Well, Geneva, Tucker, and Jacob are ahead of me. We are the only sixth graders in the class, and it’s the only class in the middle school that combines grades. The seventh and eighth graders are sitting in groups by the huge wall-to-wall mirror texting and putting on makeup. I cannot do this. I start to breathe a little too fast. I take a step backward. I’ve got one foot in the door and one foot out. Nobody sees. If I make it to the hallway, I will run. I will run straight to Andrea’s office and plead temporary insanity and sign up for something safe like knitting.

Just one. More. Step.

I back into someone, and it’s enough to make me scream.

“You’ve got a set of lungs on you, sweetheart!”

I turn around to see a woman who looks like one of the fortune-tellers outside the casinos in Biloxi. Her hair is fluffed out all over like a dandelion, and her hoop earrings are as big as the bangles on her arms. She studies me and hmmms. “Look at those eyes. You could be a fawn in a forest, my dear. Now why don’t you shimmy on in so we can get started?”

I want to get out, not farther in. My heart’s still jumping. But it’s either take a seat next to Well or physically push past her, and that would mean touching. I shuffle off to the side, and Well grins. I swallow and taste Dorito all over again.

“For those of you who are new”—she pauses to wink at me—“I am Mrs. Nicole Russo. Mrs. Nicky, for short. And today is movement day. By the end of the week, we’ll wrap up casting for Into the Woods, our winter musical. And remember”—she snaps her fingers and I wince, just a little, not enough so you’d notice—“if you make it past round one, round two auditions are Thursday at four in the gym. Do not be late. It’s unprofessional. Now—” She snaps again, but I stay still. I was ready that time. I make a mental note: Mrs. Nicky is a snapper. “Take off your shoes and stretch those toes and roll those shoulders and loosen your mind. No thoughts today. Only movement and music and… physicality.”

“Aleeeeeexa!” she singsongs, calling roll, I guess. But nobody answers. She says it again louder. “Alexa, play a rrrrrrumba!” She rolls her rs and her hips at the same time. I look toward the piano, but there’s nobody there. Then a little hockey puck on the piano bench lights up and says in a creepy voice, “Playing Rumba Playlist from Amazon top picks.”

“What was that?” I whisper to Well as Spanish dance music thrums across the open space.