Xoxo,
Mom
P.S. You forgot to give me an update on your repertoire. I need all the details!
Had Mom realized I purposely didn’t answer her question about Juilliard? Hopefully not. I didn’t know how to tell her I was struggling to pick my pieces. I knew I could always call her and ask for help. But part of me was terrified that if I did, she would decide leaving was a mistake and come home, which was the last thing I wanted. Nancy Goodman, my old private instructor, would be willing to lend a hand, but she’d retired two years ago, and I didn’t want to bug her. So that meant I was on my own, and really, how was that any different from every other situation in my life? I just needed to get my shit together, stop panicking, and finalize my audition program.
Abandoning my computer, I wandered over to my violin case and pulled it out.
“You can do this,” I whispered to myself as I settled the instrument into the crook of my neck. “Just take a deep breath and play.”
Five minutes later, I was working my way through Caprice No. 24, the Paganini piece I was considering, when my bedroom door swung open with so much force that it rattled against the wall. Violet stormed inside.
“We need to talk.”
Oh, now she wanted to talk?
Violet hadn’t spoken to me since Comic Con. During our flight home on Sunday, she’d given me the silent treatment—not that I minded—and I hadn’t seen her since.
“There’s this thing called knocking,” I said. “It’s considered the polite thing to do instead of barging in on someone, especially when you can hear that they’re busy.” I waved my bow to make a point.
Violet ignored me and held out a piece of paper. “What the hell is this?”
“I thought it was obvious. It’s an invoice for the services I provided as your assistant.” Violet still hadn’t given me the money I was owed, so this morning before I left for school, I’d written up the statement and slipped it under her bedroom door.
She scoffed. “Did you actually expect to get paid after ditching me? That was beyond unprofessional.”
Rolling my eyes, I set my violin into the velvet cushion of its case. “And forgetting your promise to me wasn’t unprofessional?” I asked. “Don’t try to lie to me. I saw the look on your face when I asked to leave for Melody’s panel. You completely forgot about it,and despite that, I still ran your stupid errand for you. But what did you do when I needed your help? You left me out in the cold and sent a she-devil to patronize my abilities as a PA, which, by the way, isn’t my freaking job!”
“Indie, that was never my intention—”
I cut her off before she could finish whatever bullshit excuse was on the tip of her tongue. “Doesn’t matter. We had an agreement, and the way I see it, I’m the only one who made an attempt to follow through. Hindsight, I’m not surprised, but I gave up my free time in order—”
“Oh, get off your high horse,” she snapped. “You weren’t helping me out of the kindness of your heart.”
“If you acted more like my sister and less like a selfish diva, maybe I would have.”
Violet’s entire body tensed. Three long seconds passed as my harsh words settled between us. “Is that really what you think of me?”
The hurt in her voice made me pause, but only for a moment. This fight wasn’t merely about yesterday. It was a long time coming.
“Does that honestly surprise you?” I countered. “You’ve been choosing yourself over this family for the past five years.”
“Oh, that’s right. Sometimes I forget you cast me as the villain of our little family tragedy,” she said, her tone so sharp it could have cut glass.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
At first, Violet didn’t respond. She surveyed me with an expression that bordered on pity, like I was a dying animal and she couldn’tdecide whether to put me out of my misery. “That there’s always another side to the story,” she said at last. “When you decide to stop playing the victim, talk to Dad. Maybe he can enlighten you.”
* * *
The equipment trucks crowding the driveway were my first hint that something strange was going on. The second was a man guarding our front door. As I climbed the porch steps Friday afternoon, he narrowed his eyes at me as if assessing a threat.
“Name?” he asked, looking down at his clipboard.
I glanced around. Was this some sort of joke? “Excuse me?”
“Your name,” he repeated, voice flat.
