we – the fives – are the lowly honey bees in the spring finale recital. We carefully learn our choreography, beginning in January. In February, they measure us for costumes in places no tape measure should go. By the time the yellow and black leotards arrive in April, we’ve earned our stripes. Our last class is a dress rehearsal. Over and over we swarm in our sequins as Rimsky-Korsakov keeps time, our yellow tutus resting on our hips like pollen we’d bring back to the hive.

Then the big day. Our dance begins in a circle formation. Easy enough. We assemble per plan, but no one remembers what to do next. We flutter our feet in first position and our hands behind us – hovering, but stuck. “Listen up,” I whisper, maybe too sharply. But the circle draws tighter. “I know what we can do.”  I somehow summon a sequence of steps the bees will recognize, and we do them. After, we buzz off stage in single file, as we’d entered. My parents don’t believe me when I tell them at dinner, but it’s true. I should put that on my resume. “A born leader.” Maybe I was just bossy.