She Came Back Different - Hardcover

Willing, Stephanie

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593465601 ISBN 13: 9780593465608

Publisher: Viking Books for Young Readers, 2026

Synopsis

Underneath the beautiful world of ballet lurks the dark side of perfectionism in this eerie tale!

The Stadler Ballet Conservatory prides itself on turning out not only perfect dancers but perfect pupils. Perhaps too perfect.

Gemma has been sent by her demanding mother in the hopes that her “rough edges” will be smoothed. But the life of a ballerina feels so far out of reach, she hardly dares to dream of it. Neve, on the other hand, is there on a rescue mission. Her once rebellious older sister returned from Stadler as a smiling, empty shell of her former self. If there are answers, Neve will find them.

In a tale alternating between their perspectives, both girls must brave a world of rules and conformity. One in which beauty hides a hideous and sinister truth that will devour their very souls if they cannot overcome their differences. Can they embrace each other’s flaws and their own in order to dig up the school’s rotten roots and unmask what’s really growing . . . and feeding . . . behind Stadler’s walls?

About this title

About the Author

Stephanie Willing is an author, audiobook narrator, and a lifelong dancer. She has a BA in Dance from Texas Woman's University and an MFA in Writing for Young People from Lesley University. She lives with her husband, two kids, two cats, and a goldfish in New Jersey. When she's not writing or recording, you can find her reading, making snacks for her kids, or working in her butterfly garden in the backyard.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A Nothing Girl
Gemma
The trees outside the train windows grow so close together that they make one long, unbroken wall. If I watch them too long, my brain gets muddled and I start to think that I’m sitting still and the trees are the ones racing away, headed back the way I came.
I pull my eyes from the window and back to my phone. The screen shows videos of ballet dancers. Some are in their warm--up clothes, and others are onstage in full makeup and costume.
I tap on one and watch a girl just a little older than me launch into a pirouette and stay up on pointe—four, five, six turns—and land it. Her face bursts into a huge smile while her friends off--camera cheer and clap.
I scratch at my elbows and rewatch it. That must feel amazing. To move like that, and to have a whole group of people excited for you.
Maybe I’ll get that at the Stadler Ballet Conservatory. My mom says this is my chance to learn how to fit in and make “lifelong friendships.” I’d settle for one good friend.
I pull the Stadler brochure out of my purple roller suitcase, smooth out the creases, and read it for the hundredth time. The cover picture is of a white clapboard school building on a huge lawn of green grass. It’s really pretty, but my eyes keep slipping to the dark forest wrapped around it.
Ever since my mom told me two weeks ago that I’d gotten into Stadler, I’ve been trying to figure out what it’ll be like there. But I can’t find anything online—-it’s like their current students don’t exist. The school’s name pops up in lots of famous people’s bios, especially dancers, but there’s nothing from actual kids.
A thud on the window makes me jump. It must’ve been a tree branch, but when I look, whatever made the sound is gone.
Taking a deep breath, I go back to studying the brochure. My finger traces the school motto and its translation: simul perfecti sumus. Together, we are perfect. Underneath it is a promise to take the average girl and elevate her to her full potential.
Well, I’m definitely average. If that’s the requirement, I understand why I got in.
My grades are fine. My curly hair is sort of brown, sort of red. The only thing extra about me is that I’ve always been a little bit bigger than the other girls in my class. Not taller, just bigger. “Big--boned,” my grandfather always said, like that explained anything.
“Tickets,” the train conductor calls. She clipped mine already back in Boston, but when she pauses next to me, I look up.
“Belleville next stop,” she says. “You’ll have to exit through the last car.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, and tuck the brochure back in my suitcase.
She tilts her head at me. “You going to that ballet school out there?”
“Yep,” I answer.
“You’re a dancer?” she asks. Her nose scrunches a bit as she takes another look at me.
Her tone could make me feel small, but that’s the one thing I’ve never figured out how to be. I push into the aisle and roll away from her questions. “I guess I am now.”
She doesn’t say anything else, but I can feel the question that she wants to ask. It’s the same one I’ve wondered since my mom told me I’d been accepted.
Why’d they choose me? I took ballet, tap, and jazz when I was five,and I loved it, but my mom had pulled me out when I was stuck in the back row for every dance recital. I think it embarrassed her that I wasn’t front--row material.
The train comes to a stop, and I lug the suitcase down onto a wooden platform. The AC whooshes one more time as the doors close, and then I’m baking in the sun.
The train zooms off as if it wants to get away as fast as it can. I don’t blame it. My bright pink leggings and sparkly silver dress are rumpled from traveling 1,700 miles in one day, and the deodorant I put on in the dark this morning—-the one that promised “strong protection for strong girls”—-has met its match in me.
At least my silver cowboy boots are still gleaming.
Thump thump thump. My purple suitcase thuds down the wooden steps behind me as I try to get enough signal to call a car.
I lean the suitcase against a sign to use both hands. welcome to belleville, the prettiest town in vermont!
Doubtful. The downtown looks as lively as a butterfly with a pin through it. The wooden sign’s faded words are hard to read underneath all the pollen caked on it. My nose itches just looking at it.
The phone pings as it pairs me with someone named Achara who’ll be here in—-geez—-fifteen minutes. Still, it’s the last fifteen minutes to myself before I get swallowed up by the Stadler Ballet Conservatory.
With my suitcase rattling behind me all the way, I stroll toward the picture--perfect storefronts. Belle’s Bookstore, Lovely Locks, Grace’s Tavern, Charms ’n’ More Jewelry Store. What’s with this town’s obsession with cutesy names?
The pollen coats all the windows yellow, and pines grow tall behind the buildings and cover them in shadows. Maybe 3 p.m. is a dead time of day, but still, it’s strange that there doesn’t seem to be anyone inside any of the stores.
I push through the door of SweeTea and let out a long breath as its cool air chills my sticky skin. I deserve a treat. I’ve been traveling all day, by myself, and the day isn’t even over yet. The familiar pastel drinks with delicious boba pearls pictured on the mint--green walls are exactly what I want. And without my mother here to drop little comments about “sugar and calories and baby fat” while she drinks an oat milk latte, I might actually be able to enjoy it.
“Taro bubble tea, large,” I order. The bored--looking teenager behind the counter barely glances at me as he heaves himself off his elbows and starts mixing.
“More boba,” I call out when I see the paltry pour he’s given me.
He brushes his dark hair out of his eyes. So unhygienic. “Have you ever heard of the word please?” he says.
“Have you ever made one of these before? ’Cause I’ve seen more tapioca in a biscuit.”
He rolls his eyes but throws in another scoop.
“You a new Stadler girl?” he asks. “Pretty sure I’ve seen everyone in this town, and I’d remember a smart aleck like you.”
I redden, even though he doesn’t say it in a mean way. Still, I can hear my mother in the back of my head shushing me for being mouthy. I press my arms to my sides so my BO can’t waft his way.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “Although I haven’t even gotten there yet. So I’m a nothing girl right now.”
He runs the cup through the sealing machine and hands it over to me. “Interesting.”
“What is?” I ask. I dare to move an arm as I stab the seal with a bright green straw.
He takes my debit card and holds it up questioningly.
“It’s loaded, just like my grandfather,” I say dryly.
He snorts and runs it through. “You just don’t look like one of them.”
I cut my eyes at him to see if he’s teasing me, but he looks only slightly less bored than before.
I slurp down a gush of lilac--colored tea. “What do they usually look like?” I say with a sour edge. “Wait, lemme guess. Blond? Skinny? Cute as a button?” All the things I’m not.
He slouches against the counter. “Sometimes, yeah. But no, I mean, you’re just . . . not a pushover. The girls from there are sweeter than, well, these drinks.”
I pop a pearl between my teeth. “I can be sweet!”
He sighs. “Whatever. You’ll be just like the rest of them in no time. It happens every year. Girls walk in with personalities, and they leave . . .”
“Elegant young ladies,” I finish for him. “Yeah, that’s what my mom’s hoping for.”
“More like zombies,” he mutters.
My brain conjures an image of zombies in ballet slippers. I giggle into my drink, but a shiver goes down my spine. “Thanks for the extra boba.”
“No problem, Gemma.”
I turn back around. “How’d you know my name?”
He waves the debit card with my name on it at me. I stomp back over, grumbling at myself for forgetting.
He narrows his eyes at me. “You know what? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’ll give the old ladies at the school a run for their money.”
I figure he means it as a compliment, but all I hear is that I’m too much for anyone to ever make something of.
“Thanks, Kai.” I drawl out the name printed on his name tag until it means no thanks. “Or maybe I’ll be the best Stadler girl ever.”
He frowns. “Come say hi at the Harvest Festival, if you still have a personality,” he says, then sits down behind the counter with his phone as if I’ve already disappeared.
Just then my pocket vibrates.
“Is there a Gemma here?” A loud voice calls my name out front, except they’re saying it wrong—-with a hard G like gummy.
I roll outside and spot a woman with long dark hair standing in front of an idling blue truck.
“Here!” I yell back, and rumble my suitcase toward her. “But my name’s Gemma, like gem.”
She points to herself. “Achara.”
She looks older than my mom, but younger than my grandad. She lifts my luggage into the back of her truck and tucks it between bags of mulch, fertilizer, and shovels.
“Are you a landscaper?” I ask.
“Gardener,” she says. “Climb on into the cab, but watch out for my copilot.”
When I pop the door open, a beautiful floral scent wafts out. Then it’s interrupted by a mustier smell as a shaggy head and drooling tongue swivel toward me.
“Hello,” I say, and hold my boba tea out of reach.
The sheepdog snuffles across the bench seat, and I try to avoid it as I buckle myself in.
“That’s Tessa. Are you scared of dogs?” Ms. Achara glances at me through her rearview mirror as she climbs behind the wheel. She presses her palms together and bows her head briefly before starting the vehicle.
“No.” But my mom will be furious with me if I get dog hair on my dress.
She’s not here, I remind myself. It’s one of the only silver linings of being sent off to a finishing school.
Ballet conservatory, my mom snips back in my head.
Shut up, I say to the imaginary voice. Something I would never say to her in real life.
Relishing the spark of rebellion on my skin, I reach out and ruffle the dog’s ears. She whuffs.
“Careful, Tessa will drool all over you,” Ms. Achara says.
“That’s all right with me,” I say. “I’m usually a mess anyway.”
She pulls out onto the main road and the sepia--colored town slips past. I glance toward the dash looking for a GPS, but there isn’t one. A flower garland hangs from the rearview mirror instead. That must be where the sweet smell is coming from.
“How far to Stadler?” I ask.
She mumbles something that sounds like “Not far enough,” but when I ask again, she just says, “About ten minutes.”
“You need the address or anything?”
“I know the way,” she says.
“What kind of flowers are those?”
“Jasmine.”
“They smell nice.”
No reply. I guess she isn’t chatty. No small talk is fine with me. All day long I’ve been shuffled around by drivers, flight attendants, and train conductors making sure I don’t get kidnapped or lost on my way here. Wow, big trip traveling by yourself in first class. This your first time up north? So annoying.
I’d begged my mom to come with me, but she said it would build character for me to do this all on my own. I think she just didn’t want to miss a Pilates class. So here I am. Alone.
The trees thicken outside my window, getting taller and leafier and darker. On the other side of the country road, the trees have been cut so power lines can get through, but they still look like giants.
The town fades, and soon it feels like even the air has changed. All day I’ve been sweating, but now there’s a chill. The floral scent in the cab gets stronger.
Tessa starts a low, relentless whine. Ms. Achara never breaks the silence except to cough and clear her throat and swallow loudly.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Allergies,” she says.
Tessa’s whines build. I reach to pet her, and she tucks her ears and pushes her nose into my hand.
I’m not good at sitting quiet, so when I notice the white symbols inscribed on the ceiling of Ms. Achara’s truck, I ask, “Oooh, what’s the writing there for?”
She glances up. “It’s a blessing. For protection.”
From what? I want to ask, but Ms. Achara slows down as a gap appears in the wall of trees.
She throws the truck into park. “The school’s at the end of that drive. You’ll have to walk the rest of the way yourself.”
“You can’t drive me?” I ask.
She won’t meet my eyes in the mirror. “There are roots sticking out everywhere. It’s not good for my truck.”
“Your gardening truck?” I blurt out. That doesn’t add up. Her truck is mud--splattered and dented from rocks and gravel and who knows what. It could certainly handle some tree roots.
Ms. Achara pops her door open and hops down. “Enjoy it while you can. Walk under the trees. Once you’re inside those walls, you won’t come back out for a long time.”
I notice she doesn’t even look in the direction of the school.
Tessa whimpers and lies down on the bench as I take a nervous sip of my boba tea.
“I’m more of an indoor girl anyway,” I say as the door beside me opens.
Ms. Achara’s face is impassive as she waits for me to set my tea down, slide off the seat, and take the bag handle she thrusts into my hand.
“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already rounding the front of the truck. I take one step toward the tunnel of trees, then stop and spin around.
“Wait!” I yell after her.
But the truck’s gone in a rattle of dirt and pollen.
Argh. I remembered too late my tea is still in the back seat.
I turn around and stare down the driveway. It curves away into darkness like the funnel of a spider’s web.
The woods await. I step inside and disappear.

Edition details

• Publisher: Viking Books for Young Readers
• Publication date: 2026
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0593465601
• ISBN 13: 9780593465608
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 304