Some parents tell their kids they can be anything. Mine did not. I was not told that if I worked hard, my dreams would come true. Or that life was fair. Or that wishes were made of stardust, or candy canes, or were delivered by unicorns.

I was told the truth: that some people get lucky, and some people don’t, which is why I’m skipping fifth period to ride an elevator in one of swanky Uptown’s old arts buildings.

“What do you mean it’s this weekend?”

Holding my cell tightly against my ear, I drill my opposite thumb into my temple, careful not to let the four girls entering the elevator on the fifth floor see the phone’s blank screen.

They’re late. According to the Copeland Ballet Academy’s online schedule, Dance II—a requirement for all third-year students—gets out at ten to four on Mondays. Now I’ve only got twenty minutes to book it down Lake Street and catch the red line to Devon Park. If I miss it, I’m late for work at Pete’s, and that’s the last thing I need.

I’ve got five minutes to work some magic.