Break

Craig is clean-sweep bald. My long, wavy brown hair has always gained a lot of attention.

He hands me an envelope with a few words scribbled in pencil: Dash, they brought this yesterday by courier. Tough luck. Dad.

Official Haverton letterhead and insignia. A breach of contract letter and scholarship revocation. No second chances. No negotiation.

Good to know that my father is aware we’re homeless and didn’t even think to check in or bring us a blanket or some food or a goddamned piece of clothing. Just a letter bearing bad news.

But it’s what Craig hands me next that undoes me. My fucking dance bag.

“I won’t need that where I’m going,” I tell him. I wonder if Nubo dropped it or someone from the hospital.

“Some Russian guy in a uniform dropped it off. Said on behalf of ‘Sandwich Sam.’”

“No, thanks,” I say and walk toward the door.

“Kid, I don’t care what you do with it. Toss it in the garbage if you want. I don’t give a fuck but clean up after yourself.” Craig throws the bag at me, and I catch it with one hand.

Whatever job I scrounge up, I won’t be wearing tights, that’s for sure. I step out into the bright but cold sunlight and shiver. I send my dance bag flying into the shelter’s dumpster but an underhand toss. But the sun is in my eyes, and my aim is off, so the bag slams into the side and its contents spill out onto the pavement. Something shiny glints in the light and catches my eye.

I walk over to see a small jewelry box open on the black pavement and what looks like a string of…diamonds? It’s a fucking diamond tennis bracelet. I reach over to snatch it up and see a little note taped to the cardboard top of the small box.

Pawn this for a hotel room. No one will miss it. Take your mom to Chinatown for Dumplings and Dim Sum. I’m sorry. Sam.

I’m sorry, too. Sorry about everything.

Eight years later…

Chapter Nine

Natayla

I’m sitting in the commons area of The Crestview School with my boyfriend, Lance, when I get the email. I’m casually scrolling through my phone, looking for some distraction while I pretend to be listening to Lance’s story about his ski trip to Vail. I’m not allowed to ski and hold little interest in going. In fact, I’m more interested in my iced coffee than I am in most things Lance has to say, so I drag my finger through the condensation droplets on the plastic cup, nod, smile, and look at my email.

One might wonder why Lance is my boyfriend if I find him so boring and unworthy of my attention, and the answer is simple: Mother. My mother chose Lance from a long parade of boys bred to look good in the burgundy velvet blazer with the fancy prep school insignia. It also doesn’t hurt that Lance’s mother is Russian, so we see the Cambert family at orthodox Divine Liturgy in church on Sunday Sabbath. Mom isn’t particularly devout, but she loves a good old-fashioned match that will impress her friends.

He was a shoo-in, according to Mother. I didn’t protest because I’m not allowed. He’s saying something about thousand-dollar bottles at tables at a club in Vail when I see the email.

Invitation to join the BA Studio Company is the title of the email. I open it, holding my breath. My audition went well, but I never expected to make it. Ballet Arts likes dancers with gripping stories, people who’ve overcome adversity. They like versatile dancers who can work their hips as well as they can isolate them. They also tend to pick dancers with huge social media followings, which I’m not allowed to have—besides the fan accounts Mother runs for me, which I’ve never logged onto. Dancers like me go on to join traditional ballet companies, not trendy avant-garde dance troupes that are changing the world of dance every day.

My eyes tear up, and my smile widens. I bite down on my tongue to keep from crying as whoops and hollers rise from the commons. When I open the invitation, Raise Your Glass by Pink starts blasting. I hear it coming from a few different corners where some people are shouting and others cry. A quarter of the BA Studio Company is sourced from Crestview every year. Crestview is, after all, the most elite college dance school in the country.

I take a deep breath and open the email. I click on the link, and the song begins to play while animated confetti falls over my name, Natayla Koslova, which blinks in neon pink.

“I didn’t even know you auditioned,” Lance says, his mouth full of the fries he’s scarfing down.

He never offers me fries because Mother told him explicitly not to feed me. If he shared, I’d like him more, but he’s more loyal to Mother than he is to me.