Freaky Friday meets The Parent Trap in this sparkling and heartfelt story about sisters, second chances, finding romance, and finding yourself.
Jamie’s an aspiring standup comic in Los Angeles with a growing case of stage anxiety.
Siri’s a stunning ballerina from New Jersey nursing a career-changing injury.
They’ve both signed up for the same session at an off the grid Re-Discover Yourself Retreat in Colorado. When they run into each other, their worlds turn upside down.
Jamie and Siri are sisters, torn apart at a young age by their parent's volatile divorce. They’ve grown up living completely separate lives: Jamie with their Dad and Siri with their Mom. Now, reunited after over a decade apart, they hatch a plot to switch places. It’s time they get to know and confront each of their estranged parents.
With an accidental assist from some fortuitous magic, Jamie arrives in New Jersey, looking to all the world like Siri, and Siri steps off her flight sporting a Jamie glamour.
The sisters unexpectedly find themselves stuck living in each other's shoes. Soon Siri's crushing on Jamie's best friend Dawn. Jamie's falling for the handsome New Yorker she keeps running into, Zarar. Alongside a parade of hijinks and budding romance, both girls work to navigate their broken family life and the stresses of impending adulthood.
Release date:
June 1, 2021
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
400
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Mom and I aren't pause people. We're a 1.5-speed household on our least productive day. We're always moving.
Productivity is an itch, one that most likely stems from Mom and her fervor for the keys to success. She doesn't reference them in our current day-to-day, but she spouted them incessantly through my preteen years. The keys to success include but are not limited to: goal setting, passion, preparation, discipline, perseverance, and luck. I've taken them all to heart. Preparation is my favorite key. The rest are fine. They're respectable, but preparation soothes my soul. If you don't regularly prepare to utilize your time efficiently, your goals just get further and further away.
I've been preparing for a ballet career my entire life. I'm always en route to the next practice, getting ready for the next performance, training harder, honing my craft. I crave the chasse prep before a leap. I like to be over the floor, not on it. I live for moments of perfect weightlessness-where I'm propelled into flight by nothing but my own strength and will.
I've spent the last twelve weeks shackled by gravity. This injury has been an unexpected hiccup. But it's a hiccup that's almost over.
I'm restless as the doctor brings us into his office. I stare at a small clock set in a marbled piece of stone on the man's desk and try not to squirm in his burgundy fabric-covered chairs. It's slightly painful to squirm.
I've written down all the questions I have for him. There's only one that really matters: When can I get back to work? I need to unpause.
Ballet and I have been in a committed relationship since I could speak in full sentences. She's been my rock for as long as I can remember. We've never spent this much time apart. I'm tired of abstract healing timelines. I need an exact back-to-dance date I can circle on the calendar. I'm counting on it.
Mom sits in the chair next to me with her hands folded carefully over her crossed legs. Watching her continue to run on 1.5 speed while I've been stuck on pause has made this experience exponentially more frustrating.
We've been at this appointment for an hour now. The doctor ran me through a bunch of tedious movement tests. Bend over, stand up, walk this way, move like that. He asked fifty questions about my daily pain levels. He's examined the MRI. But he hasn't shared anything of substance throughout the entirety of the checkup!
I tap my foot against the chair leg as he slowly shuffles through the paperwork on his desk. This suspense is unbearable.
"So when can I get back to work?" I finally blurt.
He takes a breath. "You're still sleeping on the floor, correct?"
I swallow. "I mean, yes, but it's helping. I'm healing. It's not as bad. I can sleep now. The whole night. I've been sleeping without interruption for at least a week."
He breaks eye contact. Clears his throat. Scratches his balding head. Folds his hands together.
My heartbeat ticks up. Longer? How much longer?
"I'm very sorry, Miss Maza. I thought this was clear after our initial appointment. There's no going back to your previous lifestyle with this injury."
I scoff, pulling on my first smile of the last ninety-three days. "What? No, I'm healing. Of course I'm going back."
We sit in silence for ten seconds before he speaks again. "Back injuries are tricky. Something like this doesn't ever really fully heal. You're probably going to have to deal with chronic back pain for the rest of your life. What we can do is manage it with the right sort of physical therapy, yoga."
I shake my head. This is laughable. He's delusional. This doctor is wrong. So wrong. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know how I'm healing.
I interrupt him. "No. No. I'm going to heal. I'm young, I'm only eighteen!"
He shakes head slowly. "I know this is a big life change for you. Lots of my patients find that swimming is a great replacement sport that won't put such intense pressure on your injury. I'd recommend giving it a try. Going back to ballet is going to make this worse. You could lose feeling in your f-"
"No." I'm still shaking my head. Life change? Swimming? I throw up my hands for him to stop because he doesn't know.
He's still talking. Intercourse this. He can't tell me no. He doesn't understand that I can't quit. I can't. This isn't a big life change-this is my life.
My mother is saying thank you and goodbye. She puts her arm around me, leads me out. I glare at her. Why isn't she saying anything to him? Why isn't she fighting this with me?
Tears start down my cheeks as we arrive at the passenger side of Mom's Toyota.
"You're going to be okay." We've been driving for five minutes and that's her opening line.
No. I'm not going to be okay. I have a fifteen-year plan. Prove myself. Join Mom on Broadway. We're going to be magnificent together. I've barely started! I've only performed in New York! I'm supposed to go everywhere! Work my way around the world and back!
Nothing is okay. This can't be a permanent hiatus. I don't do hiatuses in the first place! I'm consistent. I'm dedicated. I'm all the keys to success! I'm committed to all of them!
"Siri, it could be much worse, and I'm so grateful that for all intents and purposes, you're going to be fine."
That comment hurts more than I expect it to. I can't bring myself to be grateful. How can she say that? I can't break up with ballet! I'm not good enough at anything else.
My chest is convulsing. I'm trying to stay quiet, but I can't quite rein in the sound of my pent-up sobs.
"Siri, take a deep breath, get ahold of yourself."
Mom can't stand it when I get like this. Sensitive. I watch as her knuckles whiten against the steering wheel.
When I was a kid and emotions got the better of me, Mom would go out of her way to spend time together. We'd cook things. We'd watch one of the many dance shows cramming our DVR. Learn the routines together. I don't think she was ever comfortable with my tears, but at least she tried to make things better. Now she powers down.
We don't speak again until we're home.
"You're going to find a new dream," Mom says as she drops her purse on a chair. I still at the edge of the kitchen as she heads toward the stove. The celebratory back-to-dance-date-appointment cranberry granola bars I made earlier are sitting there mocking me now.
"What'd you make today?" Mom says as she pulls away the tinfoil over them.
Why isn't she more upset about this?
I fell in love with ballet watching Mom soar across stages on invisible wings, watching her spin for eternities. Like she was barely human. I don't know how many different times I've daydreamed about taking the stage with her. About the day she'd ask me to be in one of her shows. To even audition for one.
Copyright c 2021 by Christine Riccio
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