ONE TWO THREE

Chapter 1

Author´s note: This is the first chapter of ONE TWO THREE, my YA contemporary romance novel, which will be published on June 26th, 2014. I will be uploading the first three chapters of this novel exclusively on Wattpad before publication date...and...will share a prequel very soon!

Chopin’s music is the soundtrack of my life.

Papa played his most heart-wrenching waltzes, Mama used his nocturnes as lullabies when I was little, and my legs itched to form an arabesque whenever I heard Polonaises op. 40. Chopin used to be my escape, a way to dream about the future, about everything I wanted—from finally not being scared of falling in love to dancing the role of Cinderella one day at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow.

But that was before.

The somber melody of Chopin’s Prelude op. 28 oppresses me. That piece is also called “Suffocation.” How fitting. Mama listens to it on repeat. She’s slumped at the living room table in the far corner. Only one of the lights is working and the darkness almost settles around her as she pours herself one shot of vodka after the other.

“Mama, you need to go to sleep,” I tell her for the fifth time. She’s downing the bottle as if there’s no tomorrow, and maybe that’s what she’s hoping for. Her head wobbles from one side to another. She’s already far gone. I missed my doctor’s appointment today because she was too drunk to drive me. I had to lie for her again. Dr. Gibson bought it, and we rescheduled for two weeks. He agreed that as long as I followed his advice (wearing my knee brace, doing my strength exercises, and no jumps) I could volunteer at the community center to help little kids learn to dance. He even gave my name to the volunteer coordinator there. She was looking for a college student, but I convinced her during the interview that even though I was only seventeen, she should still give me a chance. If I do well with the kids this Saturday, I’ll get to help out every weekend for a few hours.

Mama stands up, swaying around with the bottle in her hand.

“I need you out of my face,” she slurs and pushes me away. I wouldn’t have stumbled before. After all, balance is everything for a ballerina, but my knee brace makes my movements awkward. I stumble into the bookshelves holding my babushka’s favorite novels from Tolstoy and Shakespeare: she loved Anna Karenina and Romeo and Juliet. She always laughed about a pamphlet Tolstoy wrote that criticized Shakespeare, and she could talk for hours about literature. If my babushka were here, maybe she’d be able to get through to Mama. But at the same time, I’m relieved she didn’t see how her family crumbled to pieces after the accident.

 “It was my fault!” Mama’s words cut through my heart, knowing I can’t seem to convince her otherwise. “It was my fault,” she whispers. “I killed him!” Her voice goes crescendo.  “I don’t want to see you! Get out!”

My stomach clenches. No matter how many times she pushes me away, I still have the same reaction: I want to comfort her, to remind her she’s not responsible.

I am.

“You weren’t in the car.” I use my most soothing voice. “I was. You didn’t do anything.”

“I told you to get out!” Mama is in my face, but I don’t flinch. Even though her fury scares the crap out of me, she never hit me. Not once, despite being drunk more often than not, ever since the accident.

“Listen, Mama.”

“You listen.” She points a wobbly finger at me, her usual striking features are contorted in a mask of despair: her mascara trails down her cheeks with her tears, her blue eyes, a bit clearer than Papa’s and mine, are all puffed up, and the mouth that can curve into a beautiful smile is a thin line. “I want you out. If only you didn’t ask him to drive you back.”