KAYLA
Kayla Harris, a dark girl with yaki hair, plucks a book from a case. A thirteen-star symbol designs the black book, pure white—a witchcraft grimoire titled Spell Benders: Runes and Incantations. Kay observes the hardcover, trailing her finger across the star. My mom is one weird collector. I never asked why she has these. I guess because I’ve seen them all my life. They’re so familiar… yet I don’t understand why we have them.
Kay looks over the bookcase enclosed in the wall. The shelves are full of hardcovers; the only difference is the year editions. The oldest one dates to 400 B.C. The latest stops in the year 1931. They are sixty in total.
I never asked what this literature means. I assume that my mom is superstitious. Kay slips the grimoire back into its slot on the case. Anyway, where’s that Chanel perfume? That’s why I’m snooping in Mom’s room. She maneuvers through a pale pink bedroom. Its walls are paneled and trimmed gold. The floor holds a fluffy, thick carpet. Kay goes to a vanity table with a heart-shaped mirror. It’s full of makeup, perfume, and lipstick.
All accessories are in a sorter, organized into categories. Kay leans to pick a fragrance from the back row—a bulky glass bottle full of gold liquid: Coco Eau De Parfum. Chanel Paris. She pops off the diamond cap and squirts her neck. The citrus blossom scent is dreamy.
She sniffs the air. “Ahh!” She spritzes her hair, which drops past her shoulders. The ends are curled, and the color is black as night. She returns the fancy bottle to its spot and treks from the room, her curls bouncing above her shoulders.
Kay passes a massive bed cluttered with pillows. Wedding pictures frame each nightstand. Her mom glows in a white gown, and her dad is tall and handsome in a classic suit. Kayla grins at the candid photos on her way out.
The hallway is grand, just as the bedroom, only it bears crown molding. Many doors line the corridor; labeled as if in a hotel. Plaques caption the doors: Bathroom, Powder Room, Office, Guest Room, Kayla’s Bedroom. She nears the end of the hall to the living room.
Luxurious wall-length windows view the city of downtown Chicago. The ceilings are high and beamed. Off to the side, a spiral glass staircase leads to a second level. Her feet tap up the stairs to a rustic art studio caged in by windows. Easels hold sketches of ballerinas. Kay goes to retrieve a purple bookbag beside one. As she bends to get it, she eyes a sketch.
A figure posed like a teapot, wearing a cream leotard and tutu—just like Kay. She picks up a pencil from the easel tray and streaks it down from the hips of the dancer, drawing lines for legs and feet. I have a solo audition coming up. I need to complete my sequence. She lifts the large paper to view the drawings underneath.
Kay swipes through the many illustrations. Each of the models display different ballet positions—waltz, pirouette, plié, twirl, wide lunge, fouettés, arabesque, assemblé, attitude, and penché. Hmm, that’s less than a minute. I need more than that if I want to dominate tryouts. My instructor will expect a show-stopping performance. I’ll have to work on choreography.
She arches the ends of the tutu, then drops the pencil. She returns downstairs and heads to an industrial elevator. Kay quickly checks herself out in a mirror, running her hands down the leotard. Okay… I look fine enough. She leaves the sunny penthouse.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3x5jSH1VWv
