School was the last place I wanted to be, even though I knew I had to go eventually. But arriving today, I wanted to turn on my heels and immediately go back home, because I knew my first period books were in my locker, which I currently wasn't able to access.

"Excuse me," I said to Joshua, who was intently staring at me as if he was telepathically going to get me to look up at him. "Excuse me," I repeated and then shouldered my way in between him and the locker door. I tried twisting in my combination but ended up just circling it a bunch of times because my mind was somewhere else-probably on the hot breath down the back of my neck and the eyes boring into the back of my head. Everything was amplified by a thousand.

"That's it?" said Joshua.

"I have nothing to say," I stated, not turning around to face him because I would have either straight up punched his pretty little face or kissed it, I wasn't sure which yet.

"Nothing at all?" he pressed on.

"I said, nothing," I repeated, more forcefully this time, because I wanted this conversation to be over, and I wanted things to not be so weird, and I wanted last night to never have happened.

"Well, I have a lot to say, actually."

"That's nice," I snapped, swinging my locker open, practically smacking him in the face with it, "although you pretty much said everything you needed to last night."

"No, I didn't, not at all. What happened doesn't-"

"Hey, Joshy!" a voice squealed from behind me. I turned my head right into a ponytail full of Emmy hair. She had stepped right between Joshua and me, as if anyone needed to be inserted into this conversation right now. I tried unsuccessfully to disappear among my books.

"I had fun last night," she continued, and I froze, hand halfway for my textbook, her words hitting me with enough force to stop me from moving altogether. "Hope we can do it again sometime." Out of the corner of my eye I saw her wrap her arms around his neck and place a small kiss on his lips, as tall as he was in her platform heels, and then she flounced off, practically skipping, her ponytail happily swinging from side to side.

I, on the other hand, was pissed. I slammed the locker shut and the noise reverberated around the hallway. "That was adorable," I said, turning to look him straight in the eyes, sarcasm dripping from each word.

"Hillary," he began, holding out his palms like I was going to find forgiveness there.

"No," I cut him off, putting up a finger to stop him, "I don't want to know. Really, spare me the details. You can do whatever you want, with whomever you want, because I really don't care."

"You have it all wrong. You didn't even give me a chance to explain last night before you slammed the door in my face."

"I thought the kiss was pretty self-explanatory."

"You've got to understand, Hill. It's more complicated than that."

"It's really not. We're not there. I'm not there. You might be, but I'm not. You don't just get to throw away a nine-year friendship like that."

"Throw away? Are you serious? That's what you think I was trying to do?"

"I don't know why I keep responding. I don't want an explanation."

"Hillary, you're the only one who-"

"Really? Because clearly I am not the only one who is or does anything for you."

"Hear me out, please. Let's go to lunch today."

"I can't," I said. "I'm sorry." And then I walked away from him, and in that moment, I knew I was walking away from a lot more than just a person.

• • •

The thing I hated most about dance studios was the mirrored walls, how the reflection seemed to point out my every flaw and every misstep, how everybody else could see exactly what I was doing wrong; right now, it showed me consistently one beat behind the rest of the group in the number we were rehearsing.

Instead, I focused on the sounds my legs were making-the stretch and creak of my shoes as they curved at an angle from the floor, the hard thud of my toes as they hit the ground, the airy sweep as my feet shuffled from one position to another. My breathing was choppy with each leap, each sound distinct in the small studio with no music to mask it. Pointe, creak. Assemblé, thud. Jeté, thud, thud.

Lauryn stood at the front of the room, watching on and instructing ("Turn . . . arabesque . . . perfect, now extend . . . extend . . . farther please!"). She could have been talking to any one of us, even all of us as a whole, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was me she was criticizing. I couldn't focus. My toes ended up giving out underneath me and I went stumbling.

"Okay, guys," Lauryn said, and everyone stopped moving, "take five and then regroup. I have to rework a few things." Everybody dispersed around me, and I stayed there, silently fuming at myself. We'd done this piece a million times before, but it was like I was learning it for the first time, and I wasn't able to grasp onto anything. I knew the steps, could guess the next one before it even happened, but it was like my mind and body weren't connected.

Lauryn approached me. "Where's your mind, Hillary?" she asked.

I pulled out my hairband and pushed it back over my head. "It's here, it is. At least, I'm trying. I don't-I'm just distracted, is all."

"You could do these moves in your sleep," Lauryn said. "Hell, you could take over my job if you wanted."

"I know," I said. "I know. I'm having an off day-an off week, actually."

"First week back at school?"

"It's a lot more than just that."

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, and I paused. Did I? I wouldn't know where to start. She must have noticed me struggling. "Why don't you go take a breather?"

"No, it's okay," I protested. "I'll be fine."

"You sure you'll be ready in time? The showcase is two weeks from now."

"Like you said, I could do these moves in my sleep."

She laughed, touching my arm to let me know she was there for me, and then clapped her hands to signal that the break was over. Everyone bustled back to the floor, and we all resumed. I focused on my moves, my extensions; whenever my mind started to drift back to thoughts of Joshua, I redirected it quickly-to my contractions and my expansions, to the muscles in my thighs, to keeping my lungs open-and tried to block everything else out. I was momentarily successful, although I knew I couldn't use that maneuver forever.

I was sitting on the floor, untying my slippers, when Darren approached me. He was the principal dancer opposite of me, and we'd grown extremely close over the past few months, having had to choreograph our own duet for the showcase, which we'd perfected. Now all I had to do was worry about all of the other routines, including my solo. Although, judging from my current headspace, I didn't know if I'd be able to get that done.

Darren crouched down beside me. "We're all going to get some pizza," he said, "if you'd like to join us." At the mention of the word, my stomach started to grumble. I hadn't eaten anything this morning, or during lunchtime, stress occupying every available space in my brain.

"We're going to Vincenzo's," he continued. "I invited some dancers I know, too, from Studio One, so there will be lots of people there. Lots of room to hide in the corner like the wallflower I know you strive to be."

I began standing and pushed him in the shoulder on my way up, making him topple over.

"Hey!" he cried, standing up next to me. "I'm just being honest."

"This sounds like one of your lame attempts to get me to go somewhere so I can accidentally run into some guy that you met that you think is perfect for me and that you can later say was there because of fate," I told him. This had happened on numerous occasions already, and Darren quickly looked away from me, admiring the ceiling and the walls like they were the most interesting things in the world.

"I cannot believe you!" I said, punching him in the shoulder. "Not again. So far your tactics have been a complete catastrophe."

"But, Hillary," he contested, "this guy is gorgeous. I tried to make a move, but I'm obviously not his type. You know, male. But for you, he's perfect."

"Well, it's good to know that his type is female," I said.

"Well, that's not the only thing. He likes girls who are beautiful and have a great sense of humor and a great smile, so yeah, basically you."

"Are you trying to bait me with compliments?"

"You guys coming?" a voice called out from my left. Sadie was looking over at us expectantly. Darren looked to me for the answer.

And that's how I ended up and Vincenzo's Pizzeria, Darren's hand gripped tight around mine, making our way over to a table filled with people already laughing and passing slices of pizza to each other. Our group and theirs melted together easily as we sidled in to join them, grabbing chairs from other booths and pulling them up. I slid in behind Darren. Everyone seemed to know each other already, and I, like a wallflower, was the odd one out.

"That's him," Darren suddenly whispered into my ear, "ten o'clock."

I peered to my left and met the eyes of what I could only assume to be the one with whom Darren wanted to set me up. The guy smiled at me, with one cute little corner of his mouth, and I could have sworn that his eyes twinkled-like a storybook character.

"Everybody," Darren announced, "this is Hillary. She's a little shy, so please, no sudden movements or loud noises, or she will get scared and run off."

"To be clear," I corrected, "I'm not a stray animal in the streets, so you don't have to worry about me being easily spooked. Thanks, Darren, for talking me up to your friends. I appreciate it."

"Also," he went on, "she has a little bit of a temper, so don't do anything to piss her off or you will be on the receiving end of a full wrath of sarcasm."

"That one's true," I said, and everyone laughed.

"Your hair is absolutely beautiful," the girl across from me said, reach over the table to touch my arm. I self-consciously placed my hand on the top of my head. "How do you get it to curl like that?"

"Oh," I said, taken aback by her straightforwardness. "It's natural, I guess. If I leave it up for long enough and then take it down, this is the result."

"Ugh," she said, groaning, "I wish mine could look like that. It's just so pin-straight." Then she and the other girls around her were off an a conversation about hairdressers and products and oh my, gosh, I saw this amazing thing on Pinterest that you can totally do with everyday household items, a topic to which I had nothing to contribute, because my morning routine consisted of blow-drying my hair and then immediately piling it into a bun. Sometimes, I would skip the blow-drying altogether.

"We," Darren said to the group, gesturing to the guy next to him, "are going to order another pizza, because two is not just going to cut it with me. I need one entirely for myself." He waved his hands to signal for me to move, and I stood up to let them out. "Time to make your move," he whispered to me as he passed by, and I realized that with the two of them gone, there was no one in between me and the storybook guy.

I have to say something, right? I thought as I slowly sat back down. I don't want him thinking I'm an antisocial weirdo, right? But no words came out of my mouth. I didn't know where to begin. The only thoughts running through my mind were how good the way he styled his hair looked on him and how well-defined his muscles were underneath his tank-top, which weren't exactly subtle or casual conversation starters.

"I'm Charlie," he said to me, catching me off-guard, extending his hand over the small space between us. I was quietly relieved that he'd been the one to break the ice.

"Hillary," I introduced myself, returning the handshake.

"I figured," he said.

"Did Darren . . .?" I began, not even having to finish before Charlie began laughing.

"Yeah, he did," he said, chuckling. "That guy is something else."

"That's one way to put it," I responded. "Another is humiliating. He tells me you're the lead dancer at Studio One? How's that, working under Bridgette Ross and all? I hear she's brutal."

"Oh, God," the girl next to him groaned, leaning across Charlie to talk to me. "She is brutal. But if I'm not in the best shape of my life, and I'm not learning the most I possibly ever could, then I don't know. She's a beast."

"Thanks, Jessica," Charlie said to her, "this isn't the girl I'm trying to hit on, or anything."

Jessica slowly backed away with her hands in surrender, looking embarrassed, mouthing a sorry in our direction. I blushed, embarrassed too, and laughed nervously. Just then, Darren and his friend returned to the table with another large platter overflowing with pepperoni pizza, placing it in the center of all of us. I immediately grabbed a piece, aiming to cover up my embarrassment with food-you know, like a normal human being. Darren slid in next to me, and his friend right after him, pushing me closer to Charlie.

"What did I miss?" Darren asked around, looking pointedly at me, reaching under the table to squeeze my knee with his hand. He was something else.

The rest of the afternoon went by breezily. Charlie was funny, and I mean laugh out loud funny. He had the entire group cracking up with his impressions, and he had me smiling whenever he'd crook up that one side of his mouth in a smile of his own. Everyone was laid-back and easy-going, not something I'd expect from a bunch of rich kids who could afford to go to the best studio and the best choreographer around. The seniors shared where they were applying to college, all of which were art schools or dance conservatories, and I felt incredibly at-ease mentioning that I planned on going to the Boston Conservatory.

"I applied there," Charlie said. "What I wouldn't give to get in. My audition is in January."

"That's when I'm going," I replied.

"We can carpool!" he said, joking, I knew, but something about the way he said it had me actually imagining the possibility and believing he'd want to still know me in five months.

Whoa. Slow down, Hudson. You just met the guy.

We were walking out of the restaurant when I felt a light touch on my shoulder. I spun around to see Charlie there, his phone in his hand held out to me, a "New Contact" screen already pulled up. "Put your number in," he said, not at all rude or demanding, his stupid crooked smile charming me in to following his direction. The keys clicked as I typed my number in, inserting a little pizza emoji in next to my name. He laughed when he saw it. "I like that. It'll remind me of you. Not that I could ever forget you."

I was headed back to my car when my phone chimed from my purse, and I reached in to grab it; an unknown number had popped up: I'm sorry, but I seem to have forgotten who this is, the text read.

Too bad, I typed back, this person was really awesome and super good-looking.

Oh, Hillary! he wrote back within a few seconds. All you had to do was describe yourself. And then a winky face emoji.

As I wrote back to Charlie, I felt something different-it was a feeling of possibility, like I'd pressed a reset button. I knew that the past few days hadn't exactly gone like I'd planned, that I was still reeling from the situation with Joshua, but I didn't need to put my life on hold just for that. I still deserved to look for something worth wasting my time on, even if it was stupid or pointless or fizzled out within a week. I still deserved to keep moving forward. I owed myself that much, right?