“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Glad I could help.”
I reach out and squeeze his hand, quick, like if I hold on too long I might cry. “You’ll get another chance.”
He nods, but he’s not really listening. His eyes move past me, already somewhere else.
“They don’t need much,” he says. “Don’t give them a reason, Sisk.”
From somewhere down the hall, a name gets called.
Lou squeezes my fingers before letting go. “You’re not gonna mess it up,” he says. “You don’t do that.”
I want to believe him. I put my hands on my stomach and take a deep breath.I can do this.
“Hey!” Ivan’s voice comes from behind me.
I flinch. I try not to stare at his fingers, even though I notice them right away. I look at the flowers he’s holding instead. It’s a whole bouquet. Flowers aren’t cheap around here—flowers aren’t even normal here. I take them carefully. “Thank you, I?—”
“You nervous?” he asks.
I set the bouquet beside my bag and go back to stretching, pretending my ribs aren’t vibrating.
“Actually… yeah. Terrified.”
The backstage room isn’t glamorous—just a long, narrow hallway behind the community auditorium where the academy scouts are borrowing space. Someone left half-eaten crackers on a folding table beside a stack of worn-out toe tape. Other dancers hover like dolls—warming up, whispering counts and doing the same stretches I am. Everyone’s pretending they’re fine. No one is. Because this isn’t just a dance test, it’s a ticket out of here.
Ivan watches me awkwardly.
“When I’m nervous,” he says, “I picture the worst thing that could happen.”
“That’s… helpful?”
He shrugs. “Then I ask myself—would I survive it? And every time, the answer is yes. So what’s the point in panicking?”
I blink. It’s stupid. It’s brilliant.
“Thanks,” I say, stretching deeper. “I needed that.”
The worst that can happen is I stay stuck in Tar City forever. And as bad as that sounds… I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. I could survive it, couldn’t I? Staying here, if it meant being near Jax?Pitfire!I want to slap myself.It was just a kiss, it meant nothing!
“Sisk Zaitseva?” someone calls from the hallway—mispronouncing my last name.
My pulse jumps. “That’s me,” I call back.
Ivan straightens. “Good luck.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘break a leg’?”
“Whoever came up with that was a sick person.”
Despite everything—my stomach unclenches as I walk out onto the worn stage.
Three people sit behind a long table with clipboards and blank faces. “Whenever you’re ready,” one of them says.
I turn and nod.
My song starts. The first note blooms through the space and my body remembers what my brain keeps forgetting:This is mine.
The floor is old and uneven and my foot slips once but I make it part of the movement—intentional, fluid, like I meant it. My lungs burn. My legs tremble. My heart hammers. And then something clicks, the world shuts up and there’s only the dance.
