We are so close now. It’s been ages, it feels like. Imagining the steps, executing the routine. Now, with all the bodies in motion, with the music bouncing off the studio walls, everything is falling into place. Everything is going according to plan.

“I gotta say, none of this is working for me,” Delancey shouts over the music, stepping out of formation and stalking toward the speaker. The music cuts out abruptly and a sudden silence hangs over the bare room. Heads swivel my way, waiting for me to react.

“Maybe we need to work through the steps a few times,” I say. “We have to keep at it.”

“We are working at it,” Delancey shoots back. “That’s my point. If it feels like work, it looks like work. Dance should flow.”

“Eventually, yeah. But we have to learn it before it flows.” I catch myself and try to drain my voice of any trace of expertise. Delancey won’t tolerate that. “Listen—” I try to make eye contact with the whole group. “It’s not going to click right away for anyone.”

Diana rushes to reassure me. “I see you clicking, Shea. Don’t sweat it.” I don’t even need to glance over to know Delancey’s rolling their eyes. Beneath the music, beneath the beat of any song we choreograph, this is the real rhythm running through our dance team—the pull of Diana and the others agreeing with every one of my ideas, and the push of Delancey rejecting those same suggestions. I can count on each like a metronome, but neither is very helpful.

For the longest time, I danced on my own. I hit record just to check my positions. Then I started experimenting, trying to break through my ballerina box. That’s when I began posting online. That’s when it all changed.

I have a ton of followers. Out loud, I always maintain it’s no big deal, but maybe that’s not completely accurate. Those followers get us free weekly hours at the studio. Free gear from the Movefree label of dance-inspired athletic wear. Sponsorship and product placement money that goes straight to my college fund.

Some of the people in this room, who I’d swear are the best friends I’ve ever had, arrived once my numbers started climbing. Those friends followed my followers.

Except Delancey. Delancey and I have always compelled each other. They have watched me dance since I scampered across a stage in my first recital. Their mom made them present me with my first bouquet.

And now their dad is about to marry my mom. It’s the kind of plot twist we might have dreamed up during sleepovers and playdates. Now, in high school, it’s complicated. Delancey keeps unleashing capital-F Feelings. I’m trying to keep up.

Gently, I try to pinpoint today’s problem. “Maybe,” I say to Delancey, “if you could describe what’s not working …”

“None of it.”

Great, I want to say. That’s an easy fix. But instead I count the beats off to myself, the way I might count off waiting for a piece of music to start. Here comes Delancey singing the soon-to-be-stepsiblings blues.

“If you want to know the truth—” They pause. The rest of us look miserably at each other because here comes the truth, whether we want it or not. “I don’t understand what this dance has to do with my dad’s wedding.”

Diana gasps theatrically. Pearl presses her lips together. Jolie stares at the ground.

“You mean our parents’ wedding,” I say.

Delancey shrugs. “I mean they’re going to have a first dance, right? It’s a wedding. Lots of people are going to dance. Lots of people will be eating cake. Are we going to choreograph a routine for us eating cake too?”

“I thought we both wanted to do this. Our parents want us to do this. They both seemed excited.”

Diana says, “Of course they seemed excited. Who wouldn’t be excited? It’s a beautiful gesture.”

I wish we could talk alone. I wish Delancey would tell me what’s really wrong. The others look expectantly at us, waiting for the two of us to work it out.

“Do you not like the music?” I ask.

Delancey sighs. “It’s fine. Let’s just start from the beginning.”

We run through the routine a few more times. We line up and cross each other precisely. We bump hips and grapevine out to our separate corners and then run a cascading line of snap rolls. I try to rally. But my feet feel heavy now. The lightness I’d felt pirouetting across the floor drags with questions.

Delancey’s drama tends to do that lately—deflate me. Ever since our parents announced the engagement, they veer from manic excitement to barely suppressed rage. I’m just trying to keep up.

It’s different for me. Delancey’s dad isn’t replacing anyone. At least anyone worth anything to me. After everything Mom and I dealt with after my dad left, I would have been thrilled with anyone who made her happy.

About a year ago, Mom sat me down to tell me that she’d made a commitment to see some guy exclusively. She insisted he come to dinner, implied that I needed to approve. And then the dude turned out to be Delancey’s goofy dad, who swore a lot in traffic and packed them weird junk food lunches. Mom was confused by Delancey’s deadname, by all the changes over the past few years. Maybe that stung too. Maybe Delancey felt unrecognized. Or unnoticed. But I thought we’d moved through that, sorted it all out.

But maybe Delancey feels differently.

The song sails through its crescendo. We hold our final positions until the music ends. “We’re getting there,” I proclaim, bending with my hands on my knees, relishing a good stretch.

“We’re already on the honeymoon!” Diana calls out, all amped up.

“How did that feel, Delancey?” I ask.

“That felt great.” Their words are still flat. “I’m just glad that it’s a live performance—a memory that Dad and your mom can keep for themselves.”

Let it go, I tell myself.

But Jolie cocks her head to the side and says, “What does that mean?”

“Just that,” Delancey replies. “It’s their wedding. It’s not a public event. So we shouldn’t record it.”

At first I don’t understand what Delancey’s saying. Then I do. It’s like that moment when you’re out on the water. The weather called for rain earlier. And then you see the dark clouds gather above you.

“We have to record it,” I say. “To post it.”

“Shea, it’s a family moment. It’s not your content.”

“We’ve talked all along about recording it.”

“You’ve talked about recording it.”

We volley back and forth, and I understand, by the way they fire back responses, that Delancey has already argued this with me several times. Alone in their room. In the shower, beneath the stream of hot water. It’s just that I am finally here for it. And I am floundering.

Of course, Diana comes running to save me. “We’ve all talked about recording it. From the very beginning.” She has a lot at stake here. Most of my videos are just me—the branding executive advised the importance of keeping the channel’s focus on me. A group dance that I promised to post on my channel on a Thursday night—a high-traffic time slot—is amazing exposure for everyone involved.

“It’s important that some things stay private,” Delancey states.

But why this thing? I want to ask. And why are you deciding this during our fourth rehearsal?

“We’ve talked to our parents,” I remind Delancey and reassure the others. “They were all about this plan. Our dance is a gift for their wedding. And we talked about posting. We even decided on Thursday night.”

“You mean you and your mom decided.”

My mind races to remember. We were all sitting around the table. Mom had her laptop out and we mapped out the night’s event. Even a small wedding is a large-scale production. “Delancey, you were right there.”

They sit back then and fold their arms in a way that says I’ve confirmed their argument. Their bizarre and unexpected argument. It’s not like Delancey is a completely private citizen. They’re my best friend. They show up all the time—in my life and on my channel. More than anyone in the studio, they should understand that this is part of the unspoken contract.

Viewers devote time to you. They feel attached. Most of my followers discovered me while my mom was dealing with a really difficult time. Now my mom has found love again. Completely randomly on Tinder. With my best friend’s dad. Had Delancey and I scripted that plot twist, no one would have believed it. But because viewers watched it all unfold in real time, right along with us, they’re invested.

“Listen, we need to post the video. I’m sorry that suddenly bothers you, but everyone here signed up for that. We’ve talked about this as a family. I know my mom’s on board and I’m pretty sure your dad is too. There’s a wedding countdown. People have even bought gifts off their registry.”

Delancey throws their arms up in the air. “Yeah. They have … and that’s bonkers.”

The other dancers are shuffling around the studio, making it seem like they’re trying not to listen but obviously taking in every word. I crouch down next to my soon-to-be-stepsibling and speak quietly. “I don’t know where this is coming from, but can we please talk it out on our own?”

They consider it. Our faces loom close enough to each other that I can see the vein pulse near their right eyelid. I know them well enough to understand that they’re mulling my words.

Finally, they say, “Don’t worry about it, Shea. We’ll do it your way. We always do.” My mouth opens to object, but Delancey’s already queuing up the track. They sigh. “We better keep practicing.” The other dancers snap into position. “If we’re going to go viral, we’d better at least be good.”

We’re halfway through the ninth run-through when the studio door swings open. Diana stumbles first, and then Jolie. Pearl does not even look up. Delancey moves to stop the song.

At first, I figure it’s the owner of the studio. Maybe she wants a selfie. Then I wipe the sweat from my eyes, and see the girl who’s interrupted is young like us. She’s wearing dance gear—last season’s Movefree line. I recognize the half shirt as one I plugged on my channel.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

She looks around. “Sorry. So sorry, but I rented this space? Studio Two?”

“But you didn’t,” Diana blurts obnoxiously, and the girl looks like she’s about to scale the walls.

“I mean, I did. For six thirty.”

“Nope.” Diana sidles over, her hands on her hips. “The studio rents by the hour. At least that’s what I’ve heard from the people who have to pay. Our time here is comped. And we’re comped until we feel finished.”

Delancey catches my eye. Rein in your monster, Dr. Frankenstein.

I step forward, partially to put space between Diana and the other girl. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “There must be a mix-up. We’re definitely here until seven; I set it up with Madison at the front desk.”

The girl shifts from one foot to the other. “Yeah, Madison sent me in. She said there was a dance class but that you’d wrap up soon.”

“Dance class?” Diana sputters. “Take a look around.”

Delancey steps forward. “Diana means we’re a professional troupe. We’ve reserved the space until seven, but you’re welcome to stay and watch.” Their eyes flicker to me when they add, “We’re not, like, married to the concept of privacy or anything.”

Delancey knows how much I hate rehearsing in front of other people. Even rehearsing with a dance team feels challenging sometimes. In ballet, I’d spend hours at the barre, perfecting my movements before rehearsal even started. I can’t stand everyone watching me while I figure out a routine.

I don’t want this total stranger to watch me stagger around the studio.

“We can call it a night,” I say, heading to the hooks on the wall to grab a towel.

Jolie and Pearl fall out of form. Diana mutters about interruptions and needless drama. Pearl chugs from her water bottle, then says, “Today didn’t feel very productive. I’ve got college applications due in two months. Could you and Delancey please figure out the family dynamics before our next meetup?”

“Of course. Pearl—I’m sorry.” But she’s already out the door. Diana takes her sweet time to pack up. Jolie and Delancey are working through some steps in the corner. The other girl still stands on the opposite side of the room. She has a small duffel bag. I don’t see a speaker but maybe she’ll just play music on her phone.

She sees me looking at her and says, “I don’t mean to rush you. It’s just that I’m losing time.”

“Yeah. I get it. We’re packing up.”

The girl watches my friends as they slowly float around the room. The whole thing is awkward. “What kind of dance do you do?” I ask her.

That perks her up. “Mostly street. Hip-hop.” I don’t understand how she doesn’t recognize me. I’m not obnoxious; it’s a matter of algorithm. If this girl’s on TikTok at all, she has definitely seen my videos.

“Cool, cool,” I say. “Please don’t let us stop you. If you want to get started …” I gesture at the open floor, but the girl doesn’t answer or make any effort to move. We both just stand there watching Jolie and Delancey go through the routine.

I buckle first. I call out, “You guys, I think we really need to head home.”

“So lame.” Diana glares at the hip-hop girl.

“Thanks, Di. We really got through so much. Next rehearsal, we’ll nail down that last configuration.”

“I’ll FaceTime you when I get home and we’ll talk through it. I got you, girl.” She moves to scoot by us and brushes past the newcomer. “Sorry, not sorry!” Diana sings as she heads out.

I want to sink into the smooth wooden floor. “Listen, I want to apologize—”

“No need.”

“It was just a weirdly emotional rehearsal for a lot of reasons—”

“I just really need the space.”

Okay then. I’m caught between this girl’s righteous anger and an upcoming excruciatingly tense car ride home with Delancey. I call out, “Hey, you two, we really have to head out.”

“Oh—I figured you were talking.” Delancey jogs over. “Jolie and I were just working out that last sequence. I mean, we want it to be perfect, right?” They turn toward the stranger standing beside me. “Shea’s mom and my dad are getting married. We’re creating a dance for them as a gift. Well, Shea is, but we’re there to support her.”

“Oh wow. That’s cool. Congratulations.” The girl speaks in a flawless monotone. She could not possibly sound more bored about this news.

“I mean, all of us are giving them the dance,” I correct for Delancey’s benefit.

“But really it’s Shea’s thing. Maybe you know Shea?”

Hip-Hop Girl can’t even bring herself to look at me. She doesn’t even pick up on what Delancey means.

“Sorry, I don’t,” she says. “I’m pretty new in town. We just met. See you around.” With that, she goes to the barre and begins to stretch. She does not turn around, but I swear, she watches us in the mirror, waiting for us to go already.

“Okay,” I say, “we’re done here.” Jolie’s long gone and I steer Delancey out. “I don’t know why you had to do that?”

“Do what?”

Delancey knows exactly what, but I say it anyway. “You raised concerns and I listened to you. You didn’t need to illustrate your point. There was no reason to tell that weird girl about our dance. Or about Mom and Bryan’s wedding.”

“Gosh. If only we had printed cards to hand out, with our parents’ wedding registry. At least then maybe we’d get a free blender out of it. I’m sure that weird girl who clearly didn’t care at all about the cultural phenomenon that is your channel will spend all night deep-diving into Google for traces of you.” Delancey snorts derisively. “No, you’re right—I am so sorry to have shared those private family plans with a random stranger. But maybe you’ll luck out and she’ll look you up online. That’s just what you need, right? 920,001 followers.”

I used to think a number like that would make me feel awesome and powerful. But when Delancey spits out stats this time, they don’t mean it as praise.

It sounds like an accusation.