It Started with Goodbye

She hadn’t responded to my earlier email, which left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I still wanted to update her on what was going on with me. I had no idea if Ashlyn was coming back to Henderson in the fall, but part of me hoped so. Selfishly, because I wanted my friend back. Unselfishly, because I knew she’d probably need someone on her side if she did return. I used Be Well again because, the truth is, that’s what I wished for her. I knew, no matter how mad I was at her—and that anger was beginning to fade ever so slowly—she was probably hurting too.

On my way back down to dinner, I heard Blanche and Tilly talking softly in the hallway. Not wanting to interrupt, I did what any good stepsister would do—hovered around the corner and eavesdropped.

“Of course they hurt, Abuela. That’s part of dance.”

“Yes, I suppose it comes with the territory. But I’m allowed to be concerned.” Blanche paused. “I imagine it probably hurts less than if you cut off a toe or a heel, yes?” She chuckled. No response from Tilly, though. Did she not recognize a joke? “Sore feet aside, is it going well? It’s hard to tell when I listen to you and your mother discuss things.” Her keen sense of observation was apparently not limited to me.

I heard Tilly inhale slowly, like it took a great amount of effort. “I love it. Honestly, Abuela. All the sacrifices I make are worth it. I feel like I’ve really hit my stride this summer.” There was a soft reverence in her voice, almost like a prayer. For a second, I forgot it was Tilly speaking; my breath caught in my throat.

“I’m glad, Matilda. If you’re happy, I’m happy. You just let me know if I can get you some ice for those feet, okay?”

Tilly giggled softly, a rare break in her stern fa?ade. “I will. Thank you, Abuela.”

“Te quiero.”

“I love you too, Abuela.”

After their footfalls disappeared, I peeked out from behind the corner in the hall, made sure the coast was clear, and followed them down to dinner, captivated by the strange display of affection from my stepsister.




Later that night, I put the finishing touches on Emily’s book cover. I was pretty impressed with myself, given it was my first time making one.

Abby had recommended checking out recent steam-punk series she called “super popular” and the classic The Time Machine for inspiration. When she’d brought me her personal copies, dog-eared and creased, she said, “Treat them well. They’re precious cargo.” I had promised I would, and took them home to study.

Satisfied with the finished product, I sent the cover off to Emily. I checked my inbox again, which naturally was empty. I didn’t know what else I could do. On one hand, if Ash was still having feelings about “the incident,” then I couldn’t expect much. I could picture her, hands hovering over her keyboard like mine had, trying to choose just the right words and then, being so unsure, talking herself out of replying at all. On the other hand, we were friends. That had to count for something. We’d been friends for years, and I thought that should at least get me a reply to my inquiry about her health.

I didn’t want to hold my breath, but I knew I would anyway.





Chapter 9


For the next week, every day was the same. Community service all day, work on my clients’ projects in the evening at home or at the Schmidts’, and then be subjected to the Belén and Tilly show at dinner. I was continually treated to Belén’s running commentary of opinions as she drilled Tilly about the day’s practice. The night Blanche went to a movie with a few of her new bunco friends was particularly painful.

“What were your lines like today?” Belén focused hawk-like eyes on her daughter, scrutinizing Tilly’s shoulders and neck as she spooned rice into her mouth.

Like her mother, Tilly chewed each bite thirty times, so the pauses between her replies felt like eternities. They were both too focused on dance to give me a second glance, other than to ask me to pass the salt. Not that I wanted to join in the conversation, but it would have been nice to have been asked about my day too.

“My lines were perfect, Mama. As always.”

“Good.” Like a bullet from a gun. “Make sure you keep it that way.”

As she did every night, Belén asked Tilly what her chances were for a solo at the end of workshop performance. And just as reliably, Tilly told her mother that she thought it was a lock. I needed to hand it to her. I had no idea if she was telling the truth, as her poker face rarely gave away anything, but I had a difficult time believing Tilly never had a bad day, a day where the odds of becoming the superstar of the District Ballet’s summer program decreased.

Belén must have been feeling extra feisty, because she brought up college. I zoned out completely at that point because I could have recited her bullet-pointed agenda items, I’d heard them so many times. If Belén got to choose, Tilly would go to a super-selective university and then to a top law school, all while maintaining a spot in a prestigious dance company and touring the world. When that line of discussion arrived at the table, as graceful as a moose on a bobsled, even Tilly had trouble keeping a straight face and acting like her mother’s vision was humanly possible. She just nodded and kept her mouth shut.

I thought Belén might have sent a reminder my way about signing up for the SAT prep class Tilly took last summer, but nothing. Nada.

Since no one was paying attention to me, I got up to refill my iced tea. Feeling charitable, I refilled Tilly’s empty glass as well.

She looked up at me with surprise in her brown eyes. “Thank you, Tatum.”

“You’re welcome.” I tried to smile at her, but she looked down again before I could make the corners of my mouth lift. I smiled anyway, a little proud of myself.

After the meal, to my room I went with only novels and my computer for company. I was grateful for the time to work on my design projects, but even I had my limits on how much lonely I could stand.

Which is how I got suckered into sneaking out with Abby to Hunter’s band’s practice.




What are you doing tonight?

An hour after I’d pulled myself into my shell, Abby sent me a text as I was attempting to drown out the white noise in my head by putting on my headphones and listening to some Sarah Jarosz, which I may or may not have downloaded on SK’s recommendation.

Sitting in my jail. I mean my room.

No you’re not. You’re coming with me to see the Frisson.

What exactly is the Frisson?

Hunter’s band. They have practice tonight. Go with me to see them.

Right. You’re forgetting about the warden and the mileage report.

Belén’s rejection of my perfectly innocent request for dinner with Abby still smarted.

No problem. Go to the pet house and I’ll pick you up. Send me the address.

I was tempted. I missed fun. I missed people who weren’t assigned to be with me or felt nothing but disappointment or disdain for me, depending on the day. I missed positive attention from humans. Not that I minded the hamster love I got from Princess Sweetheart, but it only went so far to boost my self-esteem.

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