Mrs. Tsai came prepared, because she reaches down into her bag and pulls out a folder. She places a few glossy sheets on the table, lays them out for everyone to see.

These are pamphlets, with professional photos of dancers as their backgrounds, done artistically, just like the photos the studio has hanging up on their walls. Girls in sparkling sequin costumes, makeup, floating across the stage with their arms outstretched. In one picture, a girl is photographed up close, her hands framing her face, her gaze turned skyward. Stars done in silver glitter trail from the corner of her eyes, and stars dangle from her fingers like constellations. The Sky Maidens, the caption beneath says. On another one, a girl floats downward from the ceiling, suspended by a thin wire. Red wispy gauze surrounds her like fire. In her hands she holds two white fans, one above her head, one at her hip. Her pose is strong, fierce, like these fans are capable of cutting you. She looks like a warrior out of some sort of wuxia epic. The type that Ma likes to watch with assassins and swordplay and tragic romances.

All the photographs are dazzling to the eye. Baba picks one up where a row of young girls stand, their graceful necks like swans, curved to one side. They all beam at the camera, like they’re ready to burst from being filled with happiness.

“This looks expensive,” Baba says, tone dismissive. “All the costumes, the time spent practicing.” He shakes his head slowly.

Tina looks up, mouth opening in an O, about to protest, but Mrs. Tsai places her hand on hers. Silencing her.

“We completely understand the worries that parents have about the time and monetary commitment of dance, and that’s why we have sponsors in the community who are eager to support the next generation,” she says, unfazed.

Mrs. Tsai raises her hand and begins ticking off points. “We also have a carpool list, parents who are willing to take dancers from Westview to Chinatown and then drop them off back home. We have fundraisers where you can contribute time to gain points to reduce some of the fees for the costumes or the recitals.”

“I don’t know….” Ma says, exchanging glances with Baba, more uncertain.

“Here is a list of our alumni, many of the names you may recognize from our community.” Mrs. Tsai pulls out even more pamphlets. This time of smiling young people, dressed in outfits related to their professions.

“We ensure our students are taken care of. We have many older dancers who are still local, who are attending UBC or Simon Fraser, and they are always willing to set up coffee meets to talk about university applications or career goals.” Mrs. Tsai pushes up her glasses, still smiling. It’s a practiced, well-rehearsed speech. I can see why she’s the director. She’s probably made this same pitch to hundreds of other families, convinced parents to let their children join the dance academy.

“Stanford?” Baba leans forward, one of the quotes catching his eye, interested now. Always tempted by the lure of prestigious universities or the Ivy League. That promising future.

“Yes, Stanford.” Mrs. Tsai has another list prepared, knowing her hooks are in now. “Stanford, Harvard. My daughter, Hope, she’s been at Yale now for two years, and I have it on very good authority that dance enriched her portfolio, made her stand out among the rest.” Ma’s eyes widen at this, even though I know she’s holding back, trying to appear like that doesn’t tempt her as much as it does.

“What do you think?” Baba mutters to Ma.

“One more thing that I need to mention before you make your decision.” Mrs. Tsai leans in and goes for the kill. “I talked about scholarships before. We have one that is sponsored by the Formosa Friendship Association that is specifically for Taiwanese Canadian dancers. I think Tina would be perfect for this, and I’d like to put her name—”

There’s a clatter. I dropped my fork on the table. Having automatically reacted to the mention of that association again.

“Sorry,” I whisper when their eyes all turn to me.

Mrs. Tsai switches to Mandarin then; some of the phrases are familiar to me, while others go by too quickly for me to track. But Ma nods, seemingly in agreement, then chuckles at the next thing Mrs. Tsai says. They’re catching up, sharing information about the few friends they have in common. Vancouver is a big place, but the Taiwanese community is small, and though we’ve never been officially part of those groups, my parents’ social circles definitely overlap with Mrs. Tsai’s.

In the end, Ma and Baba agree to an invitation offered by Mrs. Tsai: tickets for all of us to attend one of their upcoming recitals in November. To see one of the performances for ourselves.

They’re all smiling. Tina looks pleased, all of it falling into place, just like she said. I keep the smile on my face even though inside, I’m trembling. I hold Denny back as we all crowd around the door to say goodbye. An example of a nice Taiwanese family.

There’s nothing to see here, nothing to hide.

Denny is immediately sent upstairs to brush his teeth so that he will be out of the way when the eruption finally comes.

“What is she talking about, Tina?” Ma’s wrath crashes down upon us like thunder before Mrs. Tsai’s headlights even leave our street. She hates any sort of surprise, especially when it comes to people within the community. The importance of keeping face. “How long have you been doing this ‘dance’?” She says that word like it’s something to be ashamed of.

“I…” Tina lowers her head. “I’m sorry, Ma. There is no excuse.”

This isn’t her! I want to shout at her, at our parents. When has Tina ever looked down instead of snapping back? When has she ever shown regret for something she’s done? She’s always forged forward, strained against the rules and restrictions they bind her with. Always acted first and then dealt with the consequences later.

“After everything we’ve done. So many years your father and me worked hard, made sure you got into the best school, made sure you are given all the opportunities,” Ma scolds. “Moving across the world. For you. For you and your sister and your brother. This is what you do. This is how you disappoint us.” A speech that would have cut me to pieces, reduced me to tears. I brace myself for the shouting that should soon follow. My sister will jut out her chin and raise her voice, say something that will cause our mother to raise her voice in turn.

“I know I shouldn’t have done it,” Tina says, shrinking, appearing like the very picture of apology. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

“What?” Ma looks taken aback, unsure of how to react when she was initially expecting a fight. Tina should already be stomping her way toward the stairs right now. Ma would warn her not to slam the door, and the sound of the door slamming would shake the whole house.

“I knew it was wrong, so that’s why I asked Mrs. Tsai to come to our house to talk with you,” Tina continues, in that quiet way that sends another ripple of discomfort through me. “She said that she will try to help in any way she can.”

“How would dance help you more than piano?” Baba finally speaks up. I can sense the underlying current of frustration in his voice, a slight vibrato. “How would standing around flailing your arms and legs on the stage contribute to anything? Remember what I always tell you? 頭腦簡單, 四肢發達!” It’s a phrase that Baba loves to throw around. There’s an equivalent phrase in English too; I looked it up. All brawn, no brains. They believe that anything that takes time away from studying is a distraction.

“Look though!” Tina points at one of the pamphlets left on the table. A smiling girl, dressed in a striped white blouse and a gray pencil skirt, holding a clipboard. Behind her “professional” look, there’s a photo of her dressed in traditional hanfu, complete with flowing sleeves adorned with embroidery, her hair pinned up with gold pins. She poses elegantly with a fan dangling from her fingers, expression serene. “This is Mrs. Tsai’s daughter, Hope. She’s Taiwanese, just like us. She’s going to be at that performance next month. You can go and meet her and talk to her. She’s the one that got into Yale. Neuroscience!”

“Let me see,” I demand, forcing myself to look. I don’t know why I never connected the dots. Mrs. Tsai. Hope Wu. I never made that connection because Mrs. Tsai still has her maiden name. This is the Hope who attended Westview. Under her photo there is a caption: Soulful Heart changed my life! They helped me Dream Big. With their assistance, I fulfilled all of my dreams, with much more to come! It all makes sense. Yale. Dance. Dreams. Wishes. This is Delia’s Hope.

“You know something about this?” Ma’s attention turns to me then, laser sharp, and I immediately regret throwing myself into the fray. I should have just stayed back and let them sort it out.

“I…I…” I can’t find the words to say everything that I want to say.

Tina jumps in. “She was only trying to help. She didn’t mean to hide it from you.” She defends me in a way that would set off Ma’s ire, a redirection of her anger. Since I’m the one who should make sure my little sister is doing what she is supposed to.

“Ruby.” It’s my name, but filled with the weight of all their expectations.

“I know lying is bad, but she was protecting me.” With every word, Tina buries me deeper.

“Lying! Both of you!” That sets off Baba’s ire as well. He hates lying, sees it as a shortcut, sometimes even worse than the original transgression.

“We should be honest.” Tina stands up straighter, her eyes gleaming with an understanding of what she is doing. I stand there and struggle with the urge to slap my hand over her mouth before she makes it worse, and yet I know that if I do it I will look even more guilty. “She said that she could help me with my shifts at the manor, said that I should use my math-tutoring fee for dance instead until I could get a scholarship.” She looks so wide-eyed, innocent, like she didn’t know what she was doing, until I led her astray.

My mouth drops open.

“I didn’t—” I try to protest, but it’s too late.

“閉嘴!” Baba’s hand slaps the table. His order makes me obey, snapping my mouth shut. “You…you…” He points his finger in my direction. He’s so furious he can’t even get the words out. Tina, or whatever is inside Tina, has them twisted around her little finger.

“What an absolute disappointment.” Baba shakes his head. Huffing. “You’re better than this. Both of you.” The sinking feeling drags me down, until I feel about an inch high. Ma places a hand on his shoulder, a subtle reminder for him to calm.

“The two of you go up and get ready for bed,” Ma says firmly. “In the morning we’ll talk. About all of this. After your Baba and me decide what we will do with you.”

Ma’s anger is the initial strike of the match, a brief flash of orange flame before it quickly burns out, her frustration easily soothed by a sharp word, a swift reprimand. Baba’s anger is slow and simmering, then it suddenly flares up and burns everything down into ash. His fury doesn’t peak very often, but when it does, it’s best to get out of the way.

Tina runs up the stairs, her feet pounding the wood. I grab my backpack from the foyer first, all my thoughts jangling loudly and competing with each other in my head. I don’t want to look at her. Anger. Disgust. Shame. Guilt. All of it vying for space inside me. When I finally make it to the landing, I see Tina standing beside Denny in our shared bathroom, whispering something to him. They make faces in the mirror. Denny growls. I don’t like the sight of his little face contorting into something ugly and ferocious. I don’t like how she meets my eyes in the reflection…and smiles smugly, like she’s already won.