“It’s what I love.”
She turns back to me, head tilted in a way that means trouble. “So…I hear your pirouettes are something to behold.”
I groan, rubbing my face. “Petra already gave you the rundown?”
“She might have mentioned your ‘training.’”
I shake my head but can’t fight the pride creeping into my voice. “Under Petra’s guidance, yeah. I had to rebuild myself, get my strength and mobility back. Hockey workouts get you strong, but ballet makes you powerful in a different way.”
“And you actually like it?”
“Let’s just say I have a lot more respect for what Petra does now. And a lot more ballet slippers in my closet than I ever thought I’d have.”
Claire laughs. “I can’t wait to see you play while I’m here. Petra says you’re finally back at full speed.”
My expression does something I can’t control, probably revealing too much. “It’s getting there. But game speed is something else. It’s one thing to feel ready; it’s another to actually compete and be a difference-maker out there.”
She studies me with eyes that see too much for someone her age. “You will be.”
The certainty in her voice is both reassuring and slightly unnerving.
We keep talking about ballet, hockey, design, and her plans for New York domination. She lists restaurants she wants to try and furniture stores she’s already scouted for inspiration.
Then she goes silent, retracts, and the mood shifts.
She lingers near the couch, fingers tracing the armrest seams as if she’s reading braille for bad news. It’s the same absent tracing her sister performs when something is gnawing at her. Her gaze goes unfocused in that way that means an internal crisis is brewing.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
Silence ensues. The bad kind.
I tilt my head, watching her closely. “You have the same mannerisms as Petra when she’s trying to hide something but also kind of wants to tell me something.”
I step closer, concern overriding my usual policy of not invading private space. “Claire?”
Her voice drops to barely a whisper, like the words might break if she says them too loudly. “I have a confession.”
“Okay…” I say. “Should we wait till Petra gets back with our lunch? She shouldn’t be much longer.”
Claire exhales sharply, hands squeezing together like they’re trying to hold her together. “No,” she says. “It’s something I can’t tell her, just you.”
“Is everything okay, Claire?”
“I didn’t actually get accepted to Parsons.”
The words hang in the air.
I blink, once, twice. “Wait. What?”
“I made it up.” Her voice trembles like a building about to collapse. “The whole thing. The acceptance letter, the plans…all of it.”
“Why would you—?”
And then she breaks.
“Petra was really going to leave,” she says, her words tumbling out like they’d been held back by a dam that just cracked. “And after we lost our dad, the idea of her being a plane ride away in New York was hard enough. But halfway across the world? Across an ocean? In a different country, time zones away, where I couldn’t even just call her whenever I needed her?”
She shakes her head, and I see it now—not the confident teenager redesigning my life, but a kid who’s lost too much already and fears losing even more.
