We fell into our usual routine as I put some chicken in a pan on the stove, and Ryan took a package of veggies out of the fridge to microwave it.
The Logans raised Ryan with a much more distant parenting style than my babushka had, but it hadn’t always been this bad. Everything changed for the worst when Ryan sat his parents down to tell them he was gay. Mrs. Logan had sobbed as if he had just announced he was dying, and Mr. Logan had effectively ended his relationship with his son that day.
Mr. Logan was coldly cordial and went through the motions of attending our performances, but Ryan and I both knew it was just a show. He tolerated Ryan in ballet classes all those years because he thought he would grow out of it. Ryan played along with the false assumptions for a while, afraid his dad would yank him out of ballet. For a couple of years, he even pretended he was just in ballet to get close to girls. Contrary to popular belief, not every male dancer in ballet was gay.
Mr. Logan loved hockey and used to take Ryan along with him to all of the games. Ryan religiously memorized stats and followed hockey players in an attempt to have a connection with his dad. After the day Ryan told him the truth about his sexuality, Mr. Logan never invited Ryan to another hockey game. That was a knife to the heart for Ryan, because that had been his ‘guy time’ with his dad.
Ryan and I moved around the kitchen in comfortable silence, too tired to devote energy to a pointless conversation that neither of us needed. Ryan filled up our ice buckets as I cooked the chicken. After we made our plates, I sat at my seat and hissed as my feet went into the icy water. The first few times I took the plunge, it had been terrible, but I couldn’t deny the relief that it brought my poor aching feet. Ryan and I ate, then cleaned up the kitchen, still silent but working in unison.
We were probably the worst teenagers in the world – going to bed at nine on a Friday night, but we had a long day tomorrow. Unlike most high schools, we had classes six days a week to fit in all of our dance classes and required academics. We didn’t have any other stuff that kids in clichéd high school movies seemed to love: proms, football, or cheerleaders. I was following my dream of becoming a professional ballerina, so I didn’t feel like I was missing anything. If I went to a regular high school, I wouldn’t be able to dance for six or more hours a day, and I would never have reached the level that I was at now.
I stiffly crawled under my covers after a hot shower and tried to relax as I waited for Ryan to finish in the bathroom and turn out the light. I always pushed myself hard, wanting to be the best, wanting to make my babushka proud. But now something else that drove me. Pushing myself to the point of exhaustion where I could barely stand meant that when my head hit the pillow, my body was forced to sleep, at least until the nightmares woke me up again.
Chapter 3 Two Months Later…
Katya
Ryan and I mimed the movements to the dance we were performing in less than twenty minutes. We needed all of our energy and stamina for the actual performance - this was just to settle our nerves. He and I were dancing a pas de deux tonight as part of our Pre-Professional Showcase - which is the equivalent of the final exam that typical high school students would take. We’d already done our Spring Performance at the theater last weekend, so this was the only nerve-wracking performance standing between us and freedom for a couple of weeks.
Ryan and I were about to finish our sophomore year at the Academy of Ballet in NYC. This summer, we made the transition to juniors, and the pressure would be on us to make a name for ourselves. Getting an offer from a professional company by the end of senior year was essential if we want to keep dancing for years to come.
My nerves were also on edge for another reason. Last week my ‘mother’ had contacted the Logans. I had refused to speak with her, of course. She hadn’t shown any interest in me over the last sixteen years, why start now?
It had been over two months since I lost Babulya, and there was still an empty hole in my heart. I knew Babulya wouldn’t have wanted me to give up - she would have demanded that I go out and live the best life I could. I tried my best to stuff my emotions deep down, but it only worked when I let dance consume me completely. I was dancing better than I ever had before, but I knew what I was doing wasn’t healthy.
My dance game might have been on point, but my personal life was a mess. The Logans had taken me into their home, but Ryan had spent so much of his childhood with me and Babulya because the Logans were rarely around. That hadn’t changed.
Losing my babushka, my home, and what felt like my life, had been overwhelming. Ryan had been the only thing holding me together since I’d found her collapsed on her bedroom floor. I had been lost in a sea of grief for weeks when he sat me down to have a serious talk.
Ryan grabbed both my hands. “Katya, you can’t keep doing this.” He swallowed, and I could see the worry in his eyes.
“You aren’t eating, the bags under your eyes tell me that you aren’t sleeping,
