Project Dance

Chapter 7

When I get home, my workaholic mother has abandoned her post at her desk and taken to bustling around the house, cleaning as if her life depends on it. Her blonde hair is not in the usual no-nonsense bun it usually is. It's in a frazzled ponytail with hair sticking out everywhere.

I approach her carefully, eyeing the dustpan in her hand. "Mom. What's the meaning of all this?"

She gives me a perfunctory once-over before returning to her cleaning.

"Mom," I say, a little louder this time.

She huffs, planting herself on the couch. I follow suit, albeit a little uncomfortable given the ice that still hasn't thawed from our argument the other day.

"I'm– inviting people to our house," she rushes to say.

I tilt my head. "Who?"

"People who– people who will help you carve out a stable career path."

I blanch. "Mom, who exactly are these people?"

"They work at my lab. But they're focused on motivating teens-- teens like you to choose a good career."

"You mean a career in STEM," I say, shaking my head. "God. Of course you would do this. I should have known."

"I can't sit by and watch as you ruin your chances at a future," my mom says quietly.

"Mom, I–"

"No," she snaps. "Your knee. How am I supposed to believe the pain won't start up again? You'll be ruined, Celeste."

Tears are burning in the backs of my eyes, and I clench my fists.

"I'm done with this conversation. And no, I'm not coming out of my room later to talk to whoever you've paid to shove scientific brochures in my face."

"Celeste!" I hear my mom say as I walk away.

I slam the door, collapsing on my bed with bone-deep exhaustion.

—

Two hours later, I hear a rap on my door. I stiffen, knowing that my mom is on the other side.

"Come back later," I say, hoarse. Are her friends from work downstairs? I picture them getting their presentation notes ready to talk to me, and I shudder.

"Celeste, we have guests." Mom sounds solemn.

I glance at myself in the mirror, sighing when I see my flattened, limp curls. I look sallow and pale, so I dab some blush on my cheeks to give myself some semblance of life.

There is no getting out of this. If I don't go out and meet these people now, my mom will keep pestering me.

I step outside, wordlessly walking past my mother.

Two women are clustered around the table, conversing loudly. They hush as they see me glide down the stairs. I plaster my best winning  smile, the one I use to win over adults.

"Ms. Nomikos!" One of them exclaims. She's middle-aged, with fiery red hair in the same serious bun Mom wears.

"Hello," I say politely, sitting across from the redhead.

"We've heard... a lot about you from your mother," she continues.

"All good things, I hope," I say, half-joking, half-serious.

"Tereza, come sit with us," the redhead says to my mom, who's hovering behind me. It's like she's making sure I stay put and don't go anywhere.

Screw this.