Chapter 1

Twelve first dates and zero second ones can leave a girl feeling more inadequate than usual. I’ve never felt like I’m enough, so it’s not entirely new. It stings. What am I doing that makes none of these men want to see me again? There must be something I’m doing or not doing, but I’ve gone through it a thousand times in my mind, and every time, I come up empty-handed. I don’t know why I am constantly ghosted.

The excitement you usually feel when getting ready for a first date isn’t present on date number thirteen. Three months. Thirteen dates. I should probably just throw in the towel, buy ten cats, and get it over with. I sit at a fancy Italian restaurant, waiting for my date, Anthony, to show up. He’s ten minutes late. I don’t get second dates, but being stood up is new. I glance at the ceiling and appreciate the handcrafted wine glass chandelier. The tables all have a white tablecloth and floating candles in a holder that looks like a small fishbowl. Most restaurants I’ve been to have a selection of booths and tables; however, there are no booths here. Black chairs sit at each table, a stark contrast to the color of the tablecloths.

The server returns to me for the twentieth time. “Still waiting?”

I sigh, trying to convey how annoyed I am that she keeps asking, “I’ll take another glass of wine and the bill.”

The annoyance she feels is visible in her arched brow. “Yes, ma’am,” she bites. As pissed as I’m sure she is that her tip will be much lower for two drinks versus two meals, I can guarantee you, it’s me that’s the most irritated.

My best friend is happily married, disgustingly so. I’m happy for her, really, I am, but it stings watching them together and wondering if I’ll never have what she does. I don’t want everything she has; she’s married to a mafia man. No, thank you. Her husband has three brothers. Dante has asked me out more times than I can count. My answer has always been no. Then there’s Drake, who looks at me like he wants nothing more than to kill me. Are there no good guys left?

I hand the server my credit card as she sets my wine before me. She’s a pretty blonde, wearing a black skirt and a white button-down blouse. I know she’ll make plenty of tips tonight based on that alone. Aren’t things always easier for pretty people? I felt uncomfortable when she approached my table because she reminded me so much of Nicole. The server walks away, her heels clicking on the black marble floor as I stare at my wine and get lost in my painful past.

Since I was four years old, I have known I would be a dancer. A ballerina, more specifically. My life is like a tragic Cinderella story, except my sister is my twin, not my step-sister. My mother is also my biological mother, although sometimes I’m not sure if she realizes it. And there’s no prince charming coming to save me from this nightmare. I’m not sad or hopeless, though. I have this. Ballet. Something happens to me when I lace up my pointe shoes. A transformation of sorts. All the insecurity and awkwardness fades away, and I become the young woman I desperately want to be. Beautiful. Elegant. Graceful. I own the stage. Ballet owns me. When I dance, it’s as if all the broken shards of my soul magically slide back into place. The voices in my head quiet while the music commands my body to move in sync with every note.

Three months ago, I was invited to audition for Reflections, a world-renowned ballet company. In four months, they will begin their national tour of Romeo and Juliet. At fifteen, I’m younger than most of the far more experienced women here, so I don’t expect to be cast as Juliet. I’m told they attempted to find a ballerina in their company but did not find the right fit. My dance teacher referred a small selection of her students, and I’m guessing that, by the large number of bodies I see as I glance around the room, others did the same thing. When my gaze lands on my blue-eyed, perfect sister, I’m annoyed but not surprised. I’m not sure she even wants this, but she will never pass up an opportunity to take something from me. Every boy I’ve ever liked she has stolen from me. Friends. Same thing. There has been nothing I’ve ever loved more than this so I know if she can snatch this from me she will.

I’ve heard it throughout the years. Sibling rivalry is what they call it, but I disagree. It’s more like sibling brutality. She’s cruel. Nowhere is too far for Nicole to go, as long as it hurts me.

I attempt to get Nicole out of my head because all that matters is the dance. The audition that could change the course of my life. First, we will dance our solo choreography and then pair up with a male dancer for the rest of our audition.

My name is called, so I look at my sister. I spot her forming the letters p-i-g on her chest, and unfortunately, I know what she’s trying to remind me of. However, I keep my posture straight, hold my head high, and stand in the fourth position, waiting for the violin that I now know by heart.

I don’t have to think about the next move as I spin and leap across the stage. It’s all in my muscle memory. After rehearsing this piece for months, my body knows what to do next. If I haven’t been dancing to it, I’m going through it in my mind, and when I’m sleeping, I dream about it. The most challenging part of this choreography is the twenty-two fouettes. You must pass your working leg in front or behind your body while spinning. If I don’t spot correctly, I could end up dizzy and flat on my ass. I’m pleased when I execute them with perfection. Once I finish, I wait for the second part, dancing with a male dancer. That makes me nervous because if the other person messes up, so do you. It’s a lot of trust to put into a perfect stranger. I breathe a sigh of relief when we finish with no issues.

Angelica Rothschild, the producer of this show, begins walking around and tapping some people on the shoulder. Are these the people that might get it? My heart races as my chest squeezes with anxiety.

“If I tapped you on your shoulder, your audition is over. Thank you for your time.”

I gaze at the perfection of this woman as my breathing returns to normal. She’s gorgeous, poised, confident, and slender. Wearing a leotard and ballet skirt, her dark hair in a tight bun, Ms. Rothschild looks like the graceful dancer she was when she graced the stage as a prima ballerina. She retired a year ago at forty, which is old for a dancer. Most ballerinas are forced to retire between thirty-five and forty if an injury doesn’t sideline them before then. Injuries are common. Ballet is strenuous and puts a great deal of stress on the body. During the thirteen years I’ve studied ballet, I’ve had minor injuries along the way, all annoying but only mildly painful.

Twelve of us left after she dismissed most of the room. My heart thumps like it’s preparing to leap out of my chest.

* * *

I learned I got the lead a few days later, but there was bad news. Nicole is my alternate. If I’m injured, she will take my spot. Without a doubt, I know she’s praying for an injury. We both practice in the same rehearsal studio, although in different rooms. The room is lined with mirrors, and a bar runs along the wall. I stand with one leg on the bar as I stretch when I hear footsteps approach.

“Hey pig,” she says without venom, like it’s just an obvious statement. It’s not new to hear that word from her; she decided that was my nickname when we were eight, when I developed breasts earlier than expected, earlier than her. Maybe it came from jealousy, or perhaps she truly sees me that way; in either case, it doesn’t change how it makes me feel. When we were younger, I used to tell myself that pig stood for a pretty intelligent girl. As time passed, I believed my little mantra less and less. The pretty girl I once saw in the mirror faded. Every flaw became apparent as my internal voice became Nicole, reminding me I’d never be good enough and that I was, in fact, a pig. A fat, disgusting pig.

She grins when I don’t respond to her like she won some sort of contest. Running her hand along the bar, she smiles sweetly, “Careful. It would be terrible if you got injured. Heartbreaking.”

Then she turns and walks out of the room. While she didn’t threaten me, somehow, I know something is coming. With Nicole, there always is. It’s a rare day that passes without some form of bullying from her. When did it start? Early.

From the moment I was born, my twin sister hated me. It’s sad, but it’s true. I still don’t know why, but I don’t understand why my parents seem to feel the same way. Nicole does everything right, while I do everything wrong. We are fraternal twins, so we aren’t supposed to look like carbon copies of each other, but we don’t even look like sisters. She’s tall, thin, and blonde. My sister is stunning and always gets the attention of any man in the room. It’s always been that way. I have dark hair, am short, and, according to my sister, I’m fat and should be disgusted with myself. The only thing we ever had in common was ballet.

We got matching pink leotards, skirts, ballet shoes, and dance lessons on our fourth birthday.

Miss Leah calls out, “Third position, Demi Plie.”

We switch from first to third, some more effortlessly than others. She walks over to Nicole and says, “Heels on the floor. Knees over your feet.”

My sister glares at me as if I was the reason she was messing up. To make matters worse, Miss Leah says, “Watch Natalia and then try again.”

After we get home from dance class, Mom is angry with me. My sister gets ice cream while I am sent to my room, which is my punishment for showing off.

My mother and sister are two peas in a pod, identical. It’s always them against me, like the home version of Mean Girls. My dad just goes with whatever my mom says. He never makes eye contact with me, as if he hates me as much as they do. I live my life as an outsider while feigning smiles and confidence. Only one person knows even a sliver of my pain. Giada. When we moved here from Florida, she quickly became my saving grace. She sees me. She sees Nicole for who she is—my tormentor. I’m grateful to have her. I crave the one thing I’ve never had. Love from my family. My sister. Twins are supposed to have some magical link to each other, feel each other”s pain, and have an unbreakable bond. I’m smart enough to know you should cut toxic people out of your life. Still, every day I try to fix something I never broke. As long as we are still speaking I have hope that one day, she won’t hate me.