I turn from the cabinet and go to the credenza that takes up a large portion of the living room wall. I rummage through the drawer, looking for Year Seven /Jenna Fox, the year where I can watch a girl who was still a child and didn't know about expectations. A year when blue birthday cakes and surprises were all that mattered. Year Seven, probably the last year before I knew I was special.

Mother has straightened the drawer and the disc is not where I left it. I run fingers along the file of discs, searching for it, when I notice something else. The camera. It is at the back of the drawer in a space that has been saved for it, but it has been jarred. A disc has partially popped out. I reach in and pull it loose and look at the label.

JENNA FOX / YEAR SIXTEEN----DISC TWO

It shakes between my fingers. This is the last disc. The real last disc.

This is the one Lily wanted me to watch.

A Recital

Jenna floats across the stage. Her movements are precise. Her arms are curved in a graceful arch. Her feet pointing, her legs extending, arabesque, Jenna . . .

. . . chassé, jeté entralacé . . .

. . . plié. . . pas de bourrée, pirouette, Jenna.

All at perfect angles, perfect timing. She raises en pointe, her balance pure elegance.

But her face is dead. The performance is all in her arms and legs and muscles, and none of it is in her heart.

I remember that night, the feel of the slipper, the ribbon snug at my ankles, the tight bodice of my costume that showed off my perfect tiny waist, the moisture forming at the nape of my neck. I remember before I even see it repeated on the disc. I remember looking out into the audience that night, my performance almost complete, and seeing Lily in the second row and the disappointment in her eyes and how that shook me and gave me permission all at the same time for what came next. Relevé, relevé. My well-trained muscles and bones were speaking to me, ordering me to perform. Relevé, Jenna. But I was frozen. The music passed me by. Relevé, Jenna! The audience is fidgeting. Uncomfortable. Hoping that the moment can be salvaged. I'm not sure it can. I am looking at Lily's eyes on me, but I am seeing us at her kitchen counter just a few days before. I was complaining about my upcoming recital.

"Who are you, Jenna? How can anyone know if you don't show them?"

"I'm tempted. Just once I'd like to let it out. "

"And what would you do?"

"While I was there onstage, I'd move in all the ways I've dreamed of. I'd stomp and grind and swing my hips and show them all."

"So what's stopping you?"

I remember she was serious, and I remember looking at her like she was crazy. "It wouldn't be appropriate. I'd let too many people* down."

" You mean your parents. I think they'd live."

The audience is holding its breath. The music has stopped.

Relevé, Jenna! My muscles are demanding action.

Stomp! Grind, Jenna. Swing your hips!

And then I feel it. My calves stiffen. My heels lift. Relevé. And then a quick hop to en pointe. Hold. Hold. Down to fourth position, plié, and bow. The audience heaves a single sigh of relief, even though I am completing my dance long after the music has stopped. Their zealous applause erases the gap.

I have delivered. That is all that matters.

Pieces

A bit for someone here.

A bit there.

And sometimes they don't add up to anything whole.

But you are so busy dancing.

Delivering.

You don't have time to notice.

Or are afraid to notice.

And then one day you have to look.

And it's true.

All of your pieces fill up other people's holes.

But they don't fill your own.

The Beach

"Over here!" Claire calls, waving her arm.

Lily waves back. Neither of us move, and Mother resumes her walk through the tide pools. The ride to the beach was tense. We hardly talked in the car. Mother insisted we go, saying the unseasonably warm March day was perfect for a walk at the beach.

"She needed this," Lily says.

"I didn't."

Lily pulls her sweatshirt over her head and ties it around her waist. "Then what do you need, Jenna?" Her voice is sharp.

I look at her and knot inside. I can't answer. I shake my head and walk away. She grabs my arm and spins me around. "I asked you something. What do you need?"

I pull away. How dare she treat me like a —

"I need — I need— " I want to spit my words into her stupid face is what I need to do, but they just keep catching, like they are snared on something inside. I stand there, my lips still searching for words.

"Tell me!" she says.

I can't.

She lets go of my arm and sighs. "And that has always been your problem, Jenna," she says softly. "You've always been two people. The Jenna who wants to please and the Jenna who secretly resents it. They won't break, you know. Your parents never thought you were perfect. You did."

What is she talking about? I never thought — "They placed me on a pedestal from the day I was born! What choice did I have but to be perfect! And if I lagged in math or soccer or navel gazing, they got me a personal tutor! And then I was tutored and coached until I was perfect! I've been under a microscope my entire life! From the moment I was conceived, I had to be everything because I was their miracle! That's what I had to live up to every day of my life! How dare you say that it was me when it was them! I was conceived to please!"