Page 3 of Sinister

A few moments passed before a reply popped up.

AmeliaEarheart: Yo, love your username! What’s up?

Petrified: Thanks! I like yours, too.

AmeliaEarheart: Why you up so late? Can’t sleep?

Petrified: Yeah it’s been a rough night tbh.

AmeliaEarheart: Sorry to hear that! What happened?

And the rest was history, as they say. That night, I found my soul sister, a girl who lived somewhere in New York while I was in Radcliffe, a few miles away from New Haven. Over the next few weeks, Amelia and I chatted almost every night.

Despite her laconic style, there was a warmth to her messages that made me feel seen, even when she couldn’t actually see me.

Petrified: So, what’s it like going to school in New York?

AmeliaEarheart: Girl, it’s DA BEST! Classes are great, and there’s so much to do. Museums, parks, random street performances that could put bloody Hamilton to shame. It’s like living in a movie sometimes, I kid you not.

Her enthusiasm was infectious. The more she talked about New York, the more I wanted to be there. To walk the same streets and visit the same places with her.

I had long wanted to attend college there, perhaps at the School of Visual Arts or even Parsons, if they’d have me.

And when I met Amelia in that dingy little corner of the internet, it felt like homecoming in a way. Like I had finally found my people.

My happy musings are rudely interrupted by a sudden onslaught of visitors streaming into the kitchen, so I make my way out into the dining room.

The full-length French windows are draped with expensive fabric. The room is lush with potted plants, but these have been moved to one side to create more space for the party.

As I hesitantly push through the crowd, trying to not poke or prod anyone and draw the least amount of attention possible, I can hear snippets of whispered conversations.

“Isn’t that Petra Valentine?” someone says.

“O.M.G. The Petra Valentine? Can’t believe she deigned to come down among us mortals,” a snarky voice responds quite audibly.

The words sting, but I keep my head held high and continue sipping my drink.

“Why’s she here, slumming it out with us peasants?” I hear next, and it takes everything in me not to turn around and walk out instantly. “She’s so stuck up that even her own parents can’t stand to be in the same house.”

Ouch, that really, really hurt.

At this point, I’m desperate to be alone, so I turn the knob on the next visible door, step inside, and close it behind me with a loud bang, not caring who heard it.

Turns out I’m in a guest washroom. I splash some water onto my face and stare at the mirror, not even recognizing the brown-haired, dark-eyed girl looking back at me. When did she—I—become so cynical, so aloof from all the other kids my age? Are my parents the only ones to blame here?

Of course, family has always been a sore subject for me. It’s not like Mom and Dad don’t love me; it’s that they don’t care enough to show it in ways that make me feel valued.

I think back to our last conversation.

“I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn about this, Petra,” my mother had said in a sharp voice. “Yale is one of the best universities in the world. It’s close to home, and it will give you all the networking opportunities you need.”

“Don’t you ever listen to me?” I’d snapped back. “I don’t want to go to Yale. I don’t want to study law or business or whatever else you think I should do. I want to study graphic design.”

My father had stepped forward, his brow furrowed.

“Graphic design is fine as a hobby, Petra, but you can’t make a living out of it. Think about what you could do with a degree from Yale! Be realistic, Petra, you can always pursue graphic design on the side.”

“A hobby?” I’d repeated, my voice rising. “Can you just . . . It’s not a hobby to me, Dad! It’s what I love. It’s what I want to do with my life. Why can’t you just support me for once?”