The one I’d seen performed most recently was the celebration dance, the one the girls would perform whenever I beat an opponent in the arena.

That’s the one I would do. It had always been my favorite. And we were celebrating anyway.

After I took up position in the middle of the circle, I sprinkled sand over my feet, asking both the desert and my mother to guide my steps.

Slowly, the boys drummed on the objects they were holding, creating a steady beat even with the rhythm of my heart.

I let the music build, letting them all join in. Then I swooped my hands down, scooping up handfuls of sand. My hands formed a basket over my head. I spun. Sand flew out from between my fingers, showering the boys around me.

My mother had explained that it was meant to represent rain. For there was no greater thing to celebrate than water.

The boys shouted with glee. I spun faster.

Once all the sand had escaped, I moved toward the edge of the circle. I kicked up my feet, spraying every third boy. Although I gave a little extra spray toward Dimic, who laughed and held up his arms defensively.

If this had been a true performance, the sand would’ve been evenly laid and each swipe of my foot would’ve left a deep groove. My marks were uneven and not precisely spaced, but they looked a little like the sunrays they were supposed to be. I ran my foot in a circle inside the marks while my arms waved back and forth.

The next part was the trickiest. I hopped on one foot while the other drew a wavy line, representing the obstacles we’d overcome. I continued the pattern, spinning and weaving until the untouched sand shrank and shrank around me. I drew one last circle with my toes. I was in the small center, and the pattern lay around me like a woven rug.

The tempo increased.

I let it take me.

I spun in circles in that tiny space. Around and around and around. The world became a blur of darkness on one side and light from the bonfire on the other. It was said you could tell a good sand dancer by how well her pattern was executed and by how long she could spin without growing dizzy and tripping into the outside pattern.

I don’t know how long I spun. But eventually, the world fell away. There was nothing but me and my breathing. There were no expectant faces. There were no suitors sizing me up. There was just me.

I pictured my mother’s face. Her laughter wrapped around me as I spun. I let my arms go wide like a bird floating on the breeze I’d created.

I spun for her. I spun for the sister I’d never gotten to meet. But most of all, I spun for me, for the years I’d never get back. I spun away from the woman I didn’t want to be.