“Sort of. It’s like . . . a therapy center. A place where she can get the treatment she needs, and doctors, and people to make her food . . . help her eat. It’s in Madison.”

“How long does she have to go for?” I asked. “What about ballet?”

Blair was a ballerina. She wasn’t just good; she was amazing. She’d been homeschooled for the past two years so that she could spend more time training at her studio in Milwaukee. I loved watching her dance. Jade did, too, I could tell. Even though she usually said it was lame and brought her iPhone and earbuds. I looked over at her screen once, though, and nothing was playing. She was just being a brat.

“Initially, six weeks, then we’ll check in,” Mom said. “Maybe twelve. I’m not sure. And ballet isn’t important right now.”

But ballet was the only thing that was important to Blair. It was her entire life. It was her future, she’d told me a million times, stretching her feet and pulling them above her head, toes reaching toward the ceiling. It was her destiny.

“Yeah, right,” snorted Jade. “Tell the Sugar Plum Fairy that.”

“Shut up,” I said. This was an old dance, me and Blair versus Jade. Three sisters, but we were unbalanced. Blair and I liked Star Wars and had brown hair and liked hanging out. Jade was ice blond, wanted nothing to do with us, and thought we read too much. And now I was losing my teammate, even though it hadn’t felt like we were on the same team for a while.

“Girls. Please. I have enough of a headache as it is,” Mom said, rubbing her temple. “Blair’s upstairs packing. Make sure you say goodbye to her tonight. We’re leaving in the morning. Jade, I need you in the office tomorrow, and please don’t argue with me.”

She’d already begun to open her mouth, but closed it.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked.

“On the phone with the insurance company,” Mom muttered, looking like her headache had just gotten ten times worse.

“One more question,” said Jade, laying her hands flat on the table. “Does Blair want to go? Or are you making her go?”

“A little of both,” she responded. “Sometimes that’s a mom’s job. To make decisions for you that are for the best even when you disagree. But Blair knows she’s sick. And she does want to get better.”

All we could do was nod.

Mom had to find some numbers for Dad, so I went upstairs and knocked on Blair’s door. Obi trotted after me, ready to snuggle away any tension.

“What.”

I pushed the door open. I’d always been jealous of Blair with her own room. All I wanted was to decorate mine the way I wanted, without Jade’s freaky rock band posters or dirty jeans on the floor. Blair’s room was painted a pretty mint color, and her furniture was all shiny white. She had a trunk that was filled to the brim with turn boards to help her perfect her pirouettes, and a poster of Misty Copeland tacked to the wall beside it. Her huge bag of beat-up pointe shoes was shoved in the corner, but besides that, the room was immaculate.