Iris's cold and calculating eyes peer back at my own.
"You know, Mare. You're good at Monopoly."
On Monday evening, the Academy girls have a little party in Blonos's studio. The doors to the marble hall are locked, and the balcony windows have their raven-colored blinds drawn shut. One of the Soloists brought a Bluetooth speaker to place in the center of the room, and per the request of Bess Blonos, it now spits out classical ballet music. Otherwise, the familiar room contains forty-or-so ballet dancers, all still clad in their fairy-pink tights and leotards.
Ten separate games of Monopoly go on throughout the room. Fake-paper money gets whipped around, and dice are thrown to the boards again and again. Bun-headed ballerinas swear as they land on houses and hotels, and particularly naughty words fly out of our mouths with every mention of Boardwalk.
The Academy girls are practicing their Monopoly strategies.
The annual Calore Dance Academy Monopoly Tournament takes place on the first Saturday of October. Three years ago, at the glorious age of sixteen, Cal came up with the idea, and it's been loved ever since by the company. With four-player games, three-quarters of the competition gets thrown out in the first round. The next four rounds are between two people. After all of that, one dancer is left.
And that dancer has the pleasure of playing with the Monopoly King, as Cal has dubbed himself.
As the 2016, 2017, and 2018 winner of the Calore Dance Academy Monopoly Tournament, Cal is currently the Monopoly King.
From what I understand, it's all fun and games until the final round, where Cal sheds his dancer's skin and pulls out every ruthless tactic known to businessmen. He is the heir to a Wall Street corporation, so I suppose that his talent for a board game meant for ages eight and up makes sense. From what I hear, except to his dad, he hasn't lost a game in years.
Ptolemus was Cal's opponent last year, and despite being heir himself to something or other, he lost rather quickly. Cal slaughtered him. The year before that, he went up against one of the older ballerinas. A Principal. He slaughtered her too.
There's also something about a bathrobe. It's known as the Monopoly Winner's Robe, I believe.
I sit in front of a Monopoly board with Iris to my left, one of the soloists in front of me, and Elara Merandus to my right. Blonos is at another board, scolding one of the Corps girls for sitting with legs spread apart. Funny, considering that I heard the ballet mistress belt out a string of curses when she landed on a St. James Place bearing three houses.
"You think so?" I return to Iris, waiting for her to count the money that she owes me. Iris landed on my favorite property: Illinois Avenue. By probability, it's the space that's landed on most often, and I currently have two houses on it.
I'll have a few hotels soon enough.
"Yes," Elara says for Iris. It's odd to see Maven's mom sitting on the floor, even if she still wears her sleek black Mary Janes and black dress. She has a decent amount of fake money laid neatly in front of her, along with a dynasty on the utilities and a complete collection of the pink properties. Her paralyzingly cold eyes, rimmed with mascara, peer back at mine as Iris's do. "You think like Cal, but in a dirtier, more underhanded way."
On a separate note, Maven's mom seems rather happy that I'm dating her son. She's smiled at me as best as the cold woman knows how to, telling me that she hopes that she and I can "get to know one another" in the future. She also would like to meet my mother. I told her she can on Wednesday.
I don't know what Mom and Elara could possibly talk about.
Moreover, I don't know how in the world I'm going to tell Mom that I have a boyfriend who happens to be the son of a Wall Street billionaire.
Dad isn't going to like that.
"Do you think that she could beat Cal?" Iris asks, smiling. As a prominent daughter of high society, it turns out that Iris has known Cal since they were children. Perhaps they've even played Monopoly together in the past, in the shadows of penthouse social functions before they grew up and joined high society. "I mean, she knows how to play."
Iris is right. I do know how to play.
I know when to spend money, when to hold onto it. I know how to sweet talk my opponents into thinking that they're getting good deals, and I know how to get into my opponents' heads. Most importantly, I know how to make my opponents think that I value things that don't mean anything to me. I know how to make what I care about the most into the most worthless thing in the world.
I suppose you could say that I picked up my Monopoly strategy from a certain grocery counter in East Harlem. Some might argue that Monopoly is up to a certain degree of chance, but I don't think so.
Because when you play your cards right, you can always win. Will Whistle taught me that, winning against me more often than not.
"I would imagine," Elara muses, rolling the dice. "But all of the girls here would have to be very quiet about Miss Barrow's strategies. It would be better if we could convince the boys that she wins every round up until the finals purely based on chance. Otherwise, Cal will have his guard up."
The dice drop, adding to a measly number of three.
"Go to jail," Elara mutters as she moves her pewter cat from Ventnor Avenue. "Not again."
<><><>
At eight-forty-five on Wednesday morning, My fingers grip one of Blonos's ballet barres a little too hard.
My feet, wearing plain ballet slippers, slide from first to second position. I focus on the stretch, circling my neck in hopes of loosening it up. Cal's lessons add a new element of soreness to my body, and my neck, of all things, is still sore from throwing back my head repeatedly. Otherwise, my calves, wearing knit grey leg warmers, are as sore as ever, and the rest of my body is more wound up than the bun at the nape of my neck.
Idly, I pick at the zipper of my grey warmup jacket and pull at the waist of my black ballet skirt. Fifteen minutes before class, most of the company is in the studio, and the pianist in the corner strikes away at her piano keys, going through a new sheet of music for Blonos.
I check my phone again, only to find no new notifications on it.
I asked Mom to get here at eight-thirty. That way, I could meet her in the lobby, walk her through the halls, and show her my apartment. We've already gone over what she might say to The New York Times over the phone; I never would've asked Mom to come if Elara hadn't suggested bringing family in her note. Gisa, to my displeasure, has even decided to skip her morning classes to come. Not that she'll have anything non-embarrassing about me to say.
Maybe, Mom somehow left her phone at home. Though I can't imagine that Gisa would.
Maybe Lucas is being uncharacteristically stubborn and refusing them passage into the Academy, even though I'm a carbon copy of Mom.
My stomach turns my breakfast over, and I lose my grip on the barre, turn around, and head for the door. I probably just need to go down to the lobby, where Mom and Gee are waiting for me.
In spite of what I am—I mean, I'm a Principal dancer and Scarlet Street Fighter—I haven't felt this nervous at any point in my criminal career aside from at nine-fifty-nine on the night of the gala.
I read through Elara's notes. In addition to excluding the whole high-school dropout thing, nobody plans on mentioning anything about my fall from the Calores' lawsuit-worthy stage rafters or anything audition-related. Discussions of how I discovered ballet, my rigorous schedule, and why I love ballet dancing are more suitable for the newspaper. She also mentioned that I might talk about what I love about the Academy and my ballet partner.
A quick elevator ride will solve this. My ballet slippers quietly pad across the vinyl floor, and I pass the last of the ballet barres. My fingers, not entirely of my own volition, curl up into my palms.
Mom's probably nervous. Gee isn't. She'll be excited if the reporter takes anything from her to quote. I've already considered telling her that she can't—
On my way out, Lucas Samos meets me, almost colliding with me at the threshold of the door.
"Hey, Mare," he says with a big grin. "I just met your mom. Great lady, you know. I'm supposed to let you know that she and your sister are down in the lobby. They're just talking to Cal."
<><><>
My flimsy shoes hit the red carpet as I swing around a corner.
It's like a vacuum came along and sucked the air from the sprawling hallway. The cream walls seem tighter, and the usual paintings of New York City seem taller, more imposing. The distance between my mother and I, on the other hand, seems greater than ever.
I stop at the top of the imperial staircase.
Standing in a cute little triangle at the golden lobby's center, Mom, Gisa, and Cal chat it up.
Gee looks as cute as ever. She has on a pastel-blue dress that reaches her knees and a grey cardigan, along with a black pair of tights and boots. It looks like Mom let her put on a little foundation and some light mascara.
Mom looks good. Better than she looked when I left, with brighter, albeit nervous eyes. She too wears a little makeup and her hair pinned back in an effortless bun. If there was one thing that I lost when I left, it was her gift for hairstyling. She wears an ensemble of straight-legged blue jeans, a pretty sunset orange sweater, and some fun pink sneakers that Gisa surely picked out for her. She has her usual purse crossed over her shoulder, finishing off her mom look.
They don't see me at first.
Because wearing his disgustingly charming smile, Cal stands between my sister and Mom. He wears, well, you know, his usual training pants and, switching it up today, a long-sleeved black shirt. Over his head, he has a backward Mets cap on.
The reason that Mom nor Gisa texted me becomes rather obvious.
"Well, we always joke that the reason she's so mean is that she has nowhere in her small body to put all of her emotions," Gisa says, even though Mom is a good inch shorter than me and Gisa is no taller than five-four.
Cal and Mom laugh, though Mom's is more of a polite smile accompanied by a small and breathy sound.
Gisa, finding herself hilarious, giggles quite loudly.
It's in that moment of throwing back her head that Gisa notices I'm standing at the crown of the staircase with my arms crossed and lips pressed tightly together.
"Mare!" she exclaims with no lack of enthusiasm, throwing out her arms. She forgets in an instant what she said about me. "Come down here and say hi to Mom. Sorry we didn't call you," Gee tells me. "But Mom and I ran into Cal right outside, and I was all like, 'Hey, Mom, look. It's Cal.' I was pretty loud about it too."
And I bet that Cal is just over the moon to meet the woman that brought me into this world.
I try to assess the situation as I descend the steps. Anything could've been exchanged between Mom and Cal in the last twenty minutes. By the looks of Cal's smile, he's having a good time, probably aware that I'm about to get the scolding of my life.
Somehow, I reach the bottom of the stairs, and a moment later, Gisa's in hugging distance and I have my arms around her. Her ridiculously soft hair brushes at my cheek, and even though she's my little sister, I'm reminded that she's slightly bigger than me.
She smells like a home that sometimes I feel like I'm forgetting.
But I'm too busy staring at Mom over Gisa's shoulder, who's taken to crossing her arms as she peers back at me.
Talking to her on the phone every night is different than seeing her in the flesh. Now that she's here, I can see her face and the emotions that come with it. It's not just a strained voice that keeps echoing apologies, even as I can sense another one on the tip of her tongue. Her thin eyebrows draw together, and I watch as her throat bobs. She won't make a move until I do.
"Okay, that's enough," I hiss at my sister, slinking from her arms. It might be harder to see Mom in the flesh, but I already feel my resolve slipping like streams of water through my palms. I can't stay angry with her forever, as hard as I might try. "Mom, give me a hug."
Instantaneously, Mom's eyes light up. "I've been waiting for it all morning, sweetie," she tells me, smiling her motherly smile.
I try my best to ignore Cal as Mom and I cross the few feet between us. Her arms wrap around my back, and I feel her hard-worked hands through my jacket. The embrace takes me back to when I was little and Mom tucked me and Gisa into our beds every night, always asking if we were too warm or too cold or if we needed a glass of water before bed. Ignoring Cal becomes forgetting Cal.
Mom tightens her arms around me. I press my nose into her shoulder, and not-so-inconspicuously, do I inhale it. Her shirt smells clean laundry, and only now do I realize how much I miss the detergent that she uses. Mom might only be five-one, but I feel this impossible safety with her, lulling me..
"Okay, Mare, stop sniffing Mom," Gisa tells me, and only my sister's cruel words force me to break the hug.
I turn on my sister, putting up my hands in surrender. "I like the detergent, okay?"
"Now," Mom says, her voice crisper and clearer than it is through the speaker on my phone. She's gaining confidence now. My throat dries up a little as Mom's eyes harden just a tiny bit. She might have things to make up for, but she won't let me get away with abusing Cal.
I give Mom a rascally smile. "Yes, Mom?" Cal's smile widens out of the corner of my eye.
"After talking to Cal for twenty minutes, I've decided that he's a nice young man who shouldn't have to deal with the nonsense that you pull on him."
I nod, considering. "Interesting theory."
"Correct theory," Cal adds.
Honestly, I don't think that I'm that bad. Yes, there was the seven-out-of-ten incident, as well as a lot of eye-rolling and hostility in general. I also frequently insult contemporary as a form of dance. Oh, and then there's the fact that I enjoy sneaking around with Cal's brother, Maven, and making out with him. Just recently, he might recall that I became his brother's girlfriend. But other than that, I'm an angel.
I was right. One look at Cal and his smile from Mom, and I'm done. She might as well have brought warm milk and chocolate chip cookies to feed him.
"Eventually, I'll make you apologize to him. In the meantime, we should do something nice for Cal for putting up with you and teaching you how to dance with a partner. We could take him out for lunch or buy him a fruit basket."
I take a long look at Cal. He knows what I'll say.
Cal makes me do push-ups. I'll have at least another seventy-five to do this evening.
To be sorry, I'd have to regret something. I regret nothing.
Respectfully as I can, I shake my head. "That's not happening, Mom."
<><><>
"It's a beautiful building your father owns, Cal."
"It is, isn't it? I'll make sure to pass on the message."
"Oh, I doubt that he cares about my—"
"The opinion of Mare Barrow's mom is highly valued at the Academy, Missus Barrow."
"I told you that Ruth is fine, Cal."
My mom absolutely adores Cal. He's put her under his "nice young man" spell, and Mom officially has a mom-crush on him. After a grand total of twenty minutes, he's already on a first-name basis with her.
With no immediate plans of how to get Mom to dislike Cal or at least to feel impartial towards him, I cross my hands behind my back. Standing between Mom and Cal is turning out to be an unpleasant place to be when all the two do is compliment one another, while Gisa titters in the background. It takes what feels like years for the four of us to make it up the staircase, turn right, and walk down the hall to Mister Calore's office.
"Ladies first," Cal says, moving to the side of the propped-open French doors. Inside, a rather eager reporter fills the room with small-talk.
"Four people can easily fit through the doors at once," I snip at Cal, who I half-expect to block me and tell me that I don't count as a lady.
"Chivalry isn't dead, Mare," Cal returns, anticipating it.
I turn on my heel so that I'm looking into his eyes. He tilts his head down, and I tilt mine up. "What are you going to say about me?"
"Oh, you know. I plan on telling The New York Times that you're just the worst. That you're super mean. We can't have New York City buying into Blonos's words when she calls you the primmest and most proper ballerina she's ever laid eyes on."
I snort, staring longer.
Cal relents. "You'll hear it when you hear it."
"You be nice to that nice young man, Mare," Mom tells me, laying eyes on Mister Calore's expansive office. She freezes in place for a moment, taking in the bachelor pad scene of leather couches, armchairs, coffee tables, wood, and bricks. The curtains are drawn open to reveal a waking Times Square, and the sun streams nicely in through the windows. I've only been on the office side of the room, but today we veer to the right, where Mister Calore's massive flatscreen—and as I get closer, extensive CD collection—wait.
Mister Calore and Blonos already gave their statements to the reporter, leaving Elara and Carmadon sitting together on one couch. Two of the other Principal women, both in their late twenties, have also offered to sit in and tell the journalist what they think of me. That leaves me, my sister, Mom, and the Calore brothers.
Maven, having yet to woo Mom, already sits on one side of the massive black leather sectional facing the flatscreen. He surely heard our voices from outside, which can only mean that he's been tied up talking to the crazed journalist.
He smiles at me and then waves to Mom.
It would be nice if he could woo Mom as much as Cal has. It will make telling her easier.
In the meantime, I've managed ahead of time to tell everyone in this room that my mom and sister don't know about me and Maven. I don't want another hot tub incident.
Mom, having heard a lot about Maven, puts her hand over her heart and returns the gesture.
"Right there, Missus Barrow," the reporter, that same one from the gala, dictates to Mom. She points her finger towards a club chair, then back at Gee. "You, there." Another point puts Gee in the armchair next to Mom.
I must say that the journalist-woman is looking rather stylish today with her plaid pants and lime-green blouse. Her bulky glasses frame her face nicely, and her braided hair is nice and neat. She looks at me like I'm a fresh story to be devoured, rising only for me.
She crosses the room from her chair in the corner, discarding her laptop, tape recorder, and notepad at the table beside her. A moment later, she's holding out her hand to shake.
"Miss Barrow," she says, grinning. "You know that I've been waiting for this interview for a while." Just her eager face at the gala said as much. "Why don't we get started?"
<><><>
"Mare doesn't like a lot of things," Gisa says. "Her main joys in life are ballet, sleeping, eating, and being rude to others."
"Don't include that," I mutter, more focused on the photographs before me than my own sister.
Elara and Carmadon have already spoken their pieces. Elara gloated about my technical perfection that most veteran ballerinas don't possess, while Carmadon told the reporter that it's a true pleasure to work with me every day. One of the Principal dancers mentioned how the Corps girls adore me, attracted to me like magnets at the barre so that they might watch my technique. Maven said that I challenge him as a dancer and push him to become better. I work too hard, get up too early. My fouettés, according to Maven, are perfection. Cal spoke as I knew he would, calling me a talented dancer beyond my years that he's honored to dance with on a daily basis.
It's currently Gee's turn. Rather than offer useful details to the reporter, she's taken to roasting me in front of the whole room.
"When she was little, Mare wanted to be a Radio City Rockette. But then she found out that you have to be five-six to be a Rockette, and there was no way that was happening."
The room shakes with good-humored laughter.
On my lap I have a manilla file folder filled with a dozen glossy ten-by-twelve photos. I'm to choose five to put in the paper. One is of my black and white Academy headshot, while another three are photos taken earlier this week of me in Giselle rehearsals. Others are from the gorgeous yacht photoshoot. The last two are familiar.
"I love this one," I mutter, admiring the photograph that The New York Times reporter snapped herself. It features Maven, Cal, and I in our formal attire, and the glossy ink perfectly replicates the sparkle of Calore Industries from that night. "It's such a beautiful photo."
Maven and Cal sit on either side of me, and both lean in a little so that they can partake in choosing my photos. I already know what Maven's going to say.
He points at the wine glass in Cal's hand. "Wow, Cal. Captured on camera underage drinking. What a scandal."
Cal leers at his brother. "That was your wine, Maven."
Maven shrugs. "The New York Times doesn't know that."
I do enjoy watching Maven and Cal bicker. Laughing, I set that photo on the coffee table in front of me. It joins my headshot, a photo of me in an arabesque in Carmadon's studio, and a shot of me and Maven on the yacht with the city behind us. That leaves one photo to choose out of the remaining eight. Hesitantly, I pick through the photographs until my fingers land on the one at the bottom.
This morning is the first time that I'm seeing the shot.
The dim lights of the gala shine golden through the paper. Dresses and suits are caught in mid-motion, and the opulent jewelry of high society women catches the white light of the camera. Faces in the photograph are turned towards the gorgeous two subjects, one of whom wears a wild smile while the other peers back with danger in her eyes. To anybody else, it just looks as though I'm having fun dancing with Cal. His tux-clad arms envelop my waist, and my hands hold onto his broad shoulders. A leg that I don't remember lifting off the ground is captured soaring into the air.
My bare tanned skin up to my knee is revealed, having flown out through the slit of my dress.
There's this electricity in the photo. Maybe it's my diamond necklace or Cal's pretty, fiery eyes or the fact that my back is pressed against his thigh and that he's dipping me incredibly low while making it look effortless and beautiful. Regardless, the ten-by-twelve photograph emits wild, rugged energy.
Without looking at either of the Calore brothers, I set the photo of me and Cal on the table.
"Missus Barrow," the journalist says, eyeing Mom. "What do you have to say about Mare?"
Unused to any attention on herself, Mom's cheeks flush, and she glances down at her folded hands. We've already rehearsed what she wanted to say over the phone, but I had every expectation that Mom was going to be nervous going into this.
"Don't worry, Mom," Gisa says, crossing her legs. Unwilling to shut up, she has the opposite problem. "It's just your quotes for one of the biggest newspapers in the country."
I roll my eyes. "I don't think that you're helping, Gee."
But surprisingly, Mom starts with a clear voice.
"I'm very proud of my daughter," Mom starts. Her eyes train in on mine. "I know how hard she's worked her entire life to get here. Sometimes it felt like she was never at home because she spent every waking moment at her ballet studio. She was there more than she was at home. Gisa's right. She's never done much other than sleep, eat, and dance ballet."
Mom's barely started, but she begins to blink fast.
Something tightens in my stomach.
"I don't know anything about ballet dancing, but I did put her in ballet when she was a little girl. I thought it might tame her from running around our apartment and fighting with her brothers. It didn't, but that's . . . beside the point. She's always been such a stunning, beautiful ballet dancer. When she was little, it was always so much fun getting her into her tiny pink tutus and doing her hair, and I just loved watching her dance."
Mom blinks again, and I watch as the first tear falls from her eye. It catches on her eyelash.
She's saying the same things that she told me she would. Still, my throat and eyes begin to sting.
"I didn't realize exactly how talented she was. Not until recently."
Thankfully, the sob that leaves Mom's throat stops her from apologizing yet again.
Across the room, my sister shakes her head, reaches over to Mom's purse, and pulls out a handy package of tissue for Mom. She goes so far as to pull one out and hand it to her.
"She deserves everything that she has here," Mom says, dabbing profusely at her eyes. She collects herself enough to say one more thing. "Both of her brothers, Bree and Tramy, are very proud of her. And so is her father."
Maven and Cal, out of the corners of my eyes, glance between me and my crying mother.
A tear to replicate the first tear that dropped from Mom's eye falls down from my own.
It's different seeing her in person, seeing the poorly-masked regret on her face. She looks so happy and sad all at once. My walls begin to crack, and her mention of Dad does nothing good for them.
Elara eyes Mom and then me. She raises her thin eyebrow at our tears as though they're foreign to her. Carmadon looks ready to pat Mom on the back and give her a hug. The Principals, officially feeling awkward, waste no time in excusing themselves from the room.
The reporter only glances at her notepad.
"How do you spell Tramy? What kind of name is that?" she asks Mom.
For no reason at all, that silly question destroys me. I cross the point of no return as a sob spirals up from deep inside of me. I cover my eyes with my hands and feel Gisa's presence walking towards me with a tissue.
"I thought that you said crying in public was for the weak, Mare."