Chapter 6

"Do you always do that?" I asked suddenly.

"Do what?" Andrea looked at me.

I said, "Act like you're fine even when it clearly hurts."

Her smile froze. The ice pack crinkled softly in her hand.

After a long pause, she said quietly, "Got used to it."

Four words. But they hit me hard.

I stood up. "We'll practice tomorrow. If you hurt yourself again, you won't be able to compete."

Andrea stared at me like I'd said something wild.

Only then did I realize it was the first time I hadn't thrown shade at her.

"Thanks," she murmured. Her eyes sparkled.

I turned and left, my heart pounding so loud it felt like the whole empty hallway could hear it.

Over the next two weeks, I sneaked into the dance room after school every day to practice.

Sometimes I'd "run into" Andrea. But we kept our distance, each claiming our own corner.

Her progress was slow. But it was progress. At least she'd stopped falling over.

The night before the performance, I practiced late.

Moonlight streamed through the window, turning the wood floor silver.

I was so tired I collapsed on the floor, gasping.

My phone buzzed. A text from Andrea: [Good luck tomorrow. Got your outfit ready?]

I stared at the screen for a long time before replying: [Yeah.]

That was a lie. I didn't have anything ready.

I planned to just wear my school uniform. Hip-hop didn't need anything fancy anyway.

On the day of the competition, the auditorium was packed.

Backstage in the dressing room, I met the rest of our hip-hop group—two seniors and Andrea.

The seniors were dressed in cool black cargos and crop tops, helping each other put on eyeliner.

Andrea wore a sparkly silver outfit, shining under the lights.

And I stood there in a faded school uniform, looking like I wandered into the wrong event.

"Claire." one of the seniors raised an eyebrow. "You're wearing that?"

I kept a straight face. "Is that a problem?"

Andrea suddenly walked over with a paper bag. "I brought an extra outfit. Want to try it?"

Inside was a pair of red athletic shorts and a black tank top, brand-new, tags still on.

I looked up at her. "Why are you helping me?"

Andrea's eyes glowed amber under the stage lights. "Because," she hesitated. "I want to see what you're really capable of."

I took the clothes and walked into the dressing room.

The red shorts fit perfectly. The tank top was a little big, but way better than the school uniform.

I turned in front of the mirror. That's when I noticed the label sewn inside the tank top: CG. My initials.

She had this made for me? No time to think. The staff were already calling for our group.

We were fifth in the lineup. Andrea had already performed her solo—Chopin's "Revolutionary Etude."

Technically flawless, full of emotion, and met with thunderous applause.

"Hip-hop group, get ready!" someone shouted.

My stomach twisted.

Right before going on stage, Andrea grabbed my hand. "Don't be nervous. You're amazing."

Her palm was cold and clammy, trembling slightly.

So the perfect heirness got nervous too? Weirdly, that calmed me down.

The music started. We stepped onto the stage.

The spotlight was so hot it felt like it was cooking me alive. I heard catcalls and cheers from the crowd.

As soon as the intro ended, we launched into the routine.

Two weeks of practice exploded at that moment.

My body remembered every move—spins, jumps, waves—all in sync.

The noise from the audience faded away. It was just the beat and my heartbeat.

Right in the middle of a spin, I heard a loud rip—my tank top had split at the side!

The mic picked it up. And the audience burst into laughter.

I froze, my face burning.

At that moment, Andrea slid in beside me, right on beat, grabbed my hand, and used a slick move to cover the tear like it was part of the choreography.

It looked flawless. Like we'd planned it.

I spun and matched her movement. We ended back-to-back.

Then the laughter turned into cheers.

The music ended. We hit our final pose. The auditorium erupted.

"That was incredible." The host came on stage. "Especially that impromptu save."

I glanced at Andrea. Her forehead was drenched in sweat, but her eyes sparkled.

We smiled at each other—for the first time, there was no trace of tension between us.

During scoring, we got second place, just behind the senior girl group.

The judges gave a special shoutout to "that brilliant spontaneous coordination."

Afterward, Andrea was surrounded by classmates congratulating her.

I stood at the edge of the crowd, watching her smile gracefully at everyone. Somehow, that perfect image didn't bother me anymore.

"Claire." I turned—it was Serena. "Didn't expect you to be so good at hip-hop."

I shrugged. "Thank you, but I just messed around."

"You and Andrea had great chemistry." Serena gave me a look. "Seems like you two sisters are getting along?"

Sisters? I looked across the crowd. Andrea met my gaze and winked.

That tiny gesture stirred something strange in my chest—like something was quietly melting.

"Guess so," I said softly. Not sure if I hated being called that anymore.

At home, Jerry actually praised us. "Heard you two were great today."

Andrea smiled and nodded. I kept my head down, stuffing my face, ears burning.

Una each handed us a rib. "Andrea, your piano competition's next week, right?"

"Yeah," Andrea said quietly. "But it's just a qualifier. Not a big deal."

I looked up. "The one you've been practicing six hours a day for?"

Regretted it the moment I said it.

The table went silent. My parents stared at me. Andrea froze, fork mid-air.

"You two practiced together?" Jerry asked cautiously.

"No!" I blurted. "I just… saw her at school sometimes."

Andrea smiled faintly. "Claire helped me a bit with the dancing."

She was covering for me? I glanced at her, confused.

But Andrea just kept eating, her lashes casting delicate shadows under the lights.

That night, I tossed and turned in bed.

My phone lit up. A message from Andrea: [Thanks for today. The tank top's yours now.]

I stared at the screen, fingers hovering, then typed back: [Okay.]

Outside, a full moon hung high in the sky.

I thought about that moment on stage—Andrea's hand on my back, warm and steady. Like we really were partners, not rivals.

The thought made me roll over and bury my face in the pillow.

The talent competition was over. But something else—something a whole lot more complicated—was just beginning.