Swan Lake minutia dominates her speech. Never asks me about me. So I tell her Tchaikovsky was pure genius. But she goes on how she should have been chosen as Odette, not Liz. I set down the phone and twirl out the door to the mailbox. I pet a stray tabby and chat with a neighbor. I return with an envelope to commentary about her callused feet and crooked toes. I open my acceptance letter to Juilliard. I silently shriek. She tells me her tutu still fits, the one her mother made, not knowing my destiny because she won’t stop yakking.