I hated lying to my mother. It always left an unpleasant, metallic taste in my mouth, like I'd accidentally bitten my cheek and it bled a little. But sometimes, I didn't have any other choice.

She'd given me an ultimatum.

"You may accept the spot in New York," she'd said. My heart had inflated like a balloon. "Just as soon as you send in your deposit to Georgetown."

And so began the slow, sad leak. I could almost hear the whistling sound as my heart collapsed in on itself. At least she couldn't hear it. The summer dance program in New York was supposed to be the first step on my journey toward a professional dance career — one that didn't make a pit stop at Georgetown University. College had always been part of my goals, but if anyone knew about plans changing, it was me.

"And check in with your grandmother every once in a while," Mama continued. "She's recovering from her surgery with a friend in New Jersey, so she'll be nearby."

My free-spirited abuela had recently torn her rotator cuff during trapeze lessons. When my mother scolded her for doing something so dangerous "at her age," Abuela just scoffed and said she was fulfilling her dream of being in the circus. Classic Abuela.

In the solitude of my bedroom I pulled out my favorite magenta notebook, the one my stepsister Tatum had given me on my eighteenth birthday, and debated with myself.

It wasn't even close.

So I'd sent in the deposit holding a spot for me at Georgetown, and then I emailed Sage Oliver, the choreographer, telling her I accepted her offer to dance in a city-wide installation this summer.

What my mother didn't know was that with my deposit submission, I had also deferred my admission for a year. It was a risk — probably the biggest one I'd ever taken — but I needed to give dance one last, real shot. I'd held my breath as I sent the final email, confirming with the dean that I would not be on campus at the end of August. If I was offered a job with a dance company, then I'd cross that bridge with Mama when I came to it. And if I didn't? Well, as much as I liked things planned and in a neat little row, I'd have to think about that one later.

The icky taste in my mouth lingered the whole train ride to New York no matter how much water I drank or gum I chewed. I read my list probably a hundred times on the trip up, reminding myself I was on the right path. The right path for me. I hoped.

The New York skyline appeared out of the summer haze, like a committee welcoming me to the city. I pressed my face close enough to the train window to see my breath. I drew a heart in the condensation and then quickly wiped it away. I'd only been to New York once, so long ago it felt like nothing more than a faded dream. To prepare myself for the frenzy I knew was about to surround me, I'd spent the past week reading traveler reviews, making a list of all the sights I wanted to see, and memorizing subway maps. But the idea of being in such a big city still made my heart race.

As I stepped through the exit at Penn Station, two things struck me. The first was the smell. It was as if a chemistry experiment gone wrong mingled with burnt sugar and grilled meat. The second was the size of the buildings. Back home in D.C., no building is taller than the Washington Monument. Here, they literally scraped the sky. They made me want to rise up in relevé to try touching them.

Amid the Amazonian structures and semi-noxious odor wafting from who knew where, there were people. Everywhere. All sizes and ages and colors, rushing this way and that. And I was right in the middle of them. Though my heart pounded with sheer terror, I pushed the fear aside. This is where my dream could begin. So I slid on my vintage red sunglasses — a gift from my abuela — and smiled. I'd arrived.

My first decision? Subway or cab. The stairs leading down to the subway platform looked miles long. I took one look, felt phantom pain in the ankle I broke last winter, and turned around. Nope. Not a chance. The broken ankle was the reason I hadn't auditioned for professional dance companies in the spring like everyone else in my dance classes. I wasn't going to injure myself a second time, just to turn around and get back on the train home.

It would have to be a taxi. They whizzed by in a blur of yellow — getting one to see me amidst the bustling tourists looked virtually impossible.

"There's nothing to it, Tilly," I coached myself. "Millions of people visit New York every year and they all manage to get to their hotels just fine. You are intelligent and capable and you want this. You can hail a cab."

I hurried to the corner, my barge-like suitcase dragging behind me, and thrust my hand into the air. Ten seconds later, a little canary-colored hybrid pulled up. My eyes widened — that had been much easier than I thought — and I opened the door as the cab driver opened his.

"Let me put that in the back for you, miss," he said, taking my suitcase.

"Thank you." I slid into the back and across the slick faux-leather seat.

The man returned to the driver's seat. He peered at me through the rearview mirror and then cleared his throat.

"Oh. Right. The Marian Dormitory, please." I rattled off the address on the Upper East Side that I'd had memorized for three days. He pulled into the street.

"First time in New York?"

"Yes, sir. How did you know?" Did I look as clueless as I felt? I hoped not.

"Pretty girl with scared eyes. Big suitcase. Staying in temporary housing." He chuckled again, softer this time.

"Temporary housing?"

"The Marian has a revolving door of interns and apprentices. Temporary New Yorkers. Kids with big dreams."

"None of them stay?" A lump formed at the back of my throat. Would I be temporary too?

"Some stay. Some get crushed and go home right away. Some stick it out the summer and then go back to college or Iowa or wherever they came from. But some stay. Some get the city in their blood."

I blanched. "Like a disease?"

He laughed, loudly this time. "No, like an electrical current. It pulses through you and you feel like all your blood has been replaced with mercury."

"You're a writer," I said, with a smile.

"Once upon a time, maybe," he said, a note of sadness behind his words. "I was a teacher in my country. Pakistan. But here, I do this."

My abuelo and abuela had been immigrants as well. But a better job than he'd worked back in Chile had been waiting for Abuelo when they arrived in the U.S. I couldn't begin to imagine not being able to do what you love. And then I realized, sadly, I could. I'd spent the last six months not dancing because of my stupid broken ankle.

We drove in silence for a few minutes before I worked up the courage to ask him, "Do you regret coming here?"

Regret was my biggest fear. I didn't want to find myself wishing I'd chosen to stay home and spend my summer days shopping for dorm accessories with my mother and watching cooking shows with my stepsister. I didn't want to fall flat on my face and regret trying. I didn't want to think about the possibility of my mother being disappointed with me for lying, or maybe worse. Trust was a valued commodity in our house, and though I'd lied in the past, it was never about something this big.

The driver looked at me in the rearview again. "It's hard to be a new person in a new place. But do I regret it? No. Never. Not when I have all...