I yank open my drawer and dump everything into my dance bag. I don’t answer Siri. I don’t want her to come.

I run to my closet and start ripping things off their hangers, making a mess. A mess I know is going to make Mom mad. Mom is in love with Broadway and doesn’t care what that means for the rest of us. Mom is obsessed with ballet. Siri is already somehow good enough to join my ballet class. So, Mom’s obsessed with Siri too.

“We have dance today. Will you be back before then? Should I pack too?” Siri asks hopefully.

Her mouth hangs open, her lips forming a tiny O. I shove my clothes down to make more room. “No, Siri, you shouldn’t pack.”

Her lips start to wobble, like they’ve caught on to what’s happening before she’s worked it all out. “Are you going to Papa’s?” she asks. “I’d like to come too, please.”

“Me and Dad are leaving. We’re going to live in Hollywood. Mom’s holding us back.”

“You’re leaving?… I’m not invited?”

I zip my bag. It snags on a pair of socks right at the end, but I throw it onto my shoulder anyway. “Do you even want to come?” I spit at her.

She stares at me for a moment. “Can we wait till after dance?”

I toss my hands up. “You don’t get it. I hate ballet. I hate it here. I hate you copying everything I do. I want to go, that doesn’t mean you have to come. Get your own brain, Siri!” I shove past as tears begin to flow down her cheeks. I speed downstairs toward the screaming.

“You leave this family, then NEVER FUCKING COME BACK! I never want to see you again, you selfish, greedy asshole! Don’t come crawling around in a couple of days asking to talk this through! Go live with your STUCK-UP BITCH of a mother!”

“I’m so done, Mara!”

I stop short on the bottom step. They’re right up in each other’s faces between the table and the kitchen counter. A moment later I feel the air shift as Siri stops right behind me. Our parents both turn to look at us at once.

“Girls,” Mom breathes, falling into a kitchen chair like the weight of the world has collapsed onto her shoulders.

Dad looks at me. “Are you ready, Jame?”

“What do you mean is she ready? Grier, no. Don’t you dare,” Mom shoots at him. Her eyes fall to my bag and her expression softens. “Honey, are you ready for dance early?”

I walk over to Dad’s side. “I’m leaving with Dad. Mom, I don’t want to live with you anymore.”

The color drains from Mom’s cheeks. They go gray like someone turned off the light behind her face.