Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Daria stands up and pads on socked feet toward me. She joins me in bed, curling her long, agile limbs around mine and wiping my face gently. She kisses my cheek. She smells like our childhood—fluffy pillows and hot cocoa and sunshine. Her blond hair tangles in my own, and she hugs me like I’m a broken thing. Because I am.
Damaged goods are still goods, Bailey, Lev’s voice reminds me in my head.
“I’m so happy you’re here.” Her voice sounds hoarse from crying. I cry harder, my body trembling with my sobs. This can’t be good for my health. This flood of emotions that’s drowning me whole.
“Shh.” Daria strokes my head soothingly. “You’ll wake Mom, and she’d been awake for over seventy hours. As you can clearly see on her skin.”
“How long have I been out?” I whisper.
“Two days.”
I breathe in sharply. Close my eyes. Oh Marx.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“So am I.”
Why should she be sorry? She didn’t do anything. Unless…unless she isn’t sorry for something anybody did. But for the situation. The realization must be painted on my face because Daria sucks in a breath.
“Bailey…” My sister hesitates. “Don’t look down, but…”
I look down instinctively. Because that’s what people do when you tell them not to look down.
Plus, my leg is hurting really bad despite a monstrous amount of painkillers, I’m sure.
My eyes widen when I see the huge bump poking from the thin hospital blanket. “What is it?”
“They had to put a rod in your tibia. You injured yourself pretty badly, practicing through the pain. The painkillers probably allowed you to push through, but you literally broke your bone clean.”
My chin is trembling. Rather than being mad at myself, or at Juilliard, or at Thalia, or at the world, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I’ve put myself through a lot and I’m still here.
I can’t believe it.
“Ballet…” Daria starts.
I shake my head violently. “I can’t. Not right now.”
“Okay.” She sits upright, tucking me under her arm. “You’re right.”
“Are Mom and Dad angry with me?” I bite down on my bottom lip, feeling like a small child all of a sudden.
Daria rolls her tear-filled eyes, trying to look strong. “That’s not even going to be their fiftieth emotion when they find out you’re awake. But, Bailey…”
I know. They want me to go to rehab. To stay there. To be serious about getting better.
Stupidly—and perhaps unbelievably too—I can’t contemplate doing something like that right now. Being away from my family. I just want to bury myself in Mom and Dad’s bed and never leave their sides.
“Can we not talk about this, either?”
This time Daria doesn’t say anything. We stare at each other for a few beats before my sister asks, “Can I show you something?”
I nod slowly.
She pulls out her phone from her pocket. Her screensaver is Penn and Cressida making faces to the camera, with Sissi’s fingers painted red. They were making Daria a card for Mother’s Day.
Sissi. If I had died, I wouldn’t be able to hug her anymore.
Daria unlocks her phone and gets into her video gallery. She scrolls up for long moments, searching for something.
“I had some time to burn on the plane from San Francisco to Todos Santos, so I went through our old childhood videos. The ones Mom showed us last Christmas?”
“Yeah,” I croak. “Yeah, I remember those videos.”
Kind of. I was too busy ogling Lev and popping pills.
“Ah. There it is!” Daria jacks the volume all the way up and sticks her AirPods into my ears.
I don’t recognize this video, but I know where it was taken. It’s a video of me, when I was four or five, in a ballet class.
I am tiny and wearing a bright neon-green tutu and leotard, against all the pale pinks and whites of the other girls around me.
“Stand in line, Bailey,” I hear the teacher in the background—I can’t even recall her name—but instead, the camera follows me as I hop on the ballet barre and hook the back of my knees against it, dangling upside down with my arms stretched, giggling.
Mom laughs behind the camera. A real laugh, a rich laugh, that dances in my own lungs as if it comes out of me. Something warm fills me.
“What are you doing, Bails?” Mom coos.
“Getting ready for my big number!” I flash my nonexistent guns at the camera, like I’m a superhero. My two upper teeth are missing, and I look ridiculous yet so confident and happy, carefree.
“Oh, I cannot wait to see what that looks like.” I can hear the grin in Mom’s voice. “Which song do you wanna dance to?”
“‘Smooth Criminal’!”
“It’s not a ballet song,” Mom points out.
“Says who?” I challenge. “Everything is a ballet song if you’re good at it.”
“Bailey, are you coming?” the teacher reproaches in the background.
“Yes, Ms. McFadden!” I hop down to my feet and throw a sassy smile behind my shoulder. “Mom, check out my dance moves!”