I take a centering breath. One thing at a time, Millie. “Please.” I persist once more. “It would mean so much to at least have your opinion.”

She checks the thin silver watch on her wrist. “Well, they’ll definitely be out of barbacoa by the time I get there and wait in line. All right. Let’s see it.”

Frantically, I dig through my backpack and hand her my phone with my audition tape pulled up.

She sighs and hits play, slumping back in her seat.

I hold my breath, studying every twitch of her face, but she’s unmoved entirely.

After I’ve done my sign-off, she tosses the phone back to me and I fumble to catch it.

“Well, I’ve definitely seen worse. Your puns were awful, but somehow . . . cute?” She studies me for a moment. “I was the tie-breaking vote on your application, Millie.”

“Oh.” Somehow I hadn’t expected that. She’d just been so warm and accommodating even though I had stopped her from going to lunch. But it was her. She was the one who rejected me.

She lifts herself onto her desk and crosses her arms. “Grant,” she says, “the Ken doll–looking TA out there, voted against you, and Iris voted for you.” She smiles at Iris’s name, and I can see she has a soft spot for her. “They both made their case for you, and I agreed.”

“Their case for me?” I ask.

“Grant said you’d be better suited behind the camera or on radio. Iris disagreed.” Her brow furrows, and I can see that for the first time she’s feeling a bit uncomfortable. “You see, Millie—and you should know I don’t agree with this—there’s just a certain look that reporters have. It’s archaic, but it’s what sells. And being on television is all about ratings and ratings are all about ads and ads are all about money.”

I don’t respond. I don’t quite know how to. I feel like I’ve walked into a brick wall.

Dr. Coffinder must see how stunned I am. “When I was a girl, the only thing I was serious about was ballet. I loved it. I breathed it. My parents spent so much money and time carting me to classes and sending me to prestigious camps and workshops, but at the end of the day, when the time came to turn pro, no one wanted me. Bad feet. Too short.” She says it so simply, like it’s been said to her so many times that she hears it in her sleep.

My heart aches for her. “That’s awful.”

She nods aggressively. “Yes, exactly. It was awful. Someone could have saved me years of pain and suffering. I could’ve spent all those years concentrating on something I was actually capable of achieving. Do you see now?”

“No,” I say quietly. “Not at all. What’s awful is that you have to be a certain height or have certain kinds of feet to be a dancer. Your height and your feet, though. Neither of those things is awful.”

“Try telling my podiatrist that,” she mutters. “Millie, maybe you’ll thank me one day. You’re a smart girl. There are so many things you could do. You know, half the people on the news are just talking heads. Some of ’em are real journalists, but it’s a dying breed. I’m really doing you a favor. Saving you some valuable time.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” I tell her. “But my mind is made up about broadcast journalism.” I stand up and shoulder my backpack. “I don’t know if anyone has one true calling. I can’t say you were destined to be a ballerina or a journalist or a rocket scientist or whatever, but what I can say is that you should be able to be any of those things regardless of your height or your feet.” I motion down the length of my body. “Or your weight.”

“I didn’t say it was right,” she says, her voice more timid than I expect.

“Think of all those times you tried to become a professional ballerina and someone said no to you. What would your life have looked like with just one yes? There’s no telling.” I point to her desk, like my application might magically appear there. “You know I’ve got the chops. Heck! I know I’ve got the chops. All I need is for you to say yes. Someone closed the door for you, but you have the chance to open it for me.”

Her phone rings, breaking the loaded silence between us. She leans back and hits a button. “Yes?”

“Dean Gomez is on line three,” says Iris through the speaker.

“Thanks,” says Dr. Coffinder. “I’ll be right with him.” She looks back to me. “Millie, I must ask you to leave. I’m sorry to say my decision stands. Even if I wanted to change my mind, we’ve reached capacity. Maybe try applying for a different track in the program next year.”

I nod. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will stand here in my serious fun dress with my lipstick that is the perfect shade of red and I will square my shoulders and say, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Coffinder. This won’t be the last time you hear the name Millie Michalchuk.”

Dr. Coffinder gives me a stiff smile and motions for the door.

I walk to the front office, where Callie waits for me. I hold my hand out for her to take, because I think the only way I can carry this disappointment is if I am somehow physically connected to her and she is carrying this ache right alongside me. I don’t look at Iris or Grant. I just head for the exit and squeeze Callie’s hand so, so tight.

“Well?” she whispers.

I shake my head, and as the door shuts behind us the first tear falls. “No. It was a no.”

She squeezes my hand back, and we walk in silence out of the building and through a canopy of trees to my van.

I count my tears as they fall. Twenty-eight before my eyes are finally dry. I count them because I want to remember what the cost of this heartbreak was. I hope and pray that someday, when I count up all my tears, that whatever life I’m living will have been worth it.

“Wait!” a voice behind us shouts. Neither of us turns around. There are so many people on this campus. No way is that one single voice directed at us.

“Wait!” it says again. “Millie.”

Callie stops before I do. We turn around to find Iris running up the hill toward us. Her glittery cat’s-eye sunglasses shimmer quietly from the sunlight shining through the trees. If I was in a better mood, I might ask her where she bought them.

Once she makes it to us, she pushes her sunglasses into her curls and clutches a long white envelope to her chest. She holds a hand up for a moment to tell us to hold on while she catches her breath. “Here,” she says, handing me the envelope. “Lesson for you, kids: pencil skirts were not made for running.”

“What?” I open the envelope, sliding out the papers. “What is this?”

She rests her hands on her hips. “It’s your welcome packet,” she says in a matter-of-fact way.

“But I just—Dr. Coffinder just—”

Iris swallows, still catching her breath. “I was eavesdropping the whole time, and, like, side note, you are just as rad as your audition tape led me to believe. So after you left, I went in there and told Dr. C we had one student decline their spot. And, like, she’s my PhD mentor, so I didn’t want to really step in it or anything, but I very politely told her that I thought she was wrong about you.”

“Oh my gosh, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I did, though. Millie, I voted for you because you were good. Not just because you’re a fellow fat girl.” She holds up a fist. “Don’t get me wrong, though. Fat girl pride. Riots not diets and all that.”

“Riots not diets? I like that.” Note to self: add to my to-stitch list.

Iris continues, “Dr. C’s always been cool with me, and that’s probably because my concentration is more behind the scenes with production, but she was wrong about you. And she knew it, too. She sent me out of her office and called me back in a few minutes later before agreeing to give you the spot.” She rolls her eyes. “Listen, Dr. C won’t admit she’s wrong anytime soon. She’ll probably treat you like you’ve got something to prove all summer, but I think you’re up for the challenge, no?”

I hold the envelope to my chest like it’s made of gold. I don’t even bother wiping away the tears now. “Thank you. Thank you so much!”