One Dream Only Page 4

  Emilia enters the room, her cheeks red and her hair more out of control than usual. Tears shine at the corner of her eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, unsure if I should bring up what I saw in the rehearsal room or not. If it had been Becca, I’d ask her, but Emilia and I have never opened up much about private stuff.

  “Totally fine.” She shrugs. “Tired, that’s all. What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

  “Super early. I have a morning flight.”

  “I have to get up to spend some time with my nonna. Do you mind if I turn in early?” She yawns as if to prove her point.

  “Of course not. I’ll just keep the little desk light on if that’s cool.”

  She picks up her shower bag, her bright-blue towel, and her pj’s. “You know, sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out for all of this.” She sighs. “I’m happier in the restaurant with my nonna than I am here. But I’m good, right?”

  “You’re amazing,” I reply, tugging on my necklace. I look directly at her. “But dancing should make you happy.”

  “I don’t know what makes me happy.” She lets out a short laugh and blows a strand of hair away from her face. “Listen to me, having a pity party. I’ll be back.” She heads off, and I stare at her retreating back, not understanding her.

  Dancing’s the only thing that makes me happy.

  Three days after the audition

  March 22nd, 6 p.m.

  I struggle to open my eyes again, but the whispers around me intensify, making it impossible to believe I’m having a nightmare.

  “Someone has to tell her,” Uncle Yuri says.

  “She already knows,” Mama replies. “It was written on her face. She already knows.” Her voice cracks.

  “Papoushka?” I whisper, and my uncle rushes to my side. I struggle to sit up, wincing at the pain. There’s a hole where my heart used to be. I shouldn’t be able to breathe. But I can. I am alive, but it doesn’t feel like I can really be happy or thankful until I see Papa, until I know he’s okay.

  “Katya,” Uncle Yuri calls. Mama tiptoes closer to me. I can see her blue eyes full of tears.

  My chest constricts.

  “Your papa . . .” Tears fall down her beautiful face. I want to tell her that it will be okay, that Papa would never leave us, that he’s here somewhere, ready to hold her, ready to hold me. Uncle Yuri wraps an arm around her shoulder, but she shakes it off. “Your papa’s gone, Natoushka.”

  “No. He can’t be. He can’t be gone,” I whisper. And then sobs rack my body. The pain intensifies, but the sadness overwhelms everything.

  Five days after the audition

  March 24th, 4 p.m.

  Numb.

  There’s no other word to express how I feel right now. My tears stopped falling after two days, but the lump in my throat hasn’t gone away. I stare into space, trying to tune out the noises surrounding me: the carts in the hallways full of hospital food, the people coming in and out of other patients’ rooms, some of them hugging, some of them crying, some of them praying, some of them kissing as if they want to remind themselves they’re alive.

  Papoushka’s not. I’ll never see him again and just thinking about him makes it hard to breathe. He’ll never play the piano again with a smile on his face. Because I didn’t convince him to let me stay behind. Because I didn’t convince him to not drive me to the airport. Because, then in the car I had to pry, I had to keep on bugging him, distracting him, challenging him.

  I’ve forgotten some pieces of the accident. I can’t remember exactly what Papa said before we swerved. The doctor assured me that it’s normal.

  But when I asked about my leg, he told me it was going to take months to heal. That even after it heals it might still be too fragile to go back to dancing professionally. He doesn’t know me. If there’s even a tiny chance, I’ll take it. I’ll work my ass off to make sure that I grab it.

  I turn my head to Uncle Yuri slowly. It’s still painful to do that. “Did the school call?”

  He nods, but doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “What did they say?” I ask.

  Still nothing from Uncle Yuri.

  “Someone has to tell me, and Mama isn’t here. Please.”

  “They said you got the role. You were right. The director said he’s holding a spot for you when— if you can come back.”

  “I had it,” I whisper. “I really had it.” My throat burns, and I close my eyes, remembering how it felt to be onstage, the way my body morphed into a story, the way my heart belonged to dancing. When I open my eyes again, I turn to Uncle Yuri and, without a word, his hand finds mine and he squeezes.

  Mama swings into the room, her blond hair falling on her shoulders. She’s wearing jeans, her snow boots, and one of Papa’s sweaters. She’s carrying a bouquet of lilies with her—my favorite flowers, the ones Papoushka always gave me after a recital or on my birthday. She freezes in front of my bed and fumbles in her bag. I know what she’s looking for, but instead of pulling out her flask and taking a swig, she wraps her arms around herself.

  “Thanks for the flowers, Mama,” I say. She nods, not looking my way. For a split second, I think today’s the day she’ll take me in her arms and hold me, a day we can both mourn my father. I stare at her and try to squish the small part of me that wants to yell at her for getting Papoushka so worked up, for making him so sad all weekend.

  “That’s what your papa would have wanted.” She struggles to speak. “Your father loved you so much,” she whispers. “You know that.”

  Uncle Yuri squeezes my hand one more time. “He would have done everything for her,” he says. “I told Nata about the auditions. She needed to know she came in first. She needs to know she always comes first.”

  Mama turns away from us. “I have to go,” she mutters. “I have to see the doctor.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he says, then kisses my forehead. “I’ll be back.” He sighs. “You look so much like him. You smile the same way.” His shoulders sag, and there’s so much in his eyes, as if looking at me is too much, too hard, too big of a reminder of the family he lost.

  When Mama comes back into the room, she’s alone.

  “Where’s Uncle Yuri?”

  “A client called. He has to head back to New York,” she explains, fidgeting. “I have to go, too, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  “I’ll be here,” I say. “Can you hand me my iPod?” She grabs it from the nightstand and places it in my open palm.

  She stares at me for a second, and without a kiss or so much as a “good night,” she leaves me there. She didn’t even tell me what the doctor said.

  I turn my iPod to The Chopin Collection and close my eyes, imagining Papoushka is the one playing for me.

  Five months after the audition

  August 22nd, 5 p.m.

  Almost all the moving boxes are still in the hallway, but Mama’s already upstairs. She said she needed to “rest,” but when I went to check on her she was walking from her bedroom to the bathroom with a bottle of vodka in her hand. She’s probably passed out on the cold tiles now.

  Babushka’s house is familiar and foreign all at once. I’ve spent so many happy summers here, running down the hallways, asking my grandmother to tell me stories about her life back in Russia, creating stories with the several sets of wooden matryoshka dolls Babushka kept on her shelves. But without her, without Papa, the house mocks my happy memories, as if it knows I won’t be making any new ones anytime soon.

  My knee brace makes it difficult to carry boxes up the stairs to my room, but I want to do something. I can’t stand still or watch TV knowing Mama’s upstairs finding yet another bottle in which to forget about me. If Uncle Yuri were here, he could help, but I haven’t seen him since he left my room with Mama to go talk to the doctor. I haven’t heard from him, either. He didn’t even come to the funeral.

  The doorbell rings.

  Probably another neighbor bringing us a pie or a casserole. Everyone’s been so welcom
ing. I quickly check in the mirror that the scar on my cheek—another memory of the car crash—is well hidden by my make-up and open the door.

  I can’t help but smile when I see Becca standing in front of me. Her wild hair frames her face, and she runs her hand through it once, twice, three times, trying to tame it unsuccessfully.

  Her light-brown eyes roam my face as if she’s trying to figure me out. She’s called a few times, and we talked for a bit, but I haven’t opened up. I haven’t cried. I haven’t told her how much everything hurts, how it’s killing me on the inside to see Mama waste away, how much I miss my father, how I wish I could turn back time, and how I have no idea who I am anymore.

  Becca tilts her head. “Am I going to stay on the porch?” She nudges me and smiles, and then pats my arm, knowing how I am about hugging.

  “Mama’s sleeping,” I tell her.

  Becca raises an eyebrow. “I came to see you, not your mom.” I step to the side, opening the door wider to let her in. I can’t be completely rude to my best friend. “And when did you hair turn black?”

  “Yesterday. I kind of experimented,” I tell her.

  “Experimented how? It looks awesome!” she replies.

  I can’t tell her I grabbed a pair of scissors and chopped it off. Mama was somewhere drinking or dozing, and when I looked into the mirror, I saw a reflection of her looking at me: the same hair, the same sad look, the same frown. Luckily, my babushka’s hairdresser helped me out after the fact and made it look like a cut instead of a crazy moment.

  Becca shifts her feet. “Do you need help moving in? I can bring some boxes upstairs. You’re staying in your old room, right?”

  My stomach tightens. Dramatic scenarios go through my mind, like us going upstairs and Mama throwing a fit, smashing things on the floor like she sometimes does, or she actually leaves her room, totally wasted. No one can know about her, about her crappy coping mechanisms. I need to protect her, even if I barely can remember the last time we actually had a conversation that didn’t end up in her crying or yelling or just staring right through me.

  My babushka passed away almost a year ago, my papa died, my uncle vanished from our lives without as much as a good-bye.

  She’s the only family I have left.

  “Earth to Nata.” Becca bumps her hip against mine.

  “Most of my boxes are already upstairs. Do you want a Coke or a hot chocolate?” My smile feels more natural as I remember trips to our favorite coffee shop, Coffee & Mugs. They serve the yummiest hot chocolate, and despite the heat, we’d go there at least once every summer.

  “Coke sounds good.”

  We sit at the kitchen table, which is full of paperwork—insurance, deeds, lawyer bills.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Becca asks, and I know she won’t push me if I say no.

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe I’m starting school in a few days.”

  “You should totally come out with us later tonight. We’re having one last bonfire by the lake.” She winks. “Plus, there’s this guy you need to meet.”

  I search my brain for the one she’s talked about every summer. She’s had a crush on this one guy forever. “James?”

  She blushes and swats her hand in front of her face. “No. I mean, James might be there. He’s back from summer camp, but he’s not feeling that great, so he might not come.” She pauses. “You need to meet one of my friends. I think you guys would totally hit it off.”

  “Why?” I can’t help but ask.

  “He’s totally your type.”

  “I don’t have a type.”

  “Everybody has a type. Plus, he’s James’s best friend, and if James and I finally end up going out at some point in my life, then we could double.” She smiles and runs her hand through her hair again. “Even if you two don’t hit it off, come out with us tonight. You’ll meet everyone before school starts. It’ll be fun.”

  For a moment, I consider it. I haven’t been to a bonfire in ages. I haven’t been around people in ages.

  I also haven’t left Mama alone in ages. I can’t start now, not when she’s drinking her weight in vodka.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t. Mom needs me to help unpack.” And she also needs me to pretend she doesn’t have a problem. Good luck to me.

  “Are you sure?”

  There’s a loud crash from upstairs, and my pulse accelerates. If Mama comes down drunk, what am I going to tell Becca?

  “Totally. But thanks for stopping by.” I stand up.

  “Oh, okay. Sure, I’ll get going.” Becca watches me carefully. I strive to keep my blank mask on. “I’ll call you,” she says. “Or you can call me, too.”

  “Okay.” I hear another thump upstairs, and my palms start to sweat. “I have to go.” I stand up and gesture for Becca to follow me. “But thanks again for coming.”

  I close the door on a bewildered Becca and then hurry upstairs, pushing the bathroom’s door but Mama isn’t there anymore.

  “Mama,” I call. No answer. I step into her bedroom. She’s sprawled on the floor surrounded by shattered picture frames that she must have been smashing against the wall or something. There are only a few left that have escaped her outburst unscathed.

  “Come on, Mama. You need to rest.” I carefully take one of the frames out of her hand. She doesn’t resist but turns her pale eyes to me.

  “We killed him,” she whispers. I half carry her to bed, wincing at the pain radiating through my knee as I put too much weight on it. I pull the covers over her. “We killed him,” she says again before closing her eyes. She starts snoring softly.

  I brush a few long blond strands of hair away from her face. “No, you didn’t. I was in the car. Not you, Mama.”

  I’m not sure she can hear me, and I know I don’t get through to her, but I still need to try.

  I readjust the pillow under her head, and when her snoring grows louder, I tiptoe out of her room and enter mine.

  I fall on my bed and rub my temples. A headache is coming. And tears would come, too, if I let them. But right now, I can’t.

  I replay my conversation with Becca. There’s no way in hell I’m going to start dating now. I’ve seen what falling in love does to people. It destroys them and their dreams. If Mama and Papa hadn’t loved each other to the point of hating each other, maybe he’d still be alive.

  I won’t let myself fall into that trap.

  But I will dance again.

  Thank you!

  Thank you so much for reading ONE DREAM ONLY!

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  Do you want to see what happens to Nata? Keep on reading for an excerpt of ONE TWO THREE (available now)...

  SNEAK PEEK

  When seventeen-year-old Natalya’s dreams of being a ballerina are killed in a car accident along with her father, she must choose: shut down—like her mother—or open up to love.

  Chopin’s music is the soundtrack of my life.

  Papa played his most heart-wrenching waltzes, Mama used his nocturnes as lullabies when I was little, and my legs itched to form an arabesque whenever I heard Polonaises op. 40. Chopin used to be my escape, a way to dream about the future, about everything I wanted—from finally not being scared of falling in love to dancing the role of Cinderella one day at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow.

  But that was before.

  The somber melody of Chopin’s Prelude op. 28 oppresses me. That piece is also called “Suffocation.” How fitting. Mama listens to it on repeat. She’s slumped at the living room table in the far corner. Only one of the lights is working and the darkness almost settles around her as she pours herself one shot of vodka after the other.

  “Mama, you need to go to sleep,” I tell her for the
fifth time. She’s downing the bottle as if there’s no tomorrow, and maybe that’s what she’s hoping for. Her head wobbles from one side to another. She’s already far gone. I missed my doctor’s appointment today because she was too drunk to drive me. I had to lie for her again. Dr. Gibson bought it, and we rescheduled for two weeks. He agreed that as long as I followed his advice (wearing my knee brace, doing my strength exercises, and no jumps) I could volunteer at the community center to help little kids learn to dance. He even gave my name to the volunteer coordinator there. She was looking for a college student, but I convinced her during the interview that even though I was only seventeen, she should still give me a chance. If I do well with the kids this Saturday, I’ll get to help out every weekend for a few hours.

  Mama stands up, swaying around with the bottle in her hand.

  “I need you out of my face,” she slurs and pushes me away. I wouldn’t have stumbled before. After all, balance is everything for a ballerina, but my knee brace makes my movements awkward. I stumble into the bookshelves holding my babushka’s favorite novels from Tolstoy and Shakespeare: she loved Anna Karenina and Romeo and Juliet. She always laughed about a pamphlet Tolstoy wrote that criticized Shakespeare, and she could talk for hours about literature. If my babushka were here, maybe she’d be able to get through to Mama. But at the same time, I’m relieved she didn’t see how her family crumbled to pieces after the accident.

  “It was my fault!” Mama’s words cut through my heart, knowing I can’t seem to convince her otherwise. “It was my fault,” she whispers. “I killed him!” Her voice goes crescendo. “I don’t want to see you! Get out!”

  My stomach clenches. No matter how many times she pushes me away, I still have the same reaction: I want to comfort her, to remind her she’s not responsible.

  I am.

  “You weren’t in the car.” I use my most soothing voice. “I was. You didn’t do anything.”