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When I closethe door to my old bedroom, it feels like I’ve stepped back in time. All my hockey posters on the walls and the junior trophies still lined up on the shelves next to my fantasy books. Papa never understood the reading thing, but he let me do it so long as it didn’t interfere with hockey. He’ll be lost when he finally realizes that hockey isn’t gonna be a part of my life the way he thought it was. But I don’t think I will. Not anymore.
I think about Stef’s voice on the phone. How guilty he still feels for lying to me. And I need to make that right.
I login to Bookgeeks, telling myself this is the last time I’ll ever message him as Kelsier38.
27
STEFANOS
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“Come in.” I call.
Ari appears in the doorway, his dark hair messy from wearing a cap. His glasses on.
“Mom and dad wanna see you downstairs.” He says. He never calls them Baba or Mama. Like most teenagers, he just wants to be like his friends, and undeniably American. It makes me sad. The thought that the parts of us our grandparents gave us will fade one day. Like being Greek isn’t a part of our identity anymore.
“Hey,” Ari stops me before I reach the door. “Don’t worry about what happened tonight yeah? You’re still pretty sick on the violin.”
I laugh. “Efharisto Ari.” He rolls his eyes at the Greek word, but I catch that smile.
My parents are sittingaround the kitchen table, talking in hushed voices. They stop when they see me standing in the doorway.
Baba’s smile is strained, and I hate that I’ve made them worry about me like this, again.
Mama pulls a chair out for me and tells me to sit.
“Hon, talk to us. What happened?”
“I had a panic attack.”
“We know that but… has this happened before?”
I keep my eyes down on the table.
“Not like that. Not since Julliard.”
Mama squeezes my hand. “I thought things were better since that?”
Since I failed my audition, it went from Julliard this and Julliard that, to that-which-shall-not-be-named.
“They have been… better.”
“But not good?” Baba asks.
I lift my eyes at his voice and he gives me a sad smile. I nod.
“Oh hon,” Mama says, squeezing my hand tighter. “Why didn’t you tell us this is how you feel about performing?”
“We wouldn’t have asked you to play at the restaurant.” Baba says.
“Ilikeperforming at the restaurant.”
“You do?” Mama says.
I nod.
“So, what’s the difference?”