She nods. “I redesigned our entire house when I was fifteen.” She exchanges a look with Petra. “It was long overdue.”
Petra’s pride radiates. “She presented our parents with a full PowerPoint presentation, outlining the design changes for each room.”
“Mom surrendered at slide eight, where I outlined the new kitchen with open shelving. I wasn’t even halfway through the presentation.” Claire’s grin suggests victory was never in doubt. “The layout in our home was a mess. Our entryway had no flow. The lighting? Criminal. Don’t even get me started on the dining room chairs—I taught myself reupholstering just to save them from their tragic existence.”
My whistle of appreciation is genuine.
“Meanwhile,” Petra’s gesture encompasses my entire apartment, “this exists.”
“Hey—” I say.
“It’s aggressively neutral.” Claire abandons diplomacy with refreshing speed. “Vanilla ice cream took the form of an apartment and gave up on life.”
Getting roasted by sisters should probably feel worse. Instead, it’s oddly therapeutic.
An idea strikes. “Want your first New York project?”
Interest sharpens her features. “I’m listening.”
“This place. Give it a complete overhaul. Make it stop looking like a storage unit that masquerades as a home.”
Silence. Then, “You’re serious?”
“Completely. It’s a win-win: You build your portfolio, and I get a home that doesn’t make Petra sigh every time she walks in.”
“Every. Single. Time,” Petra confirms.
Claire turns to Petra and says, “??? ?? ???????, ??? ????? ??????? ??? ???????????? ? ?????, ??? ??? ????? ????? ?? ???.”
“???????, ???? ????? ??? ???????!” Petra quickly responds. Their exchange is in a half-whisper as if volume plays a role in concealing the meaning of what they’re saying.
“Da!” I exclaim. “If you’re trying to decide if this is a good idea, the answer is yes!”
They exchange smiles with each other. “I’ll pay the going rate, whatever that is, in dollars or rubles, your choice,” I add.
Claire processes, her thinking face eerily reminiscent of Petra’s. “Never tackled anything this scale outside of our home…”
Petra looks at Claire. “I think it’s a great idea.”
Claire hesitates. “I mean…I’d love to, but—”
I cut in, “I want this place to actually feel like home. And if I’m gonna invest in making it better, I want someone I trust doing it.”
“Okay,” Claire says. “Let’s do it.”
I grin. “Perfect.”
Petra beams. “Finally, this place is going to get some personality.”
On this fall evening, the David H. Koch Theater smolders like it knows it’s the prettiest building on the block. Its glass façade throws golden light onto the plaza, daring you not to stop and take a picture. Across town, Madison Square Garden is lit up too, but in that loud, neon way that feels less like poetry and more like someone yelling in all caps. The Koch gives you chandeliers and whispered anticipation; the Garden gives you scoreboards, beer foam, and a soundtrack of people screaming at refs. Two temples at opposite ends of the spectrum: one built for pirouettes, one for slapshots, both promising the same thing—if you walk through the doors, something unforgettable might happen.
Inside the theater, the anticipation has a different texture than pre-game energy. It’s refined. The orchestra warms up, creating that specific chaos that promises impending order and beauty.
“I still can’t believe I’m actually going to watch Petra perform at Lincoln Center,” Claire whispers as she and I take our seats in the first ring. There’s something in her voice that makes me remember she’s still young enough to be awed by her older sister. For that matter, anyone should be awed by Petra and what she does on stage. I sure am.
“She makes it look easy,” I tell her. “It definitely isn’t.”
The lights dim, and the audience becomes a single organism, breathing together in the dark. The first notes of Bizet’sSymphony in Cfill the space.
