I pulled on a black tutu over a black leotard and tied a black ribbon into my hair. Marcia waved us all over but skipped our normal warm-up routine. She said we needed to focus more on the proper ways to braid, so that’s what we did, braided and rebraided our hair. When all of our braids looked the same—mine with more scarf than hair—we marched to the stage in military precision and waited for the curtain to rise. Small billows of smoke filled the stage floor and the curtain rose on cue. Hundreds of clowns applauded for us as we pirouetted onto the stage. “What’s going on?” I asked the dancer to my right. I couldn’t picture her face or her name. She wore a pair of stockings covering her face, like she was hiding her identity. It was almost as if she had no face at all. She turned to me and smiled an eerie grin but kept dancing. I turned to Marcia on the side of the stage. She pulled on a clown mask of her own without looking in my direction. “Marcia, what is happening here?”
