“Hello? Hello?” And then I realize that Atara’s crying

Isit on my bed and survey the room through slitted eyes.

Step one to Operation Tackle Tornado: assess the damage. I do a 360 with my eyes, taking in the pile of tutus on the floor, the bags of ribbons and slippers piled behind the door, the chair hidden by upsheren wardrobe options, the nightstand littered with chocolate wrappers and plastic cups, and the unmade bed I am perched on.

Aha.

I have my work cut out for me. I grin, remembering how on the first day of high school, Perel from math class asked me if I was super neat because I did ballet. Um, hi, misconception, how are you?

But Ma, on the other hand, is very neat. And she has informed me, in no uncertain terms, that if I don’t get my room clean, she is canceling all future ballet classes. And dinner. I think she was joking about that last one. I hope.

Step two is to stand up, which I do very reluctantly. Okay, I can fold clothes. I gather the pile up from the chair and make my way back to the bed. I hum as I fold, and before I know it, I’m done. “Woo-hoo!” I cheer.

Ugh, but now I need to put them all away. Time for a break.

I press play on my speakers; the track for my dance solo comes on. Mmmm, yes.

I get into position and wait. The music swells, I rise onto my toes — pointe will have to wait until I’m wearing ballet shoes — and extend my arms. Slowly, slowly, I start the first turn. And… ow! Not again!

I sink to the floor, massaging my leg. I must tell Mommy I need more muscle cream. Hobbling toward the nightstand, I take it as a sign that I should not be dancing right now, but listening to my mother instead. Turning off the music, I snatch up the garbage bin and am just sweeping everything inside when my phone rings.

I glance at the screen. Atara Bestie <3

Ha, she’d entered herself into my contact list.

I pick up, tucking the phone behind my ear as I continue my cleaning attempts.

“Well, hellloooo Atara Bestie.”

All I hear is silence.

“Hello? Hello?” And then I realize that Atara’s crying.

Abandoning my garbage bin, I sit back down on the bed. “Atara? Tar? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is everyone okay?”

She continues to cry and I am at a complete loss for words.

“Atara? Should I come over?”

Even as I offer, I know I can’t; there’s no way Ma will let me go until I finish my room.

“N-n-noo,” she chokes out. “Do not come over.”

“Is everyone okay?”

She half-laughs, half-sobs. “Define ‘okay.’ ”

“Um, alive and breathing, all limbs intact, not being held at gunpoint?”

She choke-laughs again. “Oh, if that’s okay, then we’re all fine.”

“Atara.”

“It’s fine, Bella Rena. Everything’s fine. I’m sorry. I just — I need to go.”

And then my best friend hangs up on me.