Chapter 19 The Weight of Glitter
The fluorescent light in our kitchen hummed with a low, dying buzz that seemed to vibrate directly inside my skull. It was nearly midnight, and the marble grandeur of Alverstone’s libraries felt like a hallucination. Here, the air was thick with the scent of pine-scented floor cleaner and the lingering grease of the neighbor’s dinner.
I was hunched over the small kitchen table, but I wasn't studying Professor Vance’s theories. Instead, I was helping Zoe glue iridescent glitter onto a poster board for her science project on the solar system. My fingers were stained with ink from the morning and purple craft glue from the night. My ribs throbbed—a dull, rhythmic reminder that my body was still knitting itself back together, even if my sanity felt like it was fraying at the edges.
"Do you think Saturn is too sparkly?" Zoe whispered, her eyes heavy with sleep.
"There’s no such thing as too much sparkle for a gas giant," I murmured, pressing a cotton-ball cloud onto the board. "Go to bed, Zoe. I’ll finish the rings."
She nodded and shuffled toward the apartment's only bedroom. Usually, I’d be right behind her, but the thought of the cramped space—Zoe and Grace squeezed into the bed–felt suffocating tonight. Three of us were in one room, one queen-sized bed, while my parents slept just a few feet away from the kitchen on the creaking pull-out sofa in the living room. It was our reality, but after a day of breathing Alverstone’s rarified air, the walls felt like they were moving in.
Is it worth it? The question echoed in the quiet. The mental toll was a tax I hadn't expected to pay. Every day at Alverstone felt like a performance where I didn't know the script, and the audience was just waiting for me to fall off the stage. I was a "hero" to the public, a "charity case" to the elite, and a "paycheck" to the people in this apartment.
The sound of the front door clicking shut startled me. My father, Mark, walked in, his shoulders hunched under his thin jacket. He didn't see me sitting in the shadows of the kitchen. He was pacing the small strip of linoleum between the front door and the sofa where my mother was already asleep, a cell phone pressed tightly to his ear.
"I told you, I’m working on it," he hissed into the receiver, his voice tight with a jagged desperation. "The first check went to the arrears and the car. I know what the interest is... Look, she’s in with them now. She’s practically a Salvatore herself. Just give me another week."
I froze, my heart hammering against my healing ribs. Interest? Who was he talking to?
"I don't care about the risk," my father continued, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The girl saved the heir to the throne. They aren't going to let her starve. I’ll get more. I just need to find the right way to ask."
He turned the corner into the kitchen and jumped, nearly dropping the phone. He fumbled with the end call button, his face turning a sickly shade of pale under the flickering light. He didn't try to look noble; he just looked caught.
"Mila," he panted, his eyes darting toward the sleeping form of my mother on the sofa. "What are you doing up so late, baby? You should be resting. Big day at the fancy school tomorrow, right?"
"Who was that, Dad?" I asked, my voice flat. "Who were you talking to about risk and interest?"
He waved a hand dismissively, though his fingers were shaking as he tucked the phone into his pocket. "Just... work stuff. The warehouse is cutting hours again. It’s nothing for you to worry about." He stepped closer, the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap coffee clinging to him. He put a hand on my shoulder, but it didn't feel like a comfort; it felt like a weight. "Actually, since you're up... I wanted to talk to you."
"About what?"
"The physical therapy bills for your side... and those new scans the doctor wanted... they’re piling up. Your mother is stressed, Mila. Really stressed."
"The Salvatores covered the medical expenses in the initial settlement, Dad," I said slowly, a cold knot forming in my stomach. "Everything was paid in full. I saw the ledger."
"There are... complications," he said, his eyes refusing to meet mine. "Hidden costs. Look, you’re close with them now, right? That Nate boy and his people. Do you think you could ask for another advance? Just a small one to bridge the gap for the 'medical bills.' If you tell them you’re in pain, they won’t say no. They can’t afford the bad press if the girl who saved their son can't afford a doctor."
I stared at him, the iridescent glitter on the table shimmering like mocking stars. He wasn't looking at my bruises or asking about my classes. He was looking at me like a vending machine. He wanted me to go back to the lions' den and beg for more scraps, using my own injury as the bait to settle whatever secret debt was keeping him up at night.
"I’m not a shield for your debts, Dad," I whispered, the betrayal stinging worse than any insult from Bianca Cole.
"I'm doing this for us, Mila! For your sisters!" he hissed, his face contorting with a frantic, selfish energy. "You have the golden ticket. Don't be selfish with it when we're drowning."
He turned and walked toward the living room, disappearing into the shadows to climb onto the sofa. I stayed in the kitchen, alone in the flickering light. I looked down at my hands. They were covered in purple glue and cheap glitter, but underneath, I could still see the dark ink stain from Theodore's notes.
I was caught between two worlds. In one, they hated me for what I didn’t have. In the other, they only loved me for what I could get them. My vision began to blur, the iridescent planets on Zoe’s poster board turning into smeared streaks of light. A single, hot tear escaped, tracking through the dried purple glue on my cheek, followed by another until I was shaking with the effort of crying silently. I didn't want to wake my sisters; I didn't want my parents to hear the sound of the "Golden Ticket" cracking. I sat there in the flickering light of my crumbling home, the sound of the glitter hitting the floor feeling as loud as a landslide, burying me alive.