Lala considered herself good at avoiding attention on the subway at night by sitting up straight, her feet on the floor and her arms pulled inside the sleeves of both of her sweatshirts, “balled up in a ball.” Corday sat next to her, his head in her lap. During periods of wakefulness, phones offered precious distraction, and Lala didn’t like to let the battery dip past 20 percent. She had accidentally paid for a Hulu subscription, so while they rode she watched movies, or scrolled through Facebook, looking at pictures of hairdos and limited-edition food: Captain Crunch ice cream, Sour Patch Toll House cookies, a four-pack of bright red Seagrams Escapes.

Divas (like queers, like dancers) must be smart, or at least smarter than their abusers. They must suffer shame and ridicule and emerge triumphant, strong as steel and wholly themselves. Let alone being a queer performer, being a dancer is already pretty queer. It’s a bizarre, strict, bound life—at least in childhood, when time is eaten up by training. The dancer-in-training might love the rigor, or she might not; regardless, she goes to class every afternoon.