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Reno, Nevada
“Ugh! IhateTatiana Brave,” my younger sister Penelope groans via a rambling voicemail. “I don’t understand why she had to switch from pairs to singles, or why she has it out for me. Call me back when you get this. Stat!”
Beep!
I check the time and weigh my options. She’s left seventeen other voicemails, all within the last hour, and I doubt that any of them are an actual emergency.
I could’ve sworn we just talked about this…
Against my better judgment, I hit play on the next one.
“I had to watch her win last week and listen to everyone talk about how ‘stunningly beautiful’ she is when she’s beyond basic. Her skating is mediocre at best. At. Best.”
Beep!
“Before you say I’m overreacting or emotionally unstable because youabandonedme here in Seattle with your terrible tech-bro of a best friend, she called me an ‘overrated bitch’ when we were in line at—”
I end the message, unable to listen anymore. Then I delete the other ones because I don’t have to hear them to know what they say.
Despite being ranked as the number one figure skater in the world, Penelope always hyper-focuses on her biggest opponent—whoever that may be—for a few weeks at a time. But for some strange reason, this “Tatiana Brave” woman is an entirely different story. She’s lived in Penelope’s head rent-free for almost a year, and I’ve given up on attempting to serve an eviction notice.
As annoying as her messages can be, a part of me is grateful that we’re not holding the phone in silence anymore. That neither of us is struggling to find the right words to fill the gaping hole our parents’ recent death has left.
Memories of their fiery car accident still fill my nightmares whenever I shut my eyes, and I can’t bring myself to forgive the drunk teenager who ravaged our lives in a split second.
There have been plenty of times when I’ve wanted to tell Penelope exactly why I had to leave her back home in Seattle so I could come here to pursue a career in fighting, but I can never bring myself to do that either.
If she knew how much debt our parents left behind or how close the mortgage company is to taking their—nowour—house, she’d probably hang up her skates and try to help me pay for things.
Then we’d both be forced to live a shitty existence…
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Open this door, Mr. Carter!” The motel manager is suddenly on the other side of my door. “I know you’re in there!”
I remain silent.
“Open upnow, or else!” He knocks again, but I stay still.
“I’ll be back for this week’s rent money on Sunday!” he yells. “If you don’t have it by then, you better be out of this fucking place!” His heavy footsteps trail down the concrete, and I let out a sigh.
Pulling out my wallet, I count all the money I have: One hundred eighty dollars and fifty-eight cents.
That’s barely enough to cover the cost of this poor excuse of a room, let alone gas and food. To make matters worse, I promised to buy Penelope a new thousand-dollar costume next month.
Fuck…
In desperate need of fresh air, I grab my gym bag and step outside. In the distance, a billboard boasts, “Multi-SportsPlex. Open twenty-four hours.”
I head down the street and take out my cell phone, calling the same number I dial like clockwork once a week. It’s a secret call that makes me feel like I’m doing something extra to help Penelope besides sending money and playing guardian from afar.
It rings once.
It rings twice.
“You’ve reached Tatiana Brave,” a soft voice says. “I’m unable to take your call at the moment, so please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”
Beep!
