Page 6

Wonderful memories are held within these walls, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

But as I stare at the overdue bills on the countertop and the red paper sticking out from the pile of mail—the eviction notice our family has been trying to ignore for the longest time—I know our time in this little slice of heaven is ending soon.

Unless you get the damn job, which you will, Grace.

“Auditions are at fucking eight this morning at Petit Jeté, which means I should probably be there by seven at the latest. What motherfuckers have auditions so early? Crazy people,” Taylor grumbles, her lips curling into a half snarl.

She sticks her middle finger in the general direction of the door.

“Taylor Gianna Peyton! Your language!” Mom scolds, but her voice barely holds any venom. Tay has the potty mouth between the two of us, quite at odds with her elegant ballerina persona, but Mom still makes it a point to try to “correct” her coarse language.

Taylor smiles sheepishly and mumbles something sounding like an apology before yawning again. She stretches her hands overhead, her large sleep shirt riding up her thighs. “I don’t even know why I bother. It’s not like I’ll get in and even if I do, it’s not like we can ever afford it.”

Taylor is the artistic genius of our family, and her art is in the form of dance—a combination of ballet and hip hop, her dancing a juxtaposition of styles, the elegant with the edgy, much like the rest of her.

Her angelic face is always caked with dark eyeliner which makes her slate-colored eyes look more piercing, and she sports equally ominous nails and has multiple piercings on her body.

She always says her body is an extension of her art and her ever-changing nose piercing reflects her mood for the day.

She is truly talented, and this gift secured her a full-ride scholarship to the New York Institution of Dance and Performing Arts, a decent performing arts school on the East Coast, but Taylor has her sights set on something better, something higher, the crème de la crème of all ballet and dance companies in the country, the American Ballet Theater Corporation.

And this Petit Jeté dance group has close ties with the lauded institution.

So, despite her I couldn’t care less attitude, I can tell she’s as nervous as fuck .

Grinning, I sling my arm around her much higher shoulders, her willowy, tall frame different from mine. I’m once again filled with dismay over my petite stature.

“Break a leg, sis. Go kick their asses. And don’t worry about money.

We’ll figure it out as we always do. I’m going to get the job, then no one can stop us.

” I hop on one leg and attempt to ruffle her hair.

Even though I’m shorter than her and am only ten months older than her, I take every pleasure in treating her like the little sister she is.

“Ugh. Your early morning energy is super annoying. Are you even human?” Taylor mutters, pushing me away like I’m a nuisance, but I see the beginnings of a smile twitching on her lips.

“Do you know why they say, ‘break a leg?’”

“Oh God, another piece of interesting trivia. It’s not even six yet, Grace.”

I ignore her and Mom shuffles past us, laughing softly as she enters the kitchen, no doubt to prepare our coffees and breakfast so we can eat them on the go.

“In the olden days of theater, there was this line where ensemble actors were supposed to stand in. It was called a ‘leg line.’ If actors didn’t get to perform, they had to stay behind this line.

So, people would say ‘break a leg’ to wish them good luck in getting out of the line and get paid to perform.

Cool, huh? Maybe you can use that to impress some folks today. ” I waggle my brows at her.

“If only it were that easy.” Taylor rolls her eyes and plops down on the wobbly wooden stool in front of the linoleum counter of our kitchenette.

As I predicted, Mom slides a steaming hot cup of coffee in front of her along with a toasted bagel with peanut butter.

Taylor takes a sip, letting out a deep sigh of contentment.

“You and your coffee.” I poke her backside as I walk behind her and grab my to-go tumbler and the sandwich bag with my piping-hot multigrain bagel nestled inside.

I kiss Mom goodbye on the cheek and double back to get my reading tablet charging on the kitchen counter—got to have my books with me. I beeline for the door again and perform my special doorknob dance—aka shake the doorknob to the right, then tilt it up—to open the creaky old door.

A gust of stale, humid air with the remnants of motor oil and something smelling suspiciously like urine fills the air. Far away chugging sounds of the subway train passing by filter up the exhaust vents. Got to love a hot and humid New York summer day.

“You and your books!” Taylor yells back and sticks out her tongue, her eyes glinting in laughter.

“Don’t you dare make fun of my book boyfriends, Tay. At least I know how to read!”

“Girls, it’s not even six in the morning. Will you guys ever cease bickering?”

We laugh and I throw back a wave of my hand, then march eagerly onto the sidewalk, a bounce in my step as I head to the bus stop.

I may currently only be an intern at Pietra Capital, but this is my first step to independence, my first foray into the business world, my first taste of financial freedom, and one day, everything will be very different.

And I hope it’s for the better.