“So when? If I let it heal and do physical therapy and everything I’m supposed to do, when will it be back to normal?”

“Never,” the doctor said simply. “When something breaks like that, you can’t put it back together so easily. And when you do, it won’t be the same.”

That was the epitome of bullshit, but there was no point saying it. “I’ll be able to dance in four months,” I said coolly. “I’m going to New York.” I looked at my parents so they’d know the plan hadn’t changed. Dad looked queasy and uncertain. Mom looked like she was holding back tears. Only Colleen was unfazed.

“Definitely,” my best friend said, turning to the doctor. “I read this article that said orthopedists can fix anything now, except maybe knees, but she didn’t do anything to her knee.”

“Yeah,” I said, latching on to Colleen’s words. “I didn’t break my knee, just my tibia and fibula.”

“Honey…” Mom put a firm hand on my shoulder. “Let’s not think about what may or may not happen in the future. All you can do right now is focus on healing. That’s the number one thing.”

Dad looked at the external fixator again, cursed, and took a seat in the chair at the other end of the room, elbows on his knees. Mom squeezed my shoulder again, like I was supposed to say something back, but I had nothing. Not thinking about the future didn’t make any sense to me. The future was everything, and it had only ever looked like ballet.

A wave of drowsiness hit me, the anesthesia making everything hazy. At some point, I registered that my parents were whispering, and it was dark outside the window, and Colleen was gone. I closed my eyes again and felt my body dancing, revolving through the air on the tip of my pointe shoe. Springing across the floor in quick brisés.

As I slipped in and out of sleep, it was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t, what was happening right now and what was a memory.

But one thing was clear. In four months, I’d be on pointe again. In four months, I’d be in New York, dancing.

November

CHAPTER ONE

JEAN-PAUL SARTRE ONCE WROTE: “Hell is other people.” I think a more accurate statement would be: “Hell is other people auditioning for Eagle View High School’s spring production of Singin’ in the Rain.” Perhaps that’s a touch dramatic. But since that dumb doctor turned out to be right about my leg, I had to start junior year as a normal full-time student. And as terrible as the past two months had been, I hadn’t, before this moment, been subjected to this. To my left, a curly-haired girl belting “Ma may mee moe moo!” To my right, a skinny guy in tight capri sweatpants, belly dancing.