kajsa ㅇㅅㅇ

The door to the Lysenkos’ apartment swung open, Ana’s keys jangling in the lock.

She stumbled blearily inside, her dance bag slung over her shoulder and worn, faded pointe shoes hanging from the opposite hand. She wrenched her keys out of the knob, then closed and deadbolted the door behind her, shuffling toward the fridge. After a brief tussle with its contents, Ana found a cup of instant noodles and stuffed it in the microwave. She reached up, wrestling her hair out of its hairspray-caked bun as her bag hit the floor. The blonde strands fell down over her arms, stiff and dry. She let her slippers fall to the ground, too, so she could massage her aching scalp as she watched the cup of noodles spin around inside the little humming appliance. 

The turntable reminded her of her turnboard, which reminded her that she had to practice her fouettés. 

Just add it to the list.

Her eyes drooped, burning, as if in protest. She leaned her forehead against the warm microwave glass, letting her eyes close for just a moment.

It was late. Class had ended at eight, but she’d stayed at the studio until it closed at half past eleven. 

Ana had always been competitive, and now that she’d lost two years’ worth of in-person classes to the pandemic, and she’d lost touch with Nataliya and most of her other friends, she was all alone and had nothing left to lose. 

The world said the past two years had broken it and everyone who’d suffered from the virus. But Ana didn’t feel broken. She felt… invigorated. She was always up for a good challenge. 

She’d prove them wrong. She’d show them just how strong Anastasia Lysenko was.

Prima ballerina.

But for now, all she wanted was a warm dinner and a good night’s sleep.

The microwave beeped, and Ana jerked upright, then took the cup of noodles off its turntable. She grabbed a fork, stumbled over to the couch, then collapsed, pulling off her sneakers and socks with a groan. Her feet hurt like the devil, and they looked like the devil, too–blistered and calloused and bleeding. 

She’d have to replace at least six of her bandaids. 

Ana stirred the noodles around while she leaned back into the fluffy couch cushions and turned on the TV, navigating to an international news channel, curious as to the latest of her country’s political turmoil.  

She alternated bites of noodles with massaging her aching feet while the TV played. One of the anchors, an American woman with sharp features and brown hair, was describing the rising tensions between Russia and Ukraine, as well as the encroachments of Ukraine’s borders. She was speaking English, so Ana had the Ukrainian subtitles turned on so she could understand. 

Ana crammed another bite of noodles into her mouth. She didn’t think the tensions would amount to much. Sure, it was good to be careful, but this had happened before. And besides, who declared war in the middle of February?

Idiots, that was who.

She leaned back and scarfed down more of the scalding food, skimming the jittering subtitles through half-closed eyes. The words felt like daggers in her brain, though, and she found herself studying the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows set behind the TV instead. It was so bright, even at night. She wondered vaguely what it would look like if all the lights in the city just… turned off. Stopped working.

Would they be able to see the stars? Would they reflect off the buildings?

The door to her parents’ bedroom cracked open to the left, and her mother’s old face peeked into the TV-lit living room. “Anastasia?”

“Hi, Mati.”

Her mother, Irina, smiled, weathered skin creasing as she did. She stepped out into the room and pulled her robe tighter around herself.

“It’s late.” She sat on the ottoman where Ana was resting her feet and grabbed them, peeling off the loose bandaids. 

Ana winced, then relaxed, sinking into the couch as Irina’s fingers worked the knotted muscles in her sore feet. “I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t be, милий. You’re working very hard.”

Ana flushed. That was true.

“But maybe it’s time to take a break. I don’t want you overworking yourself.”

“I will, Mati. Thanks.”

“Of course, my love.”

A comfortable silence fell over the two women as Ana slurped her noodles, Irina worked on her daughter’s muscles, and the news anchor droned on in the background. 

“...reports of military activity near Belarus, advancing toward Kyiv in what seems like a potential attack.”

Irina stood and made her way to the kitchen, digging around in the cupboards under the sink. Another bedroom door opened, and a small boy poked his blonde head out, rubbing his eyes. 

“Ani?” He stumbled out into the living room, dragging his small grey blanket in one hand and his stuffed dinosaur in the other.

“Pav? What are you doing up? It’s late.”

He climbed up onto his sister’s lap, almost spilling her noodles. Ana set them aside on the coffee table and wrapped her arms around the little boy.

“I was waiting for you to come home,” he told her softly, yawning against her chest. “So was Rory.” He made the red, stuffed stegosaurus nuzzle her cheek. It tickled. 

“Well, I’m home now,” Ana whispered, giggling. She smoothed his sandy hair. 

He was quiet for a while before he spoke up, wrapping his arms around Rory. “What’re you watching?”

“The news.”

“What are they saying?”

“They’re saying it’s time for you to go to sleep.” Ana draped his blanket around his shoulders. 

Pavlo giggled, tangling his plump fingers in the ends of her blonde hair. Another silence settled over them as Irina returned with a plastic case of bandaids, opened it, and drew out a few of the adhesive bandages. 

“Are they talking about that Putin guy again?” Pav’s pale, blue-grey eyes met hers, and when she didn’t respond, his attention wandered instinctively to his mother. 

“Yes,” Irina said softly as she peeled the backing off one of the bandaids and placed it over one of Anastasia’s blisters. She understood far more English than either of her children did, and she’d been listening to the TV.

“Are they gonna attack us?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“Are we gonna be okay?”

“Yes.” She gave a reassuring smile, but it faltered when she met Ana’s gaze. Ana looked quickly away, pretending not to have seen. 

Pavlo fell quiet again, and Ana squeezed him. 

“Everything’s gonna be just fine,” she whispered against his cheek. He smiled brightly back at her, but it was quickly broken by a yawn.

“Go to sleep,” she whispered, and soon, his breathing shifted as a dream carried him under. Irina packaged the bandaids back up into their little container and went to put them back under the kitchen sink as Ana got a better hold on her little brother and stood. She carried him over to his bed in their shared room and tucked him in. She kissed his forehead and pulled the blankets up to his chin, then made sure his night light was on and the curtains were closed before she crept back out and closed the door behind her. 

She plopped back down onto the couch by her mother and grabbed what was left of her dinner. 

Irina wrapped a delicate, bony arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “You work so hard, Сонечко.” 

“So do you, Mati. And so does Tato.”

Irina pressed a kiss to Ana’s head, then smoothed her hair. “I’m getting too old to stay up late. I’m turning in. Get some sleep, love.”

“I will. …Mati?”

She paused. “Yes, Ana?”

Anastasia set her nearly empty noodle cup aside again and swallowed. “What if… I can’t do it?”

Irina took her daughter’s hand, scooting toward the edge of the sofa so she could face her daughter. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“I’m sure that’s what everyone else’s moms tell them too,” she whispered. “But there can only be one of us in the end. And I’ve only got one shot.”

“Well, Сонечко, you know what? They’ve only got one shot, too. You have what it takes. You have a fire and a passion inside you that burns brighter than I’ve seen in a long, long time, Anastasia. You do more on the stage than move through the steps and look pretty; you tell a story with every extension and every movement. All you have to do now is prove to them that you can do it. You’ve put in the work. All that’s left to do is convince them. Your studio would be nothing short of lucky to have you as prima ballerina.”

Ana swallowed back a lump in her throat and nodded. “Thank you, Mati,” she whispered, throat tight.

Irina smiled and cupped her daughter’s face. “You’re welcome, my girl. Remember. You are more than the dancer.”

“I’m more than the dancer,” she whispered.

Irina nodded, then kissed Ana’s forehead, stood, and pulled her daughter up, too. “You need to get some sleep, my love.” 

Ana smiled. “Goodnight, Mati.”

“Goodnight, Ana. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Irina disappeared into her room, and Ana stood alone in the living room. 

‘Your studio would be nothing short of lucky.’

Bubbles formed in her stomach, threatening to overflow. Her mother was right. All she had to do now was prove it. 

She grabbed the remote and turned off the television, scarfed down the rest of her noodles, and threw the cup in the trash. She grabbed her ballet bag and pointe shoes from the kitchen, took one last look at the skyline, then slipped into hers and Pav’s bedroom. 

The door closed softly behind her.