Only this time, I can hear them. Unlike the old Daria, I stop and think if I should. If they’d want me to. I stand and—I don’t know with what strength—begin to make my way back into my living room when I hear that the conversation is about me.

“You’re going to throw away everything, Penn? Really? We had a deal. You said if I gave her the journal, you’d pretend to still be in the game for this. Still make an effort in this thing called life. Well, she got the journal, all right? Move the hell on. Apply yourself and fulfill your part of the deal.”

“I’m not enrolling. I want to go find her,” Penn says dryly. “And we can do it the hard, roundabout, not-gonna-talk-to-each-other-again way, or my way, in which you leave me the fuck alone. I said thank you. A thousand times. I’m not going to take a fucking scholarship and let this thing go away. It’s not going away. Trust me.”

My heart is in my throat. Penn is about to give up his scholarship to try to find me? That’s crazy talk. I pace on my balcony, just a few feet away from them, though they can’t see me from this sharp angle, and rub my face with my hands.

What to do? What to say?

“You will ruin your life for a girl who doesn’t want you anymore,” Dad says, and it’s like a shot in the back for me. Because I want him. I want Penn more than I want my next breath. I just don’t know if I’m good enough for him, and I can’t risk hurting him one more time. But it seems as if he’s already hurting just as much as I am.

Penn chuckles darkly. “Well, then. The only difference between you and me is that Melody said yes, and Daria is saying no. But you, Jaime, you did the same.”

I ask Melody to visit me that same weekend. She does in a heartbeat, not even waiting for Friday. By Thursday, when I get back from school, I find her in my kitchen, making my favorite chicken pot pie, designer bags spilling with clothes on the dining table. She put music on her phone, and it’s the favorite song “Maniac” from Flashdance. We used to dance to it like two loons when I was a kid.

When she sees me entering the room, she stops everything, straightens her spine, and wipes the last of the tomato sauce from her fingers onto her apron. I stand on the kitchen threshold, and for the first time in years, I see her for who she is.

A mother trying desperately to reconnect with her daughter but doesn’t know how to because they’ve both made so many mistakes.

I plaster my forehead to the doorframe, taking a deep breath.

“What’s wrong, Lovebug? Is everything okay?”

No. It’s not. I’ve hurt her so much over the years, not communicating the frustration, fear, and jealousy I’d felt, and now we are like two strangers playing house. I walk into the kitchen and stand in front of her, dropping my backpack to the floor, just like I did that day in the studio when Via walked in and stole my thunder.

This time, Melody is not looking for anyone else.

She sees me.

“Our parents mold us into shapes,” I start, trailing the granite counter with my fingers. “You, Melody, lost interest in me halfway through and moved on to another project. To a piece of art with the potential to be flawless. Her name was Via, and even though I’ve always been jealous of people for various things, my jealousy toward Sylvia Scully consumed me. Want to know why, Mel? You looked at her like I wished you’d look at me. Like she was already a fully formed, perfect piece of work while I was barely even a canvas stretched on a wooden frame. I didn’t see the whole picture. I didn’t know where her fancy clothes came from. I didn’t know why you let her get away with it on the days she didn’t have proper clothing on while you berated all of us for less. I didn’t know why you bought her favorite energy bars for her, or why you took her for a week in London, or why it was so important to you that she be there for every class.”

Tears appear in her eyes, and they are like a mirror to what’s going on inside her head. I see now, with a clarity I’ve never had before, the Melody Followhill that I wished to meet my entire childhood. The one who is not only an accomplished ballerina, an amazing teacher, and the talk of the town, but a simple girl—maybe even like me—struggling to do the right thing by her family.

“When Via disappeared and I knew it was my fault, I didn’t even think I deserved your love anymore. You gave it, anyway, though sparsely. We grew apart, farther and farther, maybe a couple of inches each year, until the first semester of senior year. I felt like you were doing things to purposely hurt me. To taunt me about how bad I was.”

Melody shakes her head, pressing her fingertips to her mouth. “Never. I was frustrated and hurt and didn’t know how to reach out to you. I kept waiting for you to snap out of it. One minute, I was trying to talk to you being all submissive and fearful of my own daughter, and the next, I’d get angry and frustrated with you, losing my cool. At some point, when I recognized I became so bad at it, I simply let you be. And when that happened, I watched your relationship with your father, and as much as I love my husband with my entire heart, I finally realized what it felt like to be you. Because not only was I jealous, Lovebug, I was absolutely livid.

“I never loved Via more than you. You were always my strongest, most natural love. But Sylvia needed help. She was poor, and abused, and neglected, and there was nothing I could do because I knew if I stepped in, things could get a lot worse for her. All I could do was help her by buying her gear, providing her with meals and support, and trying to enroll her in the Royal Ballet Academy. I cut her slack not because I was enchanted with her antics—but because someone needed to. I took Penn and Via in without consulting you girls, and that was my biggest mistake yet. I was so focused on trying to atone for letting Via down when she disappeared, I hardly noticed I was stomping all over my own daughter. I’m so sorry you walked around feeling unworthy because of me. It’s always been so hard for me to express my feelings, and I think this is something you inherited from me. I taught you how to act tough, assuming that you are. You became so good at the game, I bought it.”

I laugh through my own tears, shaking my head and wiping them. “You really wanted me to stop trying to be a ballerina.” I sigh.

“Only because I didn’t want you to feel the same pressure I had when I was a pre-teen. You were always a natural.”

“Liar.” I snort, rolling my eyes, which only prompts more tears to fall.

She shakes her head and laughs, the sound bursting from her chest in relief. “Oh, Marx, are you kidding me? You were always so amazing. I watched as you became more and more insecure as time passed, and I had no idea it was about me or Via. I thought you were just tired and bored.”

“Tired and bored!” I screech. “Mom, I tried so freaking hard!”

We stop laughing. And crying. And breathing. Mel’s eyes widen, and we both look at each other with amusement laced with shock. And gratitude. So much gratitude.

“You called me Mom.”

“I did.” I choke on the words. “I did. You are. You are my mom.”

We meet halfway for a hug that squeezes out all the toxic hatred, frustration, misunderstandings, and miscommunication. The more time I spend in my mother’s arms, the deeper I can breathe. We stand like this in the kitchen for twenty or maybe thirty minutes. Until my legs and arms hurt from standing like this, hugging in a weird position for a long time.