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Liz snaps the book shut. “Queens of Night is a groundbreaking fantasy series. The main character is queer and a badass, but she’s also sensitive and soft when she needs to be. And the villain—oh my God, don’t even get me started on the villain. She’s incredible. This world is incredible.” Liz slips the book into her locker. “Anyway, this was book five, which came out last week. I’m hoping Emi Miyoshi does a tour stop in Seattle.” Rummaging in her backpack, she pulls out a worn copy of a different book. “This is book one. Want to try it?”
I open it up to the tiniest font I’ve ever seen. “I’m, um . . .” I’m not embarrassed by my dyslexia, but I’m not sure Montana and Liz and I are at this stage of friendship yet.
“You’re what?” Montana finishes her bun with hairspray.
“Dyslexic,” I finish. “Peter loves to read, but . . . it can be really hard for me.”
“They have audiobooks!” Liz says. “I’ve listened to them, and the narrator is brilliant.”
When I assure her I’ll get the first book on audio, she beams, and a warmth blooms in my chest.
With one final smoothing of her bun, Montana says, “Dance team practice?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s something we could do.” Liz winks at her, and Montana rolls her eyes. Their relationship has an effortlessness to it. Their teasing, I can tell, comes from a place of true affection.
Before the transplant, Peter and I teased each other like that.
We meet the rest of the team in the gym. Over and over, Montana has told me to be commanding, but that’s easy for her to say. Maybe it’s easier for tall people to be leaders. Right now I’m mainly terrified of the judgment: of someone telling me what I’ve poured my soul into isn’t good. There has to be nothing worse as an artist.
“Today we’re going to learn a piece Sophie’s been choreographing,” Montana says after leading us in a warm-up, and while the team doesn’t exactly look ecstatic, they don’t look horrified, either. I take this as a good sign. “Sophie, take it away.”
We swap places and I’m in front of the group now. My ponytail got mussed during the warm-up, so I tug out the elastic. Retie it. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. “Hey, guys. Um. How is everyone?”
Someone coughs. Montana raises her eyebrows.
There are so many people watching me.
If I can’t conquer this, I’ll be the quiet girl dancing in the back forever, choreographing pieces for no one but the walls of my room. And dances—my dances—are meant to be seen. I have to believe that.
“I’ve been working on this new choreography, and I’m excited for us to learn it. So, um, the piece is about two groups that are trying to prove which style of dance is best?” I don’t know why I phrase it as a question. My voice keeps rising at the end of my sentences. “We could form two groups? Taylor, you could stand over there next to Gabe? And, Liz, if you could scoot forward so you’re next to Kunjal?”
“Could we learn it first before we start blocking it?” Taylor calls out.
Of course. That’s what we always do. I was jumping ahead. “Right. Um, I’ll play the music and do a few bars so you guys can get the idea. It starts out—” I cut myself off when I catch Montana’s gaze. She’s shaking her head: Don’t tell. Do. So I let the sentence vanish.
We don’t really have solos on the team, so I haven’t performed in front of a bunch of people like this in a while. I start the first section, the one with the more graceful, classic steps. Then the second section, which is a little more hip-hop, a little rawer.
“I like it,” says Brenna, a junior who can kick higher than anyone else on the team. Brenna becomes my favorite person. “The different styles of music and dance—you’ve blended them in such a cool way.”
“She has,” Liz agrees, smiling at me. I give her a quick smile back, but then make my face serious for the rest of the team.
“Let’s break down the first four-count,” I say. “This will be the first group, but let’s all learn it for now and I’ll divide you up later.” Solid. Not a question this time.
“Can you go through it slower?” Jonah asks. “I’m not getting the rhythm.”
“Definitely!” I do it slower. Then a little faster. Repeat. Repeat. “Five, six, seven, eight . . .”
We do the first four-count over and over, then add the next few, and then I split the team into two groups. And—they’re getting it. The dance breathed to life like this is completely unlike what I imagined in the best possible way. Everyone brings their own flair to it. It isn’t just mine—it’s ours.
“It’s looking great!” I exclaim at the end of practice, pulling up my shirt to wipe my sweat-slicked face.
“This was fun,” Neeti says. “I love the song.”
“Isn’t it fantastic?” I’m glowing with this attention, this praise. My desperate texts to Peter the other day—I didn’t need his support, not really. Not for this. I did this on my own.
Montana returns to the front. “Thanks, Sophie! I think we’re all pumped about this new piece. I wanted to wrap up practice with an interesting opportunity. Our team’s been invited to attend a weekend dance intensive in Spokane in a couple weeks. There will be dancers there from all over the state, and the workshops will be taught by college dance professors.”
A chorus of excited chatter moves through the crowd.
