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Chapter Two
“She’s driving me fucking crazy, Nina. I swear I’m going to kill myself if she doesn’t get off my fucking jock,” Yo-Yo uttered into the phone during our video chat as he did another curl with the weight in his hand. My little brother had been getting jacked, lately. I supposed I should’ve been happy that he’d found a way to blow off steam. More than anyone, I understood how much he needed release. I had hoped my little rebellion at the cusp of leaving home would’ve smoothed the way for him by the time he reached his late teens, but no such luck. Mother was as wound up as ever. Even more so because he was a boy. There were no excuses for a boy. A boy had to succeed.
Walking through the living room of the Upper West Side apartment I shared with my best friend, Tasa, I gazed out at the overwrought, gold-leaf furniture as I crossed barefoot over the Persian carpets on my way to the kitchen.
Propping my phone against the shiny toaster, I grabbed a teakettle, filled it with cold water, and slammed it on the stovetop. I cringed at the clanging sound of metal hitting metal. Mother was losing her mind. I didn’t know what it was about adolescence that seemed to tip her over into pure, unadulterated insanity. The shouting. The recriminations. The fear she projected on us. The older we got, the worse she spiraled. In the end, she’d create an explosion of massive proportions. At least that’s how it had been with me, and the same thing seemed to be playing out with Yo-Yo.
Once the water was heating, I flipped open the cupboard and grabbed the French press and stainless-steel container of ground coffee. If Tasa were here, instead of out gallivanting somewhere, she’d be preparing a nice cup of Turkish coffee, and I wouldn’t have to resort to pre-ground coffee and the French press. Glancing up at the clock, I noted that it was past nine a.m. Again, I wondered where my best friend had spent the night. Her family’s home, next door to mine in Queens? Highly unlikely. With her former lover, that vocal instructor from school? Doubtful. Where can she be?
“You know Mother. She has to have a meltdown the instant we turn eighteen because it marks her impending loss of control. That, on top of a general fear of the future, and ka-boom.” I flicked my hands open to emphasize the bomb analogy.
My mother always liked to remind us how her family went to great lengths to get their only child, a girl no less, smuggled into the United States. Now she was a regional manager at the company she worked for. But that horrific trip across the world? It’d left her terrified of the unpredictable. And nothing seemed as scary as a child on the cusp of adulthood who didn’t have a career mapped out to retirement.
“You know how it is with her and careers. Not just any career either. It’s not like I can be honest with her and say that I want to get married and have a gaggle of kids,” I complained to my brother.
A sigh escaped from my lips. Tasa and I often commiserated that fate had played a cruel joke on us, dropping us in the womb of the wrong mother. Her mother only wanted to see her married to a nice Romanian boy, with kids tugging at her skirt. My mother was appalled by the idea. Our home had been a battleground for years, before Dad finally convinced her to let me go to Juilliard to pursue singing. That didn’t stop her from working me half to death with vocal lessons and specialty summer camps. Her intention had been for me to go to Yale, not Juilliard.
Every once in a while, she still shuddered at the prospect of my future. But at least I’d chosen an honorable career. One that had to do with culture and history. Unlike Yo-Yo, I wasn’t bitter. I had long been resigned to my mother’s pressure. Although, Yo-Yo’s current struggles reminded me of my upcoming graduation, and what that meant. It was only a matter of time before her attention turned toward me.
“Yeah, but at least you got into Juilliard. You don’t mind playing the game and pretending to be a good, obedient daughter.” His unspoken words were that, unlike me, Yo-Yo didn’t have the tolerance for subterfuge or any kind of bullshit.
“It’s only for another few months,” I said, trying to put it in perspective for him. “It’s not like I care to pursue a competitive singing career after I graduate in the spring. Then I’ll be right back on her radar.”
I had no idea what I was going to do. If anything, I’d work with kids, but Mother would go ballistic if I suggested becoming a music teacher for children. A college professor would be acceptable, but that was definitely not a good fit for me. My shoulders bunched up as I ruminated about my future and my mother.
“Anyway,” my brother said, switching the conversation, “I’m sneaking out tomorrow night to go to a hip-hop show at a loft party in Bushwick.”
“Just don’t get caught,” I counseled, because, really, what could I say? I’d snuck out on more than one occasion to meet up with Tasa as a teen. Not that we did anything particularly exciting. Mostly, we took the subway to The Village in Manhattan and tried to get into bars with bad fake IDs. We never could trick those bouncers and would end up hanging out in Washington Square Park until we got tired and dragged our butts home.
“Do you want me to try talking to Mother again?” I suggested. I’d do anything for my little brother, even hopelessly attempt to convince my mother to back off.
“Like that’s gonna make any difference,” he grumbled. “Sure, go ahead. Why don’t you come over tonight for dinner? Try talking her down from the ledge.”
I grimaced.
“Is an entire meal necessary?” I quipped.
“See? And you’re out of the house. Imagine how I feel,” he fired back.
“Has Dad been helpful?”
“As much as he can be. He’s not exactly hyped about my plans, but at least he sees me as a separate human being with my own set of dreams.”
“Yeah,” I replied on a sigh. If it took our mother ages to accept Juilliard, the idea of a career as a hip-hop artist was close to unfathomable. The fact that he was insanely talented, had a cover-model kind of way about him, and had the sweetest temperament in the world were inconsequential. None of those things mattered to her. She might have approved if he were a cellist, like the musician he was named after. Luckily, Yo-Yo doubled as a dope stage name.
“Okay. Anything for you. If I can’t talk her down, at the very least, I can act as a buffer.”
“Damn straight. You know I miss you, right?” Yo-Yo said, giving me a lopsided grin.
“Yeah, yeah, as long as you don’t give me that nonsense about me being your favorite sister when we both know I’m your only sister.”
That got a guffaw out of him. I breathed in relief. Anything to make that boy smile.
I hung up with him and checked my social media for signs of Tasa. There was a text from an unknown number. Usually, I erased them without checking, but something told me to read it.
TASA: I’m okay. I had to escape. Couldn’t go through with Cristo. Don’t try to find me. Texted Bunica. Love u.
“Oh, Tasa,” I groaned out, smacking my thigh.
