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)
“First of all, it’s for my mental health.” I pull my hair into a bun and storm down the stairs, Mom at my heels, holding a vegan power bowl with extra passionfruit. “Second, if I’m a so-called painkiller addict, exercising is actually one of the best ways to detox. Flush the hydrocodone and acetaminophen out of my system.”
“You know what’s better than exercising? Going to meetings every day.” Mom shoulders the door open when I try to slam it in her face. We’re in the studio now, standing in front of each other like in a duel. Her weapon is an organic breakfast and mine is a wrathful glare.
“Three times a week is plenty.” I roll my eyes.
“Three times a week is nothing when you overdosed less than a month ago. Now eat.” She thrusts the bowl to my chest.
“I have to start working.” I fold my arms, taking a step back. The pills are killing my appetite. I live on handfuls of nuts or high-calorie energy drinks throughout the day.
“On what?” My mother treads deeper into the studio, and is it just me or is she hogging all the oxygen in the room? “All you do is harm yourself even more. Don’t think I wasn’t listening when they told you in the hospital about your tibia and spine injuries.”
“Of course you were listening.” I shake my head. “It’s not like you have a life of your own to focus on.”
I’m being super mean right now.
Mom dedicated her entire life to Daria and me. Turning this against her is disgusting, but the Vicodin is running the show right now.
I’m so raw, I feel the shallowest paper cut could make me bleed out. I’m exposed. A lie told and detected. A fraud. A nobody who deserves to be alone, so I am pushing her away.
“They’re probably not even going to take you back!” she snaps.
This lands like an iron fist straight in my gut. I keel over at her words, and Mom slaps a hand over her mouth, letting go of the fruit bowl with a gasp. It shatters between us, just like our trust. I can feel the shards in my mouth. All the unspoken words that sat between us for weeks and months and years.
Bailey is different.
Bailey is so talented.
She has what it takes.
“I didn’t mean it that way.” Mom shakes her head, tears rimming the edges of her pale eyes. “Bails. I…I…”
“You what?” My voice is unrecognizable to me.
Cold as the goose bumps blossoming along my gray skin.
“I just want my daughter back.” Now the tears are all over her face, her neck, running down the collar of her tennis dress.
White-hot anger zips through me. She has to be kidding me. She is why I’m doing all this. She is why I keep pushing through the pain.
“I am your daughter.” I hit back, spreading my arms wide, putting myself on display.
Every inch of marred skin, battle scars, and hard-earned bruises. I’m a kaleidoscope of purples and blues, of pain and suffering. “All I ever wanted was to make you proud. I still do, Mom. Pathetically, all I care about is making you and Dad happy.”
I clutch on to a pointe shoe and hurl it against the wall.
It lands a few inches above her head, but she doesn’t even twitch. It’s like she’s hypnotized by me.
“I’m your little ballerina, remember?” Tears run down my face. The anxiety is back again, like deep, thick tree roots shackling me in place. “Just talented enough to make it, unlike Daria. All I have to do is work a little harder, stand a little straighter, be a little more like you.”
Mom’s jaw drops. “I thought you wanted this. You asked me if I could put you in ballet, and I guess—”
This. This is why I need the pills. So I can control the overwhelming fear of failure.
The pain of not measuring up. Before she can finish the sentence, I grab my other shoe and fling it at her too. This time she dodges.
“Of course, I wanted to do ballet! It runs through your veins, and you run in mine. Just admit it, Melody. You fed me to the wolves. You mourned your short career at Juilliard, your own career-killing injury when you were a student. You never recovered. Not from the broken leg—and not from the broken dream. Remember how you told me your parents never supported your dream, which was why you were going to make sure I made it?” I pant like I just ran a marathon.
“Well, your over-supportiveness meant I knew I couldn’t fail. At first you thought Daria would fulfill your dreams, but she was as wild as weeds. Unruly and disinterested in being squeezed and shaped into your perfect daughter. Now, me? I was your winning ticket. Obedient and hardworking. I became the prized daughter. The apple of your shrewd eye. You introduced me to this cutthroat world. Willingly inserted me into a life of never-ending auditions, grueling physical work, injuries, heartbreak, sacrifice, and rejection. Now you need to live with the consequences of your own doing. Even if they include a junkie child whose drug of choice is standing onstage, doing pas de deux with an acclaimed ballerino.”