Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
“I wasn’t going to make it a habit.”
What am I saying? I’m blowing my own Motrin cover. “I just needed something to ease the pain for my practical exam.”
“Is this about your fractures?” There’s an edge of panic in Mom’s voice. “Are you struggling to perform?”
“No!” I lick my lips, piling up the lies like dirt over a coffin. I can’t tell her I’m broken. That it was me against ballet, and ballet won. “My performance is fine.” My throat bobs. “Great.”
“Honestly, that you didn’t get a leading role in the recital is obscene. I’m tempted to give them a piece of my mind about this. No way do they have a more talented ballerina—”
“Mel,” Dad clears his throat. “Off topic.”
And herein lies my problem. The pressure is so suffocating, I feel like I’m crushed under the rubble of expectations, broken dreams, and hopes. Mom forgets herself when we talk about ballet. There’s no room for failure—only for success. And I want to be everything Daria wasn’t—the best ballerina to come out of Juilliard.
In the back seat, I’m slowly peeling a dry scab off my knee like it’s apple skin. In a long, curly line of scar tissue. Pink, raw flesh pops beneath it, and I know I’ll be left with a scar from this car ride home.
“I got a bagful of these oranges,” Dad tells no one in particular, eager to change the subject. “From Florida. They don’t last as long as the California ones, but they’re sweeter.”
“Well.” Mom rummages through her purse, popping a Tylenol into her mouth. “If you don’t have a drug problem, I don’t see why going to rehab for eight weeks is such a biggie.”
“I’m not going to spend two months in rehab to prove a point to you.”
“Then expect some less-than-ideal conditions under my roof while I assess your situation, missy.”
“Are you sure you don’t want an orange?” Dad singsongs.
“Fuck, Dad, no!” I bang the back of my head against the leather seat in frustration.
Holy cannoli. Did I just drop the F-bomb? I never say fuck. Fluck, frock, frap—rarely. Our household has iron-clad rules about profanity. We don’t even say God’s name in vain. We use Marx instead. The antithesis to God. The father of atheism.
Dad stares at me through the rearview mirror like I slapped him. My knee is bleeding. And I could really use some Vicodin and Xanax right now.
Realizing I veered too far off character, I sigh. “Sorry. I overreacted. But seriously, I’m okay. I get that you’re scared, and your feelings are valid, but so is my experience. You’re right, Mom. I asked someone for a painkiller, and I thought they were going to give me a hospital-grade pill. It ended up being off the street. Lesson learned. Never again.”
I recognize the silence that follows. It’s the same one they gave Daria every time they thought she was being difficult and unreasonable. Which was always. Homegirl straight up almost ruined her now-husband’s twin sister’s life. I stood on the sidelines and watched her drama unfold.
But I’m not Daria.
I’m responsible, smart, level-headed. I could’ve gotten into any Ivy League university I wanted.
I decide to take a gamble.
“Look, I’m good with doing the outpatient program until I go back to Juilliard if it puts your mind at ease.”
As expected, Mom pulls the “you shouldn’t be doing this for us, you should do this for yourself” card.
I’m the first to admit I got carried away with the drugs these past few months, but it’s not like I dropped the ball. My grades are still amazing, I do charity work volunteering in a soup kitchen, and never dog-ear my books. Still a civilized human being all in all.
“I’ll do the outpatient program,” I repeat. “And use the rest of the time to train so I can retake a studio exam.”
“You failed?” Mom clutches her pearls.
“No!” My pride, like my knee, is bleeding all over the floor. My anxiety is a ball of poison sitting in my throat. “I just…want a better grade, you know?”
“Good news is, you’ll have plenty of time to practice because you sure as heck ain’t getting out of the house unsupervised,” Dad announces in an end-of-story tone.
“You can’t hold me hostage!”
“Who’s holding you hostage?” Dad drawls. “You’re an adult and free to go. Let’s go over your options, shall we?” he says conversationally, raising a hand and starting to tick off people with his fingers. “Your sister’s? Tougher than military school. Forged in adolescent hell. Also lives in San Francisco, so good luck with the fog. Dean, Baron, Emilia, Trent, and Edie? Will send you straight home after they hear what landed you back in town. Knight, Luna, Vaughn?”
He is on his second round of ticking off people with his fingers. “Have young kids and—no offense—not gonna host a substance user under their roof if you paid them. Which brings me to my final point—you can’t pay them or a hotel because you’re flat-out broke.”