“Nanna’s not coming this week. Because I’m competing there,” Arya says.
“You talked to Nanna?”
“Yeah, Nanna calls me all the time.”
“And you pick up? How nice for her.”
Arya purses her lips and says softly, “I always call you back. When I’m at practice, I—”
“Dance isn’t more important than family.” Sharpness permeates the mother’s voice, along with impatience. She’s registered this complaint frequently. In a softer tone, she says, “Family is what matters. As I’m sure Erik will tell you.”
She looks at me, waiting for a response. It’s clever positioning. Considering my relationship with my uncle, she knows I’m not going to deny that family matters. But if I agree, that lands me on her side in dismissing Arya’s right to prioritize practice over a phone call.
“Phones don’t come onto the football field,” I say. “A delay in my answering messages is a given. People understand.”
“Football practice of course is different. But the girls on Arya’s team leave their phones lined up on the bleachers.Theyanswer calls.”
“Hmm.”
The mother expects Arya to prove her loyalty by interrupting practice for a national championship? The woman is selfish and childish. Or maybe something worse.
“Since you’re unwell, Mrs. Peralta, lie down. We’ll make sure you have that tea before we go.”
The mother narrows her eyes at Arya. “What did you say to him?” To me, she says, “Arya is prone to exaggeration. She can be very dramatic. Anyone with any sense sees that.”
Silently, I harden my expression as if I’m facing off against an offensive line. Mrs. Peralta’s expression shifts, and she glares back at me.
I almost nod.There you are.
“When a girl is more talented than ninety-nine percent of the population, she can afford to be a little dramatic,” I say mildly, continuing our stare-down. “I don’t sweat the small stuff. I wouldn’t expect her mother to either.”
Without another word, Arya’s mother turns and disappears down a dim hallway.
When I look at Arya, she stands frozen a few feet from me with an expression of shock.
“Show me where the kitchen is.”
With a silent nod, she passes me and leads the way. Once we’re surrounded by the brown and gold granite counters, Arya makes tea and takes down bottles of prescription headache medication. She adds two pills to the saucer, next to a steaming cup of chamomile.
Neither of us says anything.
Once Arya’s gone to deliver the tea, I step into the main hall where there are countless pictures. My eyes scan the framed photos. There are about three times more solo pictures of the brother than of Arya. And the only ones of her in dance costumes are from when she was small. Interestingly, in those old pictures, she’s not alone as she holds giant trophies that are almost as big as she is. Her mother is always in the photo with her, standing next to her with an arm around her small shoulders.
When Arya returns, I’m still studying the wall. There are a few wedding photos of her parents. Her dad’s a handsome man. Both Arya and her brother look like him.
“Is there another hallway of photos? With the more recent ones?”
“More recent?” She points at a picture of her brother in a cap and gown. “That’s from last year.”
“Your high school squad won a national championship, right? That’s how you and Eden met?”
“Yes.”
I turn. “Where are the pictures from that day?”
“Just on my photo-gram account. And my grandma has a bunch.”
“Hmm.”
