The night before we left for Chicago, Dad and I watched some baseball movie on Netflix.

“Hey, Dad?” I asked as some actor stepped up to bat.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Blair’s okay?” I don’t know why I brought it up just then. Maybe it was that hope, taunting me. Maybe it was the possibility that things really could be okay.

He didn’t move an inch or look away from the TV, but I know he heard me.

“Dad.”

“Why do you ask, Abs?”

“She’s just . . . she’s sad, Dad. She’s sad all the time.”

He sighed, pausing the movie. “Blair is one of the strongest people I know, even if she’s not behaving that way right now. But I think things are on the up and up. I do. Everything will be okay once she gets into the Joffrey.”

Look, I wanted to scream. Look at Blair. Look in her eyes. Nobody is looking. The spotlight on her was blinding. She was a whirl of tutus and toe shoes, disappearing into the wind.

“It’s my job to worry about your sister. It’s your job to be a kid. Okay? We’ve got this.” He reached over and patted my knee. “She will be just fine.”

Just fine, like a Band-Aid over the blisters on Blair’s feet. Just fine. But not fine. Not fine at all.

“You guys still doing your comic thing?” Dad asked. “She always loves that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We are. Sometimes.”

“Good.” He flipped the TV back on, exhaling. “If we keep going like we believe things will work out, then they will, I think.”

We watched the fake team lose and the fake coach learn some fake life lesson, neither of us thinking about baseball anymore. We were Blair’s corps de ballet, dancing behind her in unison.

Our whole family rode down to Chicago the next day in my dad’s truck. It was supposed to be a family vacation—whoop-de-do—the farthest place we’d gone in ages. But we weren’t exactly feeling the Happy Family vibes. For weeks leading up to the trip, every night at dinner Blair would get all testy with Mom about whether or not she bought the low-fat yogurt, and why her chicken had to be cut into a million pieces, and my stomach hurts, you’re so mean, leave me alone, I’m not a kid. Lately, everything with Blair and food had been an argument. It was like when Jade and I babysat Meggie Saunders across the lake, begging her to eat dinner and promising a later bedtime in exchange for some vegetables. Mom had to police Blair, giving her the third degree: Did you even take a bite? What did you have for lunch? What about protein? Jade rolled her eyes so much they were practically stuck that way. We were all getting frustrated with her. Open mouth, insert food, swallow. Blair got straight As. She knew how to eat. This shouldn’t be that hard.

On the way to Illinois, Blair sat with her headphones in while I wrote for Planet Pirates and Jade texted some guy with a nose ring. Our entire family was nervous, full of audition anxiety, even though Blair would be the one dancing. It’s like we all sensed something bad was going to happen. It felt kind of like we were marching toward our doom, like Harry going to see Voldemort when he knew He Who Must Not Be Named was just going to kill him. We were going to stay in a hotel, though, which we almost never got to do, and Mom said she would go swimming with me since Blair had to go to bed early, so I tried to keep a positive attitude. I imagined Blair in New York, riding the subway in her leg warmers like a scene in her favorite ballet movie. My optimism lifted weights, getting ready for battle. It was the underdog in that car.