“That’s where you’re wrong and underestimate the queen. Your mother would be thrilled you only ate half a sandwich. The other half of the story would horrify her indeed.”
“No more opinions,” I tell him as I slip in my earbuds.
I’m so sick of battling with my mother every day of my life that all I want in my down time is some peace. I don’t need to be reminded of how rotten she is—she does that just fine on her own.
My grandmother, also named Katerina, danced for the Kirov. She was a big enough star to achieve somewhat of a crossover, and then she defected. She married my grandfather, who was a Hollywood tycoon, and only had one child—my mother, Katerina the Second.
She was raised to dance and, in her twenties, was a star in her own right. She danced with the Joffrey and toured all over the world until a hip replacement deterred her at the age of twenty-nine. She’s been as bitter as a dandelion ever since and had me out of spite when she was thirty-four. Resented me since birth for the weight she gained.
My mother is a head case and she could do with some medication or therapy, but instead, she rules my world with an iron fist and lives vicariously through my ability to dance.
I slip the delicious peanuts one by one into my mouth, suck off all the honey and crunch down when they’re soft as I watch the tall trees of Haverton give way to the narrow streets of downtown. Living in the city suits me fine. I appreciate the bustle and the liveliness, watching people live their lives.
Dimitri pulls into the underground parking garage and leaves me at the entrance to the elevators while he goes to park. Mother doesn’t like me taking them alone. Father says I’m old enough. The residential elevators only go to the top and once they hit the lobby level, they change to glass for the remaining fifty stories. I love to turn my back to the door and press against the glass as I shoot into the sky. It makes me feel like I’m flying. And up there, from that high perspective, it’s like I can hug the whole world. Everything seems small and manageable—until the doors open into my apartment.
Mother.
The décor in our penthouse is white and glass and metal. It’s like she made a rule that nothing warm or comforting could ever cross the threshold. Every surface screams “don’t touch,” and the furniture, “don’t sit.” You take your shoes off right away because God forbid you scuff a tile or leave a sneaker print on white imported marble.
“How many ounces of water did you drink today, darling?” Katerina probes from the open kitchen. She’s probably making Crystal Lite in a pitcher. Mother can only make poached eggs and toast, and that’s the extreme height of her culinary skills.
“I refilled my water bottle twice,” I tell her.
My backpack gets dumped in the foyer with my dance bag on top. I shuck my jacket, hang it up, and kick off my Converse high tops. Shareen, my favorite family member, jumps into action, erasing any evidence of my existence from the parlor. Shareen’s mother was from the Philippines, and her father is from the island of Martinique. She deserves better than working for my mother, but on the other hand, if it weren’t for her spot of brightness in my life, I’d be tempted to jump from the observation deck a few stories below us.
I meet Mother in the kitchen. She’s lined up four tall glasses of drinking water I’m expected to consume, and a neatly curated pile of vitamins sits next to every glass.
“The box of vintage Freeds arrived today and I want you to try them on as soon as you finish this—” she points to the tyrannical water set-up, which I eye with gloom, “—so I can sew them for you.”
“I can sew my own shoes. You do the elastics too high and they cut into my ankle bone, Mother,” I tell her.
It’s no use. She cocks an eyebrow and I ready myself for her ten thousand reasons of why she’s more qualified than I am to sew my damned pointe shoes.
I grab a glass of water and a handful of pills with disdain. “Never mind.” Defeated, I turn from her imposing frame and stalk to my room.
After locking and slamming the door, I put my back against it and breathe. My room is my refuge and I let the color rip. I’ve got a magenta bedspread and lime green pillowcases, a rainbow flag tacked up behind my bed frame, and a pink velvet upholstered armchair in my reading corner. White drapes and carpet are mandatory in here, as are the bed frame, dresser, and side tables, but as long as I can mix it up with linens and textiles, I’m living my best life.