“Mom,” I protested, without any real heat. She was right, on both counts: I hadn’t properly retired Valerie. I’d just abandoned her, like a shirt that didn’t fit right. And if I wasn’t going to be Valerie, I needed to get rid of Valerie. I needed to kill her off.
“I don’t believe this,” muttered Antimony, before asking more loudly, “Why can’t she have her alter ego murdered now, instead of after the show? There’s no need for her to risk exposure like this. Or did you forget what happened in New York? She broke cover! Sarah could have died!”
“That was an unforeseeable situation,” said Dad. “Your sister did nothing wrong. She took the steps she had available to her, and she did her best to keep from exposing the family to danger. As for Sarah . . . your cousin is an adult. She made her own choices, and we have to respect them.”
“She only made those choices because Verity got caught,” countered Antimony.
“I didn’t get caught on the dance floor,” I said. “I got caught because I was working. I was doing my job. I wasn’t Valerie when the Covenant figured out who I was. There’s never been any connection between my dance career and my identity.”
Dominic, who once successfully tracked me to a tango competition, said nothing. I was grateful for that. I would have hated to make myself a widow.
“Your sister’s appearance on Dance or Die didn’t cause any rumors about the Price family being alive in North America, but it did make her acceptance into the Manhattan cryptid community easier,” said Dad. “We’re still rebuilding our family’s reputation after all the time we spent in the Covenant. I think this is a good thing.”
Antimony shook her head. “Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.” She turned and stormed toward the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Mom called.
“To get my backpack,” she called back. “I’m going to Artie’s.” Then she was gone, pounding up the stairs with such force that it was impossible to keep talking to her unless we wanted to start screaming.
I turned fully back to the table, pushed my waffle out of the way, and allowed myself to slump forward until my forehead hit the wood. “I remember being so excited to have a baby sister,” I complained, voice only slightly muffled.
“She feels left out sometimes,” said Mom. “It’s like when you were all little, and you and Alex would play games she couldn’t keep up with.”
“Mom.” I sat up. “She dug pit traps for us when we played hide and seek. Pit traps. Sometimes she put spikes in them, because she thought that made them look better. We could have been killed.”
“But you weren’t, and now you’re better prepared for pit traps in the future,” said Mom. “She’s still figuring out who she wants to be when she grows up, that’s all. Sometimes she gets jealous because you seem to know who you are.”
That was an overly simplified version of a fight I’d been having with my sister for years. I decided to let it go. Bringing Antimony further into this was just going to complicate things, and I didn’t want to complicate things. Technically, I was an adult, and didn’t need my parents to approve of what I did with my life. At the same time, going on television did represent a risk of exposure, however small, and they deserved to have input, even if I was going to ignore any input that didn’t come down to “you should go.”
“You should go,” said Dad. “I know you’ve mostly managed to get the dancing out of your system, and that’s wonderful, but I also know you’re never going to get it completely out. You need to do this, so you can be sure you made the right choice for you.”
I stared at him. I’d been hoping for grudging approval, not full-out support. “What?”
“Your mother and I were delighted when you said you were done trying to be a dancer,” said Dad. “But you made that choice while under duress. You’d been seriously wounded, and Sarah was very ill. Decisions we make when we’re that stressed aren’t always the best ones for us. We want to know that you made the right call. So go back on the show. Dance for a live audience one more time, and let the voters decide whether you belong in cryptozoology or dance.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” I said, blinking back tears.
Dad smiled. “Don’t thank me. I remember how many bruises you came home with last time. I might as well be shipping you off to boot camp so you can think about what you’ve done. Now eat your waffle. You’re going to need the calories.”
He was right. I laughed, and ate, and tasted nothing, because my mind was already far away, in a mirrored room, listening to the choreographers bark instructions.
I was going back on the show.