Chapter 1
Zoe
Why do you get along with your parents so well?
Because they let me be who I am. It’s not that they let me get away with everything, but they let me make my own mistakes. And I know that they’re always there for me, no matter what.
—P
“Zoe! Where the heck are you?” Caleb shouts through the house. In my mind’s eye, I can almost see him standing on the first step of the stairs with an annoyed expression on his face, glancing every two seconds at his phone to check the time.
“I’m coming!”
“You do realize this is your first day of college, don’t you?”
“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes. It’s my first day—not at college, but at the New England School of Ballet. But those are just details that Caleb is apparently not interested in. Whatever; there’s still no reason for him to stress me out.
“You’re going to be late!”
“Caleb, stop shouting!” I yell back, pushing a strand of auburn hair off my forehead. Rushing me has never made me ready to leave any faster. Usually, it makes me take longer. “I’ll be right there!”
His loud groan makes me smile. I look around my room one last time, taking in the white furniture, the cream-colored bed linens, and the fluffy carpet.
My desk was already moved during the summer, along with all my schoolbooks.
Everything else, including my clothes, ballet gear, and all the odds and ends I need for my new room, was packed in four huge suitcases a few days ago.
I started packing a week ago, accompanied by the constant feeling that I would surely forget something if I didn’t start soon enough. Now I know I shouldn’t have worried about it. I’ve packed almost everything I own.
An entire life in four suitcases.
I pick up my backpack and leave my room.
I stop again in the doorway and run my hand over the numbers that Mom scratched into the wood to mark my height whenever I had a growth spurt.
A wave of homesickness hits me, even though I haven’t left yet.
It feels like a goodbye, even though it’s only a short one.
I can always come home. After all, I’m not even leaving the city.
I’m just moving to the next neighborhood over.
It’s only about a twenty-minute drive. But I still have a lump in my throat, and my eyes start to burn.
Before I can get too sentimental, Caleb calls me again.
“I’m coming!” I shout for the third time. I walk into the hall and down the stairs.
My parents and brother are waiting by the front door for me. Caleb is sitting on one of my suitcases, holding his phone as usual. His dark hair, which is like Dad’s, falls in messy curls over his forehead. He looks up when he hears me coming and sighs dramatically.
“Finally!”
“Caleb, leave her alone,” Mom scolds. But her smile reveals that she’s not very serious about it.
“Yeah, Caleb, leave me alone,” I say with a provoking grin. “You don’t have to come if it’s taking too long for you.”
Caleb stands up, and the suitcase he was just sitting on tips over and lands with a thud on the floor. I wince and bite my lip. I hope it isn’t the suitcase the fairy lights are in.
“But then I would miss the chance to yell at you, and I can’t pass that up.” He grabs me and messes up my hair. I try to get away, but he’s faster.
“God, Caleb, how old are you?” I pull out the hairband and make a new braid.
“Older than you, anyway,” he says, laughing. “Let’s go.” He grabs the first suitcase. Dad, who’s been watching the scene with a look of amusement, takes suitcases numbers two and three and follows my brother to the door.
Mom pushes me gently toward the door as she picks up the last suitcase.
A few minutes later, everything is in the back of Dad’s oversized SUV, and Caleb and I slide into the back seat while Mom and Dad get into the front.
“You really don’t all have to come,” I assure them in a futile attempt to talk them out of it. I’m probably going to be the only student there with her entire family.
“Yes, we do,” Mom and Dad say in unison.
Mom turns in her seat to look at me, and her green eyes have the telltale gleam of tears in them.
“We’re just so proud of you.”
I feel the heat of embarrassment rising in my cheeks and open my mouth to say something, but Caleb grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Leave it,” he whispers. “Her baby is moving out today.”
I want to tell him that it’s nonsense, but I know what he means. I see the proud look in Mom’s eyes, and I close my mouth.
“Who would have thought that you’d come so far?” She smiles broadly, and the corners of her eyes crinkle.
“Me!” Dad interjects without taking his eyes off the road.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He winks at me conspiratorially in the rearview mirror. His eyes are just as warm and brown as Caleb’s.
“That’s not how I meant it,” Mom protests.
“I always believed in you, dear, you know that. But I’ll always remember when I brought you to your first ballet lesson.
You were so small and awkward, and now you’re so .
. . you’re so beautiful and talented, and now you’re going to one of the best ballet schools in the country.
It’s just so—” Mom stops and wipes a tear off her cheek.
The last time I saw her this moved was when Caleb graduated from high school.
“Oh, Mom, don’t cry.” I lean forward and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Yeah, Mom, you aren’t wearing waterproof mascara today,” Caleb says, and I give him a look that could kill.
“Not helpful,” I hiss at him, but Mom laughs, and Caleb grins triumphantly.
“I’m always helpful.”
“Above all, you’re always annoying,” I retort, even though we both know that I’m not serious. Caleb is my big brother, and sometimes he really is annoying, but mostly he’s my best friend.
“Love you too, little sis.” Caleb tugs gently on my braid, and I resign myself to the fact that, apparently, tidy hair isn’t an option today.
Sighing, I pull the hairband out. I don’t make another attempt to tame my locks. Instead, I reach for my backpack to make sure I really packed everything, just to be safe. But before I can peek inside, Caleb grabs it and stuffs it onto the floor next to his feet, ignoring my protests.
“You packed everything,” he says. “You don’t need to check a thousand times. You already did that this morning after breakfast.”
“Let me look anyway,” I beg him, because I really need to convince myself that everything’s there. I reach for the backpack, but Caleb shoves it out of my reach with his foot. “Come on, Caleb! Please. What if I forgot something important?”
“You’re the biggest perfectionist I know. You didn’t forget anything.”
He’s probably right, but what if I did?
“Besides, even if you did forget something, one of us could bring it to you, or you can come get it yourself,” he says, unmoved, as though he can read my mind.
“At least check if I packed my ring binder. All the papers I need are in there.”
Caleb gives in with a sigh. He opens the backpack and closes it again a second later, assuring me he sees the gray ring binder I received along with my acceptance letter a few weeks ago. I sigh with relief and sink back into the seat.
It still feels strange to realize that I was actually accepted. Unreal. Like a dream.
Like my dream.
And it came true.
I’ve been dreaming of going to the New England School of Ballet since it first occurred to me that dancing could be more than a hobby. Ballet is everything for me. I want to go all the way to the top. I want to be on the big stage. With my acceptance, I got a giant step closer.
* * *
Caleb whistles, impressed, as Dad parks the car in the lot right in front of the campus.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place? This doesn’t look like a ballet school.”
“Crazy, right?” My heart leaps with excitement. I don’t need Caleb’s confirmation. It is crazy.
Caleb and Dad lift my suitcases out of the back, and then we cross the parking lot and walk toward the wrought-iron gate that’s set in the high sandstone walls surrounding the campus.
A huge smile spreads over my face as we pass under the archway, where the name of the school is emblazoned in unadorned letters.
It’s so beautiful here. Right in front of us, in the middle of the campus, is the centerpiece: the theater, with broad, inviting stairs, reminiscent of the ones in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.
Smaller, but no less impressive. The other buildings are centered around the theater.
The little administration building is right behind the theater, between the classroom building where the theory courses are taught and the dance studio complex, where there are not only more than a dozen studios but also a gym, a swimming pool, and a sauna.
Two dormitories sit on either side of the theater: one for the young students who are finishing their high school diplomas and the other for the older students.
All the buildings are made of sandstone in the Victorian style that the posh Back Bay neighborhood is famous for.
Behind the buildings, a wide green lawn stretches all the way to the wall.
All over the campus, crowds of students greet one another cheerfully after the summer vacation. Some of them are accompanied by their parents, especially the younger ones. But most of them are on their own.
“Where do we have to go?” Dad asks, looking over his shoulder at me questioningly. I point to the administration building.
“I have to get my room key,” I say.
When I was accepted to the New England School of Ballet, I got a package that contained a gray sweatshirt with the school’s coat of arms and the gray ring binder.
In the binder was all the information I needed to get settled: my schedule; my program for the first week, including appointments with a physical therapist and a nutritionist; a map of the campus; and a list of all the rules, especially about drugs and alcohol.
There was a short section about dress code and a much longer one about eating disorders.