Chapter Text
“Yulya! Are we still on for Saturday?” Anna rolls over on her bed, phone pressed to her ear. She glances at the clock; it’s almost time for gymnastics.
“Unless something’s come up on your end,” Yulia’s voice crackles through the speakers, lower than Anna is used to. Yuri’s voice. They’re in a bit of an awkward stage at the moment, and it seems like he doesn’t know exactly how to act. Anna understands, but she still thinks that it’s kind of dumb. It’s not like anything has changed. It’s been two years since that night. Shouldn’t Yulia be over it by now?
“As long as I don’t make Mama angry, I should be fine.” Anna winces involuntarily and hopes that she hasn’t given anything away. Before Yulia can respond, Anna falls back on the old standby. “How’s your boyfriend?”
Yulia, predictably, takes the bait. “He’s not my boyfriend, you know that.”
Not for lack of trying on his part, Anna thinks, rolling her eyes. “You two are ridiculous. Just kiss already and be done with it. He’s in town for Victor’s birthday, so make the most of it.”
“N-No! That would make things weird, are you crazy?” Yulia stutters as if it’s the first time Anna has said this to him. It definitely isn’t, and she doubts that it will be the last.
“If you say so. By the way, I want a new dress on Saturday, and you’re buying, Mister Gold-Medalist-Millionaire.” Anna hears the front door open and close, and realizes that she’s going to have to wrap this up. She may have her own phone now, but Mama likes to make any excuse to take it from her if she thinks that Anna is talking to Yulia too much. “Hey, I’ve gotta go.”
“I’m paying for the whole day, aren’t I?” Yulia scoffs. “Have fun at gymnastics.”
Anna has to hold back a snort. As if. “You’re funny. Talk to you soon, Yulya.”
The clock reads 5:30. Anna sighs, puts her phone down, and sits up. Her leotard lays next to her, shimmering in pink and purple. She doesn’t want to wear it. Gymnastics is boring, and the girls there are obnoxious. Not to mention Mama’s obsession with being at every practice, which has ostracized Anna from the other girls. It would be fine, she thinks, if Mama was there for her. But she’s really just there to monitor Anna and make sure that she’s acting in “a manner appropriate for a young girl who has her whole life ahead of her.”
It had taken years for Anna to hear the slight emphasis on certain words, but when she had, the reason for it was obvious. Mama doesn’t have to worry so much, though; Anna is perfectly fine with being a girl. All these extra assurances like etiquette classes and gymnastics and Bible study and cooking classes aren’t necessary. Not that Mama listens when Anna or Grandpa tell her that. Papa, for his part, quietly goes along with it, as usual.
Anna suspects that, though Papa wants the same thing as Mama, he also just doesn’t care that much. He’s never cared about anything much.
“Anna, are you dressed?” Mama pokes her head in. When she sees Anna lying in bed, she looks irritated, as if this is an uncommon occurrence. “Quickly, quickly. We have to be at the studio in fifteen minutes. Come on.”
The leotard mocks her, obnoxious and brightly colored. Still, it’s not worth fighting about; if Anna doesn’t comply with Mama, she won’t be able to see her brother this weekend. She pulls on the leotard, then her jacket and a pair of sweats. Mama ties her hair back into a perfect bun that pulls harshly on Anna’s scalp. Don’t show her that it hurts, Anna thinks, schooling her features into blankness. Show her that I can be a good girl, that I like having my hair done. Every little bit helps, even if she probably won’t ever actually stop. Better to make her happy than to make her angry.
Anna hates gymnastics practice on a good day, but even more so now that she’s working with the rings. They hurt her hands and her joints, and for some reason she can’t seem to stick her landings. So not only do her ankles hurt, but she has to keep doing drills to perfect her landings. It doesn’t help that she has weak ankles; she’s never been able to properly stick her landings without hurting herself in some form or fashion.
By the end of practice, she’s achy and sore, and her hands are decidedly more red than they were from the beginning. Mama fixes her hair and has her change in the bathroom before they leave for etiquette class. It’s better than gymnastics, but only because it’s boring. Plus, even if the portion sizes are tiny and every bite is a test of manners, she gets food out of it.
Her phone buzzes quietly during class and she excuses herself with exactly the phrase they want to hear in exactly the way they want to hear it. It’s no secret, what Anna is doing, but she’s the golden child in everything she does; she can get away with anything if Mama isn’t watching.
VN-K: are you excited for this weekend, nyura?
AP: More than. I haven’t seen Yuri in a month, and Beka is coming too!
VN-K: really? didn’t hear about that part. have they figured themselves out yet?
AP: NO AND IT’S BOTHERING ME.
AP: I’ll text you later, Vitya. I have to get back to class.
VN-K: whenever you can. don't get in trouble or do anything to make your mother dislike me. yuuri says hi
AP: Hi, Yuuri.
Anna turns off the phone and tucks it back in her purse. She deliberately hasn't said much about her mother to Victor over the years, because she's always had the feeling that he knows more than he lets on.
They're doing posture exercises when she comes back. She sighs and joins them, readying herself for a few more hours of irritation.
~oOo~
She never does get back to Victor. By the time class is over, she’s ready to fall over from exhaustion and boredom. Gymnastics may be physically hard, but etiquette is mentally taxing. It’s almost like the teacher can read minds; she knows the instant any student is not entirely focused.
The heat blasts through the car vents to counter the chill from the snow. Mama doesn’t talk much, as per usual, and Anna looks longingly at a McDonald’s that they pass on the way home. She makes Yulia take her there when they go out, because her diet is so restricted, but she wouldn’t even think about trying to get Mama to stop there.
“You’ve already eaten,” she said, the one time Anna did ask. “You had dinner at your class, and you had a larger lunch because of gymnastics. You’re so pretty, Anna. You don’t want to get fat, do you?”
Anna just looked out the window, like she is now. “No, Mama,” she’d said obediently.
They pull into the driveway around nine, and Anna wishes that she could have fallen asleep in the car. Then, at least, she would be able to claim exhaustion and go to bed early.
“Anna, get the mail, please.” Mama says curtly, already headed inside.
“Yes, Mama.” Anna is glad that she at least brought her snow boots and a jacket. Her legs are a bit cold, but at least the rest of her should be okay. The mailbox has a tendency to stick, so she could be out here for a few minutes.
She wrestles with the door of the mailbox, using the sleeves of her jacket to protect her fingers from the cold metal. With some work, she’s able to break the ice sealing it shut. Her breath is coming out in huffs, and her fingers are red, despite her efforts to keep them warm. She cups her hands to her face and breathes a little warmth into them before grabbing the small pile of mail.
There isn’t much that was worth all that effort, she realizes, flipping through envelopes on her way to the door. Mostly bills and junk mail… Wait, what’s that?
An oddly shaped sticky note falls off of one of the envelopes. It’s shaped like a cat. Anna picks it up before it can get too wet from the snow, and recognizes her brother’s handwriting. Father wasn’t answering the door, so I left it in the mailbox.
That’s odd. Yulia never drops by the house; he hates their parents. The envelope is plainly named, with no return address. The Plisetskys. But, for some reason, it’s sealed.
Well, it’s addressed to all of us, Anna thinks, as she opens the front door. Papa is nowhere to be seen, so he’s probably in the back, watching television. Mama is in the kitchen, making herself something to eat. Anna’s stomach growls, but she ignores it.
There’s a letter opener in the office, she knows. She leaves the rest of the mail on the table in the front room. Her fingers hurt a bit from the cold of outside, but they seem to be warmed up enough that she can open the letter without shaking too much and hurting herself. The tearing of the paper seems louder than it should, as if she shouldn’t be opening it. But that’s crazy, since it was addressed to all of them and Yulia never sends them anything. It must be important.
Except that, when it’s open, all that falls out are several small, rectangular pieces of paper with watermarks. Checks. There’s one addressed to her school, one for her gymnastics studio, for her etiquette class, for art, for her dietician, for everything that Anna is forced to do for Mama’s image of the perfect daughter.
Anna drops them onto the desk in shock. She doesn’t know if she’s angry or sad, but she knows one thing. She feels betrayed.
Her hands aren’t just shaking from cold anymore, but she manages to snap a decent picture of the mess of checks on the desk and send it to Yulia.
AP: What the hell is this
It’s several minutes before she gets a response, and when she does, it’s not anything like she was expecting.
YP: It has nothing to do with you, Anna. Don’t worry about it.
Yulia never texts with perfect grammar or her normal name unless he’s panicking, which clues Anna into the fact that this was something that she was never going to know about. All that does is infuriate her.
AP: Yuri Mikhailovich Plisetsky. What the hell is this and why do all of these have YOUR signature on them?
Maybe she’s being too hard on him. Maybe there’s something that she doesn’t know. But that’s the point. The fact that she didn’t know about this makes it even worse. Yulia knows how much she hates these classes, how much she wishes she was just a normal almost-thirteen year old girl. Why would he, of all people, be contributing to her misery?
Anna almost wants to demand the same things of her mother, but when she thinks of the freezing look that she would get in return, she hesitates. I’ve never been able to stand up to Mama before. What’s so different now? I’m angry with her, but I’m always angry with her. If I bring up Yulia and start accusing her of things, something tells me that I’m going to regret it.
She gathers the checks silently and puts them back in the envelope. Mama probably won’t even care that Anna knows. If anything, she’s going to be glad that something has finally made Anna angry with Yulia. The thought makes Anna sick.
There’s no response from Yulia for the rest of the night. Anna wants to cry; he’s never ignored her before. Even during his practices, she only has to wait an hour for a response at most.
She goes to bed feeling less hungry and more miserable than she had been before. When she wake up, her eyes hurt and her pillow is wet. She checks the time. 6:18 am. There’s a text from Otabek, too, which is unusual.
OA: I’m taking you to breakfast. Your mother already said it was okay. I’ll see you around seven.
She wipes her tears. She’s surprised, but not really excited. She hasn’t seen Beka in a while, so this would be fun on any other day. Right now, though, she just wants to stay in bed. In the back of her mind, she can almost hear Mama scolding her about how rude that would be. Anna sighs, sits up, and starts getting dressed.
It’s going to be a long day.