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.
Likemydream.
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. Itiscrazy.
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 siton 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.
