Chapter 57 The Weight of the Suitcase
The apartment felt smaller than usual tonight, the air thick with the smell of the cheap floral detergent my mother used to mask the scent of old dust. I stood in the doorway of the bedroom I shared with Grace and Zoe, watching them. At nine and six, they should have been dreaming of cartoons and playground games. Instead, they were sitting on the floor, their new navy wool coats spread out like picnic blankets as they sorted through a deck of mismatched playing cards.
"I need to tell you guys something," I said, my voice sounding thinner than I wanted it to.
They both looked up instantly. At their ages, they had already developed a hyper-vigilance for "the talk"—the one that usually preceded a power outage, a move to a smaller apartment, or a dinner made of cereal.
"I’m going away for a week," I said, stepping into the room and sitting on the edge of Grace’s bed. "It’s for school. A field trip to the coast. It’s part of the scholarship."
"The beach?" Zoe’s eyes widened, her six-year-old imagination lighting up as the cards were forgotten. "Like in the movies? With the big umbrellas and the blue water? Can I come in your bag?"
"I wish you could, peanut," I said, smoothing back her hair, but my heart felt like it was being wrung out like a wet rag. "But while I’m gone, you two aren't staying here. I’ve already talked to Mrs. Jones. You’re going to stay at Eliza’s house. You’ll have your own sleeping bags in her living room, and she’s already promised to make that cinnamon French toast you like every single morning."
I reached into my bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper and a small stack of cash—the remains of my secret emergency fund, the money I’d painstakingly saved from tips before Nate’s "advance" made my paycheck redundant.
"Grace, you’re in charge of this," I said, handing the nine-year-old the envelope. She looked at it with a gravity that no child should possess. "There’s a list of emergency numbers. Eliza’s cell, the cafe, and the number for the estate where I’ll be. There’s enough money for extra snacks or if you need to buy something for school. Don't let Mom or Dad see it. Keep it in your secret pocket."
Grace took the envelope, her expression turning somber. She was growing up too fast, her eyes already reflecting the same weary calculations I saw in my own reflection every morning. "Are you going because of the boy in the big car, Mila? The one who bought the coats?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. I looked at the gold buttons we’d sewn onto my blazer at Eliza's, feeling like a complete fraud. I was "playing rich" for a week, heading to a mansion with a boy who bought my family’s warmth, while my sisters—barely out of kindergarten and elementary school—were being shuffled off to a neighbor’s house so I could pretend I belonged in the light.
"I'm going because it's a chance to make things better for us," I whispered, though I wasn't sure if I was lying to her or to myself. "But I'll be back before you even miss me. I'll bring back a seashell for each of you."
The guilt was a physical weight in my chest, a cold stone that wouldn't move. I kissed them both, smelling the baby shampoo on Zoe’s hair, and walked into the living room to face the rest of my reality.
My parents weren't sitting in the dark tonight. The lights were bright, the heater was humming, and the kitchen table was covered in shopping bags from stores we usually only looked at through glass. My mother was frantically folding a brand-new silk blouse—pale pink and far too delicate for our lives—and tucking it into my open suitcase.
"Where did this come from?" I asked, staring at the pile of clothes that definitely weren't from Eliza’s closet.
"We went to the mall," my father said, leaning back in his chair with a beer in his hand. He looked more relaxed than I’d seen him in years, his face flushed with a terrifying, borrowed confidence. "The credit card company raised the limit when they saw the recent activity on the account. We figured you couldn't go to a Salvatore house wearing rags, Mila. You have to look the part."
"Dad, we can't afford a mall trip! The credit card is for emergencies, for when the rent is short, not for silk blouses!"
"This is an emergency," my mother snapped, though her eyes stayed fixed on the suitcase, smoothing the silk with a frantic intensity. "This trip... it’s an investment, Mila. Nate Salvatore is looking at you. He’s taking you to his home. Do you have any idea what that means for us? For your father's business prospects? For this family's future?"
"I'm his classmate, Mom. I'm a guest because of a project."
"You're an opportunity," she corrected, finally looking at me. Her expression wasn't one of a mother worried about her nineteen-year-old daughter’s safety among the wolves. It was the look of a gambler watching their horse approach the final stretch. "Make sure he doesn't forget about us while you're out there on the sand. Remind him how much we appreciate his... kindness. Be the girl he wants to keep around."
I looked at the "better" clothes they had bought on a high-interest credit card, realizing they were just more links in the chain Nate had started forging. They weren't packing for me; they were packing for their own salvation. To them, I wasn't a girl going on a trip; I was a bridge they were trying to pave with borrowed silk and high-interest debt.
I didn't argue. I didn't have the strength left to fight a war on two fronts. I just watched them zip up the suitcase, the sound of the zipper feeling like the closing of a cell door. I was leaving the apartment Nate paid for to go to the house Nate owned, carrying clothes my parents bought with money they didn't have, hoping to impress a boy who already knew exactly how much I cost.
As I lay in bed that night, sandwiched between the soft, steady breathing of Grace and Zoe, I realized that everyone in my life was betting on me to win a game I hadn't even agreed to play. And the only person who seemed to know the real score was the boy who would be waiting for me at noon.