenson had told me I could choose which costume to wear for my bow—the green Vamp dress or the pink ballet one. Tonight, I chose the pink.

Jude snuck up behind me in the wings, adorably handsome in his old-fashioned suit and hat. He took the hat off and held it out to me. “Hey,” he whispered. “You finished it.”

I kissed him, threw the hat on my head, and walked out onstage. The house lights were on, so I could see the audience clearly. Everyone was standing. There were Mom and Dad, second row center, clapping wildly. Jude’s mom was beaming beside them. Josie was in the upper level, yelling with her friends. Margot’s abuela Isabel cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted “Brava!” Birdie held a tiny baby, gripping her hand and waving it at me. Colleen and her two brothers jumped up and down, screaming my name. In front of them were a couple of elementary school kids, looking up at me in awe. I wondered if Jude and I had shown them ballet for the first time.

I was supposed to bow. But I felt too much to do only that.