Chapter 1 The squeaky floor

**Ciara’s POV**

The best thing about our apartment is the squeaky floorboard in the hallway.

It’s right between the bathroom and King’s room, warped from that one time the sink leaked. Mom keeps saying she’ll fix it, but I hope she never does. Because when I press my toes into that spot—*creeeak*—it sounds like a drumbeat. And drumbeats are for dancing.

I glide backward, arms floating up like Mom’s steam iron. My socks slip on the linoleum, but I don’t care. Ms. Amara says dance isn’t about the *where*—it’s about the *how*. So I’m a flamingo in the kitchen, a spinning top in the living room, a—

**THUD.**

“Yo, Ci-Ci! You blocking the fridge *again*?”

Caden’s standing there in his football jersey, one eyebrow cocked like he’s the king of the Capri Suns in the door shelf. His practice cleats are slung over his shoulder, dripping mud on my clean socks. Typical.

“You’re *literally* a hallway,” I say, folding my arms. “Walk around.”

He snorts, squeezing past me to grab the peanut butter. “You’re gonna dance a hole in the floor. Mom’s gonna make you pay rent.”

“At least I don’t smell like a locker room,” I shoot back.

He flicks a breadcrumb at me. Misses. “At least I don’t have glitter in my *hair*.”

I touch my braids—okay, fine, there’s glitter. But only because Jade and I made “confetti crowns” last night while Mom was working late. We’d dumped a whole craft-store vial on the carpet, then spent an hour vacuuming it up. Worth it.

The front door slams. King shuffles in, backpack dragging like a dying parachute. He’s wearing his headphones—the giant ones that make him look like a robot—and muttering to himself. Probably about his latest mystery project. Last week, it was a “time machine” made of Legos. This week? Who knows.

“Hey, King!” I say, loud enough to cut through his music.

He pauses, blinks at me like I’m a math problem. “…Hey.”

“How was school?”

“…Long.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing into the cave of his room. I don’t take it personal. King’s like a YouTube video buffering—you gotta wait for him to load.

I’m halfway into a pirouette when Mom’s keys jingle in the door. She bustles in, her nurse scrubs smudged with marker (again—my brothers keep “borrowing” her pens). Her hair’s half-up, half-down, and she’s got that look. The *I’ve been on my feet for 12 hours but I’ll still make spaghetti* look.

“Hi, babies!” she says, dropping her bag. “Caden, stop eating peanut butter with your fingers. King, homework done? Ciara…” She eyes my socked feet. “You practicing?”

“Just a little,” I say, suddenly shy. Dancing in the kitchen feels stupid when someone’s watching.

But Mom smiles, tired but warm. “Good. Ms. Amara called today.”

My heart freezes. *Called?* Did I mess up the recital sign-up? Forget the studio fee?

“She wants you to audition,” Mom says, digging through the mail. “For that summer intensive. The fancy one.”

The air gets fizzy, like soda in my veins. The *Summer Dance Institute*. The one with the glass studios and the teachers who’ve choreographed for, like, *actual stars*. The one that costs more than our rent.

“Oh,” I say, very carefully. “Cool.”

Mom hesitates. She’s got her *I’m calculating grocery bills in my head* face. “We’ll talk about it, okay? I just… need to check some things.”

“Sure,” I say, too fast. “No big deal.”

But it *is*.

I wait till she’s in the shower, till Caden’s blasting ESPN in the living room, till King’s got his headphones on. Then I tiptoe to the squeaky floorboard. *Creeeak*.

I dance harder. Faster. My arms slice the air, my braids whip my shoulders. I imagine Ms. Amara watching, Mom clapping in the front row, a stage so bright it burns away the peanut butter nights and the tired eyes and the *we’ll talk about it*.

But when I spin, I catch my reflection in the microwave. Just a girl in socks too big, glitter in her hair, and a dream too heavy for this kitchen.

The floorboard squeaks again.

I keep dancing.

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