And yet. There was something else, too. Ballet suddenly seemed so beautiful. I knew that other people saw it that way—that dance was for pretty girls in pretty costumes with pretty lights. Ballet had always been so ugly in my eyes: the way it tore Blair’s feet to shreds, the way her shoulder blades stuck out when she stretched, the way sweat dripped from her forehead after practice. Blair, grimacing while Aleksander yanked her feet into a firmer arch—that was how I had thought ballet could make you feel. It was as glamorous as wrestling to me. But when Blair was on that stage, playing Swanilda, you couldn’t deny it: she was beautiful.

The day before, I saw her standing in front of the mirror in her room, just looking at herself. Her face was less than an inch away from the glass, and her hands were pushed against it. She was staring so intensely, like she could burn a hole through the glass if she tried. Then she made a face—one of disgust. It was as if she had stepped in Obi’s poop. Her lip curled up, eyes glaring, totally horrified. Yes, she was beautiful, but no, she couldn’t see it. That much I knew. I had never seen Blair make that face before, but it was far from the last time.

On the way home from her opening-night performance, we stopped for ice cream. Blair got two scoops of Moose Tracks, our favorite, which I still remember because I spilled some of mine in the back seat and she shared the rest of hers. Jade was in a good mood, too, even though she had just started seventh grade and kind of seemed to hate everybody and everything. She ordered Blue Moon, a flavor I wished I liked because of the cool name, but it actually tasted like stale Lucky Charms.

“Magnificent,” Mom said, kissing her fingers and mimicking Aleksander. “This girl is a star!”

“Better than I’ve seen, even in all my days in Russia,” Dad drawled. “A measly American!”

“Stop,” Blair howled. “I’m gonna pee my pants.”

“That man, Blair! He’s something else. How you spend so much time with him, I will never know. But he’s definitely taught you well. You were superb,” Mom said.

“The best dancer by far,” Dad added.

“I was not,” said Blair, blushing. She was. We all knew it, including her.

“That guy you had to dance with looked like he needed to take the stick out of his butt, though,” said Jade.

Dad and Blair cracked up, but Mom reached back and flicked Jade on the knee. “Jade Marie! Watch the language!”

“I just said butt!” We were all sugar-drunk and exploded in laughter again.

“Ooh, listen to what’s on! Our jam!” Mom cranked the radio.

“Mom. Do not say jam. It’s not 1985,” said Jade. But she started wiggling with anticipation. It was our jam.

“Not Dolly Parton,” groaned Dad, covering his ears.

Mom loved Dolly Parton. This was her favorite song, about Dolly’s mom taking a bunch of rags and making her a coat in a bunch of different colors. I always found her humming it while she washed dishes or dusted the bookshelves, shaking her hips in a way that made Jade beg her to stop.