"I'm—I'm sorry," I tell Mom again, stuttering and hiccupping through the apology. Gasping, I try and fail to get enough oxygen into my lungs so that I might say why I'm sorry.
When she realized a few moments later that I wasn't tearing up but spiraling into hysteria as I covered my entire face with her tissue, Gisa pulled me up by my arms, walked me across the room, and shoved me into the hallway.
She did something similar with Mom, who ended up beside me a matter of seconds later. My sister, then commandeering Mister Calore's office, pushed the heavy doors shut behind us.
"Not as sorry—sorry as I am," Mom returns, no better off than I am.
After I realized that Maven, Cal, Elara, Carmadon, Gisa, and the reporter could likely hear us weeping through the doors, I walked with Mom to the three-stall women's bathroom down the hall and around a turn. With class in session, nobody will bother us, even as our stumbled-out words and sobs echo across the bathroom tiles.
I cling to Mom like I never have before. Her arms loop over mine in a tight tug so that our chests are squeezed together, and my face is thoroughly buried in the shoulder of her sweater. As I continue to lose it, falling deeper into this emotional-frenzied pit of remorse and anger and pure-euphoria, I try to focus on that clean-linen scent of her sweater, its cable-knit pattern pressing into my cheek.
My head pounds from the exhaustion of crying. My nose runs. My throat stings.
We've never hugged like this. Not in a time that I can remember.
And some part of me that knows that I still desperately need my mom.
All I've ever wanted is her approval. Her praise. It means more that she's proud of me than an auditorium of eight-hundred applauding for me does.
"I should've at least taken the front door out," I say in a gasp of clarity. It dissolves into more crying. As I shake in Mom's arms, I try to get a handle on myself. I try to stand tall, stuff my sobs down my throat, and blink rapidly to stop the tears that are literally wetting Mom's sweater None of it works. "But I—I snuck out the window. Like—like a coward."
I'm like a dam that's been holding in water. I've been building up grievances against my parents for years, tucking them away in some dark and bitter place inside of my heart.
I'm finally letting it all out.
Mom never understood, never bothered to try to understand. As long as I was pickpocketing for a cause that seemed to her a dead-end, she never approved of ballet.
Dad hasn't seen me dance in five years.
It was so easy at the time to leave them for all that I have here.
It's finally hurting. My heart seems to beat in time with the sobs that rattle out of me.
"Neither of us can fix the past, Mare," Mom coos, managing a few more words. Her bony hands hold onto me like a vice, and I swear that if it wasn't for her, I'd crumble to the ground and drown in my own tears. "But we can move on and be a part of each other's lives again. And—and I'm so—so proud of—of you."
Her words heal and cut me open all at once.
All I've ever wanted is for her to say those words.
Frantically, I nod. "Oh—okay." I can't hold onto the anger anymore.
And then I cry a little harder, my chest aching from the struggle against my own body to breathe.
I ache for my new life, for everything that I thought that I had lost. I ache for the family that I'm only realizing now I really need. With a start, I ache for the Scarlet Street Fighters and everything that I stand to lose.
"Put it back," I tell my little sister. "I'm not that rich."
In her greedy hands, Gee holds a rather expensive black handbag that she's trying to sweet talk me into buying. With an immature whine, Gee turns on her heel for whatever alcove of the massive department store she found her designer purse in.
"You have no use for that anyway," I argue, drilling holes into her back with my eyes.
"Yeah I do," she calls in a high-pitched disgruntled tone. "I'm an up-and-coming Fifth Avenue designer."
"Then when you can pay for that purse yourself, you can buy it," I retort one last time before turning to Mom, who stands with crossed arms like a tiny fish in a very big pond.
Our two-hour cathartic crying-session in the bathroom ended in beyond-puffy eyes and comfortable, easy silence. Having cried and sobbed and sniveled for so long, I did a decent bit of hyperventilating before settling down. But after a dozen Kleenexes, we both managed to make ourselves look half-presentable, and Gisa, dutifully sitting in the hallway with my bag from the studio, told us that Elara had given me the day off.
I imagine that when Gisa was stuck in the office with the Calores and the reporter, she was asked why my mother and I burst into tears in the middle of my interview. If the reporter herself didn't, then I wouldn't be surprised if Elara had asked, if only because I'm her dancer and she wants me to be okay. Gisa, not the best at shutting her mouth, likely let some things about our strained relationship slip.
With the day off and Gisa refusing to go to school for the afternoon, first, we went out for lunch. Mom, having done the cooking her entire life, only blinked at me when I asked her where she wanted to eat. Gisa, having no problem choosing the restaurant, decided on an American food place a few blocks away that wouldn't freak Mom out too badly. I, unfortunately, having already enjoyed a cheat meal with Gee on Friday, had to go healthy while Mom and Gee enjoyed their hamburgers.
But that little scoundrel knows how to manipulate. Naturally, my sister chose a restaurant that was a convenient two blocks from one of Fifth Avenue's designer department stores.
I've been here before with Iris and have already walked its gorgeous and wildly-expensive floors, lined with counters of every style of shoe, racks of coats and dresses, and cases of purses. I've gone up its escalators with railings of iridescent glass, and I've bathed in the white lights that contrast the golden tint of the showrooms. I've smelled the perfume samples misted into the air, glanced at the flower counters, and been enticed with a facial massage from a worker who attempted to lure me and Iris to the beauty floor of Saks Fifth Avenue.
Mom, having absolutely no idea what to do with herself, follows me around as I window-shop coats. She's already clucked her tongue at a dozen price tags and gasped in horror at a dozen more. Gisa's content to flit around the store, going too fast up and down escalators for either of us to keep up with. One thing, I told her. And it can't be more than two-hundred dollars. We already went shopping on Friday.
I've asked Mom if she wants anything in particular, and she's since warned me that if I ask again, she'll slap me across the cheek. I once acted that way towards Maven, but I've since gotten used to—or at least accepted—what Midtown shopping is like. Aside from living in the neighborhood, my bank account is currently flourishing with cash, courtesy of the Principal dancer salary the Calores pay me.
Dimly, as I continue around a shoe display with Mom, do I wonder what Dad would think of all of this.
While Mom might have told the reporter that he's proud of me, I have no doubt that my father doesn't approve of certain aspects of my new life. I live in a posh loft in Midtown, buy clothes at leisure, and go to Wall Street galas and aboard luxury yachts with billionaires.
I haven't thought about how to tell Mom that the Calores want to write me a two-point-five-million-dollar check for a house. I don't think that I can. Not until I make a decision of my own accord. Who knows if Dad's pride could even take living in that house.
"So Mare," Mom says, eyes flickering to mine. Mindlessly, my fingers graze the fine fabrics of the new coats that we pass. It won't take Gisa long to come sprinting back here to ask about a different fancy purse. The scent of rich-women perfume lingers in the air, throwing me back to the gala in an instant.
In an uncharacteristic move, Mom plants her feet in front of me and narrows her eyes. Innocently, she tilts her head as she crosses her arms.
"When were you planning on telling me that you have a secret boyfriend named Maven Calore?"
It was some motherly intuition.
Gee told Mom about her secret boyfriend theory, but I shot it down again over the phone to Mom on Friday night, and she believed me.
It's true that I've been saying good things about Maven all afternoon in hopes of softening the blow. But I barely looked at Maven during the interview, and I haven't said anything about him that might imply he's more than a friend.
Still, Mom has me by the wrist, charging down the Academy halls in spite of not knowing which way to go. When we come to a fork on the fourth floor, Mom turns on me. "Which way, young lady?"
Helplessly, I point left.
Gee giggles, practically skipping behind us with her brand-new purse.
Mom was being fairly reasonable in Saks, listening to how Maven and I became friends shortly after we were named partners. She managed to nod when I told her that he reached for my hand. She called Blonos "a sick woman" when I told her how she made me kiss Maven during rehearsals.
Unlike with the story that I told Cal, I tried to censor things a little for Mom.
But in the end, I crumpled under her scrutiny.
I've never been able to resist her, no matter how hard I've tried.
She knows about the hot tub, she knows that I wore a bikini in the hot tub, and she knows that there was alcohol floating around the hot tub. She knows about the hot tub.
She knows that I stuck my tongue right into Maven Calore's mouth in front of an audience.
She knows that he had drunk half a glass of wine before he stuck his tongue into my mouth.
She knows about the hot tub.
Maven never got the chance to make a first impression on Mom, and Mom doesn't care about anything of the wonderful things that I've said about my boyfriend.
Before I know it, Mom is freely charging into the studio that Maven and I were scheduled to rehearse in today.
It's filled with light and, as it turns out, half of the Corps de Ballet. A dozen sets of partners dance through a sequence in the first act, wearing the jolly faces of villagers as they turn about the floor. Ballet-Master Carmadon is settled near the pianist and her grand piano at the corner of the room. Cal, I realize with no small jolt, is seated against the nearby wall with his legs sprawled out. Sitting in on today's rehearsals, he still has his Mets cap on backward.
Mom doesn't linger at the threshold. She bursts in so that everybody pauses in place for the deranged woman interrupting rehearsals. One of the ballerinas stumbles out of her turns.
The pianist cuts off a moment later.
Carmadon and Cal look towards the door.
Maven, watching off to the side closest to us, is somehow the last to see that his girlfriend's mother is in the room.
He only pales as Mom gets within striking distance of him.
Nearly a foot taller than Mom and infinitely richer than her, Maven looks more terrified than I've ever seen him.
In his ballet clothes, including tights, that I should add, leave little to the imagination, Maven puts up his hands. Mom, having literally taken away my phone to stuff it in her purse, stopped me from warming Maven. I wasn't ready to tell her, nor was I expecting to tell her so many details.
"Missus Barrow—"
Mom at last lets go of my wrist so that her writing hand can slap Maven right across his face. It isn't the most aggressive or violent thing in the world, but it isn't gentle either. The sound of hand-on-cheek contact rings throughout the room, and when Mom's hand comes away from Maven's face, the slightest rose blush remains.
Maven, having now been physically attacked by my mom, takes a step back.
"That's what you get for French-kissing my daughter in a hot tub, boy," Mom says, officially advancing on Maven.
The entire room bursts out into gleeful laughter to replicate that of the yacht.
The distinct sound of Cal's masculine laugh spirals through the room.
I have no choice but to put myself in front of Mom so that she won't try to slap Maven's other cheek, who I expect will take anything that my mom throws—or slaps—at him.
I put my hands on Mom's shoulders. "Mom, I told you that was on me, not Maven. And I've told you several times now—"
"That he's a nice boy," Mom finishes, glaring over my shoulder at my boyfriend. She locks eyes with him. "We're going to have a nice long talk, boy."
With both Mom and Maven at last on their way home—after a good hour of enjoying the Mom-Maven confrontation, Gee returned to East Harlem to catch up on her schoolwork—I skip down the Academy stairs.
Mom and Maven have gotten to know one another well over the afternoon. Utterly disregarding rehearsals, Mom wasted no time barking at Maven to follow her out into the hallway. An open studio and some folding chairs became an interrogation room where I had to argue to be allowed in.
She started drilling Maven with questions as to how we became . . . involved with one another. Why he likes me. At a rapid pace, she moved on to other questions about what he likes, how he does in school, why in the world he's a Yankees fan, and what his intentions with me are.
Maven, still shaken from Ruth Barrow slapping him, stumbled over the last question, telling Mom in half-incomprehensible, incomplete sentences that he likes me and wants to see where things go.
I picked up Maven's slack, telling Mom that we only began dating on Sunday.
Mom fired back, saying that Maven should have a better answer considering we've been making out for two weeks now.
The conversation went in circles. Mom warned Maven a good number of times with various threats, more than once mentioning that I have two big brothers that are big indeed. Maven assured Mom that he really likes me and cares about me. He promised to take our relationship seriously.
The hours-long interrogation session only ended because I told Mom that Maven really needed to go home and do his physics homework.
It could have gone worse. Maven didn't even come close to charming Mom the way that Cal did, considering that he was taken by surprise in the midst of rehearsals. Still, I think he sold Mom on the fact that he's a nice boy.
I know Mom has her concerns for reasons that she wouldn't say aloud.
Maven's the son of a Wall Street billionaire. I'm from East Harlem, the daughter of a man who had his life ruined by a couple of rich college kids. Maven and Dad are diametrically opposed. Maven's spent his entire life in a shining penthouse on Billionaires' Row, looking down on East Harlem from across Central Park. Dad's spent the last ten years looking up from his wheelchair, sequestered in our pathetic apartment. He's been looking up at American capitalism and all that it took from him.
Dad would never, ever approve of Maven. He's like the icing on my Midtown luxury lifestyle cake.
And then there are the obvious concerns.
I have a boyfriend. I don't even live at home. I'm a girl, Maven's a boy.
Shutting that thought down, I come around a staircase landing.
At least Mom agreed not to tell Dad or my brothers for now. If Bree and Tramy knew, they wouldn't wait for an invitation to come down to Midtown with their bats and Met caps. Dad would lose his mind, maybe even rise up from his wheelchair to exact his revenge. Gee, on the other hand, has only agreed not to let the news of my secret boyfriend fly because I promised to start paying her fifty-dollar weekly "allowances."
More like hush money. Mom doesn't even know about that. Gisa threatened me via text on her way home. I'm more proud of her than I should be for swindling me like that.
"Hey. Wait up."
Cal's voice calls from behind me, and a moment later he's matching my hasty steps.
It's seven-fifty-nine. I know this because I have a second-by-second timeline for getting downstairs to the theatre that starts at seven-fifty-eight and thirty seconds. Cal probably came from Julian's studio, and apparently, he's running late. He's always on the stage before I am.
"Hey," I return. "What's up?"
Probably stunned by my casual words or remembering my crack-up from this morning, Cal's silent for a moment as our feet beat down the steps. "Not much. I enjoyed watching your mom bitch-slap my brother in front of an audience, though."
I have to pinch my lips to avoid my laughter echoing through the stairwell. It might have been a little funny.
"What's up with you?"
A smile plays at my lips. Despite the impending lesson, I feel all light and airy inside.
"I had a nice day, Cal," I tell my teacher, glancing at him for a second before focusing on the steps ahead of me. "Even with my mom freaking out on me and Maven."
Gisa did admit to letting a few things slip. She couldn't hold up against Elara when asked what the problem was between me and my mother and why we were crying so badly outside.
She tried to tell the ballet mistress that Mom is just really proud of me and that I'm really happy at the Academy, but she digressed into mentioning our strained relationship. Then my absence from home stumbled out, and the nosy journalist, as though it was any of her business, asked how long I've been away.
Mid-July, Gisa told the denizens of Mister Calore's office.
"I imagine," he replies. From the corner of my eye, I watch Cal put his hands behind his back.
He knows. He won't mention it unless I do.
"I know what I did was pretty crazy," I tell Cal. A deep, steady breath enters my body and leaves it. "Even for me. But you don't understand—"
"You were mad at your parents for never caring about the only thing that you've ever cared about," Cal says for me, apparently understanding. He stops two stairs below me and turns around, prompting me to pause as well. The two steps equalize our heights for once. "Plus, I'm going to take a wild guess and say that you didn't even tell your family about your new ballet job because your sister had just broken her wrist. And you couldn't bear to tell them how your dreams were coming true when your sister might have just destroyed hers."
My fingers wrap around the handrail to my left.
"There was this whole thing with a pair of pointe shoes," I add. "Gisa found them in my room, my mom saw them, and then my parents figured they'd stage a confrontation so that I could finally get over ballet. It was pretty ironic, considering. My dad snapped at me. He told me that I should stop wasting my time."
Something in Cal's eyes seems to break. He's already heard a little about Dad.
"I panicked. It was a bad idea, but I'm full of bad ideas. I left a note, told them that I'd send money, and climbed out of my bedroom window."
Comprehending exactly what I did, Cal nods. His eyes are wide. "Your mom seems like she's trying to fix things."
I nod along with him. "She is. She's great. She's only ever looked out for my best interests. And in East Harlem . . . ballet just doesn't come to mind first. There's always been some favoritism between me and my sister, too. Then there was the stealing. But I have to get over that and fix things too. She kind of destroyed me today when she looked at me and told me that she was proud."
Sensing that I have more to say, Cal stays silent.
"I know it sounds crazy that I haven't been home since mid-July."
"Pretty crazy, yeah."
"But I've been focused on ballet. It's all I do every day. I've still had Shade and my friends," I continue, mainly referring to the Scarlet Street Fighters. There was a time when Maven, Iris, and the other women I took class with were the only people that I saw. But it never particularly bothered me. Not when I had ballet. "And I'm, like, the queen bee of the Corps girls now. I have a boyfriend, oddly enough. And I have you as my verbal punching bag."
"I know, Mare," Cal returns. His shoulders shake as he takes in his new title. My verbal punching bag. But his words tell me that he's not worried that I've been away from home. "You're a fighter. I know."
I am a Fighter.
"You know how sometimes you don't know that something's bothering you until you stop to think about it or look it in the face?"
Cal nods, his own hand gracing the handrail.
"That's what happened today."
"That makes sense."
"I cried for two hours and it felt amazing."
"It was cathartic," Cal says.
I decide now that Cal is just as good of a listener as his brother is. He's not judging, just listening. And he has this keen ability to peer into my soul and finish my sentences.
Sometimes I think that I like talking to Cal. He can actually rival my verbal punches. He's kind, even if I'll never admit it. When we do fall into these deep conversations, they feel natural. Easy. Safe.
But I do have something else to broach Cal about.
"On a completely separate note, tell me about this whole Monopoly thing and how you win every single time."
Cal's soft smile turns into something else. He grins a little differently, and I notice for the first time that dimples appear on his cheeks. It's less retaliatory and more cute.
"You can't possibly win every time, Cal." I force my eyes to look inquisitive. "There's an element of luck, you know. Let's say that I buy Park Place and Boardwalk on my first trip around. I use all of my money to build up hotels, and you land on both of them first thing. You would—"
Cal shakes his head. "I would use your sadistic desire to see me suffer against you and convince you to play with me until I got the upper hand. That's what I would do, Mare. Besides. If you just built up hotels on the dark blue properties, that probably means that you're officially broke."
I roll my eyes. I knew that.
He's good.
I'm better.
And now I'm learning how he thinks.
"Okay." I put out a gesturing hand. "But what if you just kept landing on squares with no properties. None. Not once. What would you do then?"