“You can’t rush recovery. Try to take it one step at a time, alright?”

I

try to fall asleep, but whoever suggested counting sheep couldn’t have been too smart. I’m up to 86 before I realize that this is doing nothing for me. So, I decide to have a little fun. First, I dress all the sheep in different pastel colored ballet skirts. Then I have them begin to dance. They dance and dance their way over the little wooden fence they’d been jumping. “Jeté, jeté,” I murmur, and then finally, blissfully, I fall asleep.

Waking up on cast removal day, I have one goal in mind: Finalize with my doctor the best plan for getting back into ballet shoes ASAP.

I flash back to my conversation with Atara yesterday. If the doctor told me I could dance again in two weeks, would I take my solo back? The recital is still two months away.

Atara’s large, tear-filled eyes fill my mind, and I physically shake my head. I won’t, I wouldn’t. But then her voice begins to echo, “You know, and I know, that you’re a bit self-involved.”

Sheesh, with BFFs like that, who needs enemies?

I suppose I am a bit self- involved. But if there was ever a time I am entitled to some self-involvement, wouldn’t it be now?

***

“Ahhh,”  I exhale, as Dr. Frankel removes the last of the cast. I have questions I want to ask, but I’m too nervous as he examines the wound and begins to remove the stitches. Mommy squeezes my hand; I breathe in and out. I get so queasy from these things, but at least that itchy gross thing is going where it belongs — in the garbage.

“Okay, all done with that,” the doctor says, smiling at me sympathetically. I thank him, and he heads out to get my brand-new walking boot. Uh, yay.

He comes back in with a tall black thing. “Oh, that’s pretty,” I say sarcastically.

He chuckles. “Definitely not the point. The heel lift will keep your ankle and foot steadily in place, and your mom will tell you about the physical therapy sessions she’s scheduled, alright? In the meantime, I still want you to keep most of your weight on the crutches, okay?”

“I guess,” I say reluctantly. “What’s the point of rehab, though, If I still can’t use my leg?”

The doctor nods. “Yes, it does seem pointless, but you need to spend these weeks strengthening your upper body so your foot can have a stress-free recovery.”

I nod, but I’m not really listening. “And when can I dance again? There’s this solo in two months and—”

“Bella,” Dr. Frankel interrupts me. “You can’t rush recovery. Try to take it one step at a time, alright? You seem like a strong girl, isn’t that right, Mom?”

Mommy smiles weakly, but I know what she’s thinking: I’m strong until someone takes away my ballet shoes. Then I just become unbearable. Although, according to Atara, I’m pretty much always unbearable. Isn’t that fun?