The narrator of this story is the Chinese-American daughter of a single mother, trying to fit in with the cool kids at ballet camp. Her adventures are painfully awkward and relatable, and as the story goes on she gains a new understanding of her mother’s story.

Each morning, I rose at six to dress before Quinnie came. The sun was already above the trees, and I awoke sweating. Ma didn’t like to use the air conditioning at night. We didn’t grow up with air conditioning in China, she said. We slept outside sometimes on rocks to stay cool, she said, which sounded like something she’d made up just to see if I’d believe it. Ma hadn’t bought me new underwear in years—she never mentioned bodies, breasts, hair, periods—so each morning I ripped off one of the fraying pairs I’d worn since the sixth grade, and pulled on my tights and leotard, before the sun had fully risen, before Quinnie could come and be cruel.