Valeria had practiced the dance for six weeks. She knew every heel tap and every swirl of her wide, ruffled skirt. But on the night of the folklórico recital, standing behind the curtain, her legs felt like wet noodles.

“What if I forget the steps?” she whispered to her sister Natalia, who had danced with the group for three years.

Natalia straightened the red ribbons in Valeria’s hair. “Then you keep smiling and keep moving,” she said. “Nobody in the audience knows the steps. They only notice if you stop.”

The music began, and the dancers swept onto the stage. For the first minute, everything went perfectly. Then, halfway through the song, Valeria turned the wrong way. For one terrible second, she was facing the girl beside her instead of the audience.

She remembered Natalia’s words. She smiled, swung her skirt in a wide circle, and slipped back into line as if she had planned it all along. Her feet found the rhythm again.

When the song ended, the audience clapped and cheered. Valeria’s parents were standing up in the third row. Afterward, her father hugged her and said, “That big spin in the middle was my favorite part!”

Valeria looked at Natalia, and both of them burst out laughing.