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That’s why I’m still here, even though most people have long since gone to dinner and already finished for the day. I’ll eat later, alone. I don’t have the nerves for the conversations in the dining room, which for days now have revolved solely around the ballet we’ll be performing in two and a half months. I’m tired of hearing Susannah and Katie say over and over again that I don’t need to worry because I’ll get the lead role anyway. I think and hope the same thing, but they need to stop talking about it, otherwise they’ll jinx it.

Pearson still hasn’t given us the slightest hint about which ballet he’s chosen, and that makes me more nervous every day. So nervous that I can’t sleep properly anymore. There are no formal auditions for the show; the last three years have been our audition. Just like the past two weeks have been. Pearson is keeping an eye on all of us, all the time, and is constantly discussing the matter with the rest of the teaching staff. He knows which of us has the most potential.

That’s why I can’t take a break and why I have to keep going and train harder. More dancing, more cardio, more resistance training. Deeper stretches.

More of everything.

I don’t know which ballet I need to prepare for, so I try to prepare for all of them, as best I can. After all, there’s a good reason I spent my summer in London and not on a beach somewhere. I don’t have much time left to prove that I’m good enough. My career already has an expiration date on it, before it’s even begun. That’s how it is with ballet. I’m twenty-one. I have ten years, maybe fifteen if my body can hold out that long—if I don’t get injured. My time is limited, and I have to make the most of every minute.

The lead role in the Christmas performance is my first step in the right direction. It’s what I’ve been working toward not just for the last three years but my whole life. This role is my reward for all the tears, aching muscles, sweat-soaked leotards, hundreds of worn-out pointe shoes, and countless bruises on my feet. For vacations that weren’t vacations, for afternoons spent at ballet lessons instead of with friends at the movies or the mall. For all the months I came home after school and took care of Mom before practicing because Dad and Jase became so distant after Sam died.

Memories come flooding back. Mom, lying hopelessly in bed, her face pale, only getting up when Dad practically forced her to have dinner with us. But she didn’t eat, at least not enough. We could almost see her wasting away. Dad would creep around the house with an inscrutable expression on his face but not doing anything. Jase’s expression was just as unreadable, but I could sense the anger and despair radiating from him anyway. And then there was me, trying to somehow hold everything together and cheer Mom up at the same time.

Sam’s room was empty and quiet, as lifeless as he now was. Mom and Dad couldn’t bear to put his things away. For weeks, everything lay on the floor just like he’d left it before he went to his last football game. His clothes, his schoolbooks, his practice equipment.

I feel a lump in my throat and squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t think about it now. It won’t do any good—you can’t change the past.

It would only distract me, and I can’t afford any distractions right now. I have to focus on the here and now. And my future. I take a shaky breath. My lungs expand until they hurt the way they always do, because that will never change when it comes to Sam. He should be here, but he’s never coming back.

I exhale and let the memories and images go. I do it because I must.

Then I unwrap the Theraband from my feet and shake my legs to neutralize the stretch. Everything hurts, but in ballet, it’s normal to push your body past its limits once you’ve managed to somehow exceed the previous ones. Even though there are days when it doesn’t seem like it should be possible. You can always get more out of yourself. I can. I must. Because there can be no doubt that I’ll get the role, no matter what it is. Cinderella, Giselle, the Sugar Plum Fairy. It will be one of them, and it will be me.

My legs feel shaky when I stand up. I should call it a day. I walk over to the stereo, turn off the piano music, and take the CD out of the player to put it back into its box before I get my bag. Then I take off my slippers and put on some warm pants and the school hoodie we all got at the beginning of our first year. I’ve worn and washed mine so often that the material has gotten thin and very soft.

My forehead is throbbing, and my scalp aches because my hair is still tied back as tightly as it was this morning. My fingers act on their own accord, pulling out one hairpin after another from the tight bun at the back of my head, until my hair cascades down my back. I sigh with relief as the pressure finally eases. I pack up my things and leave the studio. The corridor is empty and quiet; everyone else is already at dinner. But as I enter the stairwell, I hear music.

My feet move automatically toward it. It’s not a song I know, and not one that any of us would choose to dance to. Except maybe Jase.

But it’s not my brother dancing alone in one of the studios on the second floor. It’s Phoenix.

There they are again, those stupid butterflies in my stomach that I’ve been trying to ignore whenever I see him. You’d think they would stop at some point and that I would be used to seeing him every day by now. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. It’s only getting worse.

I stand in front of the studio, even though I know it’s wrong. But I can’t leave. I’m not able to look away either. I’ve never seen Phoenix dance, not like this. He shows us the steps in class, but that’s different. There’s a big difference between teaching ballet and doing it. I have no idea what I expected, but over the last few weeks, I’ve asked myself more than once how he would dance if he were doing it only for himself.

Phoenix is good. No, not just good. He’s breathtaking. Brilliant. His movements are smooth and controlled, yet he whirls around the space with such ease that it makes me dizzy to watch him.

My heart is beating way too fast as I stare at him. His beautiful face, the dark hair falling across his forehead. The black T-shirt clinging with sweat to his muscular torso. I can’t look away. The way he dances captivates me. So full of anger and so full of pain. Both are not only in his eyes but also reflected in his movements.

He dances what he feels, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. I take a step forward, closer to the door. The urge to go to him and tell him how good he is feels almost overwhelming. He shouldn’t be here at this school. He belongs on stage. He needs to be seen by the whole world.

One more step. I pause. I can’t go in. I can’t talk to him. It wouldn’t be right, not after we’ve ignored each other for the last few weeks. The silence between us feels wrong, even though it’s the right thing to do. It’s appropriate.

We talked that one night, and now we’re silent because we have to be.

Because we want to be.

Right?

I turn around and leave the building. Quick steps, quick pulse.

It’s over; we agreed on that.

But it doesn’t feel like it’s over for me.

Not when I see him so often and think about him even more often. About him and me and that night. Not when I know how he dances and when the desire to dance with him fills me with an almost unbearable longing.

Interlude