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correct hand position for the gazillionth time. “Cup your hands, men, no splayed fingers. If you lift with your fingertips, your partner will have five little bruises on each side of her waist tomorrow, and you do not want that to happen! Men, it is simply not worth the aggravation!”
    It isn’t easy to get a grip with a cupped hand, so we’re only lifting the girls four inches or so off the floor. But Cam and Jer and I have been hitting the gym—well, except for yesterday—and I feel strong. Johanna and I try a little higher, a little higher, and I’m almost to the point where I can lift her right over my head, but Mr. Colson says no, not yet. But it’s coming, I know it. By the end of the afternoon, lifting with cupped hands feels almost normal.
    Between classes, I grab Charis’s arm. “Wait up! I wanted to tell you—the company dancers use these little pink balls to roll out their feet. And they dance with toe spacers—Charis, you should really watch the company warm-up. It’s so cool, and I know you’d learn a lot.”
    Charis raises her eyebrows. “Thanks for the tip. And here I thought I’d learned everything already.”
    “I was only trying to help. Just because I’m the one that got the part doesn’t mean we can’t all get something out of it.”
    “Yeah, well, you don’t need to rub it in.”
    Rolling my eyes, I go over to the corner and slump down on the floor beside Cam and Jer. I brought my water bottle today, and I start rolling out my calves with it. They stare. “This is how the company guys do it,” I explain.
    “Ah,” says Cam. “Probably not a technique us poor students will be able to master then.”
    “Give me a break!” I explode. “I am not trying to rub it in! Can I help it if I’m learning new things? What, you want me to pretend I’m not part of the company?”
    “Yeah, that might be an idea,” says Jeremy. They both get up and walk to the barre together.
    I don’t believe it. All of a sudden my friends think I’m too good for them? Well, stuff them. I’m part of the company, at least for now, and if they don’t like it, tough.

Seven
    I’ve never been so happy to be ignored.
    They go so fast. The company, I mean. Mr. Acton shows the choreography once— once —and we’re expected to have the steps memorized. And sometimes he doesn’t even show us—he just lists all the steps in order, and we have to imagine them in our heads. Then perform them. Instantly. Are they all geniuses or something? I can’t process that fast. I bet everybody else will have the choreography for the entire production learned in a week, and I’ll still be marking the first act. I feel like such a moron.
    “Oops, sorry!”
    “Wrong way, kid.”
    I want to die.
    “No, no, no!” shouts Mr. Acton. Everybody stops. “This is all wrong!”
    Luckily, he’s not looking at me in particular. I ease backward into a corner, behind the other understudies. The back row is ours and ours alone, and I am so glad. The principals are pacing at the front of the room.
    “This isn’t Baby Ballet, people! I need you to eat space. You must gobble up the stage! Move, move, move! Nothing small. Go deep, move it across the floor like you’ve never done before! And in the fondu—both legs straighten at the same time. You know that! We need to go back to the basics.” Mr. Acton sighs. “Chassé, coupé, pas de bourrée, jeté. Now !” We all line up in the corner. I am so relieved. These steps I can do. It’s just like class.
    Back and forth, back and forth. Leaping, jumping, turning. The studio reeks of sweat and we’re all panting, but Mr. Acton keeps shouting, “Again! Again!” Finally, we get a take-ten. Everybody collapses, but I’m feeling okay. I’m good at cross floor, and I can keep up. But, of course, the minute I start feeling halfway like a company member, Mr. Acton takes it all away.
    “Rick, Robin,” he says. “Let’s go over the scene where Oberon gives the flower to