That’s where I’m going. To see my family. It’s my family in the centre of the dance floor. Five women who look like me are all in a line wearing matching bluish-purple bridesmaid dresses, flanking the youngest-looking one in a long, flowing wedding dress. An older woman bumps up against me, forcing me into the dancers.

“There you are, Cybelle! We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Don’t tell me you fell asleep again. I warned you about that jet lag. Now, go take your sister’s train before she trips.”

I squint at the woman. “You’re not my mom.”

But the woman just rolls her eyes at me and laughs. She pushes me again. I’m in the middle of the throng now. I have no choice, but as I pick up the long wedding train, I grow more and more certain that that woman is not my mother. Something isn’t right about all this. I can’t keep up with the dancers, or the song: something about stomping and sliding and going to work … I’ve never heard this song before in my life. The directions are simple enough, but I can’t follow along. I’m always one step behind, coming face to face with angry partygoers. My legs tangle with theirs. They glare at me, but they keep dancing. Something is wrong with everyone’s eyes. It’s not just looks of disdain. Their eyes are warped, turned vertically. Everyone’s eyes are … except for the bride. She stops dancing and rips the train out of my hands.

“What are you doing?!” she demands to know.

“I … what?” I’m turning away from her. I can’t help it.

She grabs me before I can spin away again. “You heard me. I want to know what you’re doing.”

Everyone collapses on the floor like rag dolls. The bride and I are the only ones standing.

“I don’t understand,” I say. I feel numb. But it feels good not to be spinning anymore. “I’m … supposed to be here.”

“You know you’re not.”

The song is still going, encouraging people to move. No one moves from the floor.

“Now look what you’ve done.”