Chapter 5

"Did you hear that the new heirness is entering the talent competition?"

"For real? What can she even do? She grew up in an orphanage—what talent could she possibly have? Begging?"

Outside the bathroom stall, their laughter stabbed into my ears like shards of glass.

I clenched my fists, nails digging deep into my palms. Only after their voices finally faded did I push open the door.

In the mirror above the sink, my face looked pale with a hint of green.

I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face. The talent competition—ever since Jerry brought it up last week, people haven't stopped talking about it.

Andrea's performing a solo piano piece, and everyone's expecting her to win again.

Me? I hadn't even filled out the signup sheet.

"Claire!" Ophelia's voice echoed from the hallway. "Ms. Miller's looking for you."

I wiped my face and followed her down the hall. Halfway there, she slowed down and glanced over at me. "You're really not joining the talent competition?"

I replied, "Why do you care?"

"Just curious." Ophelia shrugged. "Andrea's been winning competitions since elementary school. Last year, her Chopin etude had the judges on their feet."

Ophelia gave me a long, meaningful look. "No pressure, right?"

I stopped walking. "Tell Ms. Miller I'll be there in a minute."

Before she could answer, I turned and walked the other way.

A crowd had gathered in front of the bulletin board near the auditorium. The sign-up sheet for the talent show was posted right in the center.

I shoved my way in and yanked off a blank form.

"Whoa, the real daughter's signing up?" a guy let out a low whistle. "What's your act? Breaking bricks with your chest?"

I grabbed a pen and scrawled "Hip-Hop Dance" under 'Performance Type,' then signed my name.

I slapped the form down in front of the student collecting them. He jumped like I'd tossed a bomb.

"C-Claire," he stammered, pushing up his glasses. "There are already three people signed up for hip-hop… You'll probably have to form a group."

"Then we'll form a group." I scanned the list. The first name made my stomach twist—Andrea.

She signed up for two events? Piano solo and hip-hop?

"She's doing the group performance as the head of the Arts Club," the guy explained, like he could read my thoughts. "Every club has to put up one act."

I let out a short laugh. "Perfect."

Sunlight stabbed my eyes as I stepped out of the auditorium.

I pulled out my phone and searched for "beginner hip-hop dance tutorial."

The dancer on the screen moved like liquid. I tried mimicking a wave move and nearly pulled something in my back.

"That move will hurt if you get it wrong," Andrea said.

I spun around. Andrea was standing behind me, holding a stack of books in her arms.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across her face. Her lashes left soft lines on her cheeks.

"None of your business." I locked my phone. "What, spying on people is your new hobby?"

Andrea didn't respond. Instead, she handed me the book on top of her stack. She said, "This book just got returned to the library. Might come in handy if you're really entering."

There was a library tag on the cover, and the spine was worn from being checked out so many times.

I didn't take it, so Andrea set it down on the bench next to me and walked off.

Her posture was as straight as ever, but her steps were a little quicker than usual.

After school, I waited until everyone else had left before heading out of the classroom.

The talent competition was in a month, and I couldn't even nail the basics.

There were no dance teachers at the orphanage. Just an old DVD player. Sometimes we'd dance around to music, but that was nothing close to real hip-hop.

As I passed by the dance studio, music caught my ear.

The door was slightly ajar. I peeked through the crack—Andrea was inside, alone, practicing in front of the mirror.

Her moves were stiffer than the dancers I'd seen online, especially the body wave. She looked like a rebooting robot.

The music stopped. Andrea wiped sweat from her forehead and pulled out her phone.

She played a video—I recognized the dancer. One of the famous ones.

She replayed the same segment again and again, trying to copy the moves. Then she tripped over her own foot and fell hard to the ground.

"Ugh—" Andrea gasped and clutched her ankle.

I should've laughed. I should've walked away. Instead, I pushed the door open.

The door creaked. Andrea looked up in shock. Our eyes met.

"Do you… need help?" The words came out before I could stop them.

Andrea's eyes widened, like she couldn't believe what I'd said.

After a beat, she nodded. "I can't get this move right."

I walked over and took her phone.

The dancer on screen flowed from kneeling to standing in one seamless motion.

"You've got to push off your knees." I pointed at the screen, "Then use momentum to lift yourself—not brute force."

Andrea nodded seriously, tried a few more times. Still clumsy.

I stepped forward and grabbed her wrist. "Loosen up here during the spin, or else—"

Before I could finish, Andrea lost her balance again and dragged me down with her.

We landed in a tangled heap. Her hair brushed across my cheek, soft and faintly scented like shampoo.

"Sorry!" Andrea scrambled up, her face as red as a tomato.

Then I sat up. I found her right ankle was already swelling.

Andrea followed my gaze and let out a soft "Oh." "I think I twisted it."

There was a first-aid kit in the corner. I grabbed an ice pack and tossed it to her.

Andrea caught it, whispered thanks, and pressed it against her ankle.

Pain made her frown slightly, but she quickly smoothed it out—the same perfect smile I'd seen a hundred times.