Something clicks in my brain, pieces falling into place. “Wait,” I say. “Shouldn’t you have a Russian last name then?”
“Very perceptive,” she says, and then, in a soft voice, she continues. “Zakharov.”
I roll the syllables in my head, trying to piece together the sounds. “That’s…your dad’s last name?”
She nods.
I lean forward slightly, drawn in by this unexpected revelation. “So why—”
She exhales. “When he fled the Soviet Union, he wanted to start fresh. A clean slate.”
I stay silent, sensing this is one of those moments where listening matters more than responding.
“He had a thick accent, looked very Russian, and carried a name that immediately gave him away,” she continues. “And at the time, that wasn’t exactly an easy thing.”
I can only imagine the challenges, the small daily negotiations with identity that must have shaped him.
“So, when he met my mom, who’s from Alabama,” she goes on, her voice softer now, “he made a decision. He wanted his children to have her last name.”
I turn this over in my mind, feeling the gravity of what that choice must have meant. “But you still carried on his name somehow, right?”
“My middle name.”
I nod slowly, taking that in, understanding it’s both preservation and transformation. Names carry the story of where we come from but also the promise of where we hope to belong.
“But don’t misinterpret,” she adds, her expression turning more resolute, almost fierce. “He was deeply proud of his Russian roots. He never tried to erase them, never let us forget where he came from. The one thing he was more proud of, though?” She meets my eyes. “Having first-generation American daughters.”
Petra carries herself like someone who understands legacy, who knows what it means to be built from sacrifice, from hope. And suddenly I realize that every time she steps on stage, every time she dances, it’s not just for her; it’s for all the stories that brought her here.
“He was also a massive hockey fan,” she continues, pulling me back from my thoughts. “And he loved theideaof ballet, a discipline that demanded such strength and focus.”
My curiosity sparks. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”
“When I was a teenager, my parents started driving me to bigger cities for better training. My dad loved those trips, especially when they were to cities with NHL teams. New York was his favorite. He loved the energy here.”
I lean forward. “Does he ever make it to Sentinels games now? When he comes to visit you in New York, I mean.”
Her smile falters, and for a moment, her eyes drop to the floor. “He passed away recently,” she says, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of grief.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Thank you,” she replies. “He definitely went to Sentinels games when we visited here as kids. Hockey was his way of staying connected to where he came from.”
I nod. “Sounds like he was the type of guy who made things happen. Must be where you get it.”
She blinks at me, caught off guard, but her smile grows. “Maybe,” she says. “But let’s not turn this into a therapy session, LeClerc.”
“So the rest of your family is still where you grew up?”
“My mom’s still in Alabama with my little sister. She’s a senior in high school, trying to figure out where she’ll go for college. She’s applying to a few schools in New York actually. I’m really praying she can move here because we were so close growing up, and the distance has made it challenging.”
“Another ballerina?”
“She’s very artistic but more into design than dance.”
“Well, if she’s anything like you, I’m sure she’ll be making waves as a designer here in no time.”
Petra’s phone buzzes, breaking whatever spell has been building between us. “I should get going. Not really supposed to be in the studio this late, especially with people not in the ballet company.”
