Chapter 38
Elara
The apartment was... nothing like Blackwood.
The main space was open—living room and kitchen combined. A sagging brown couch faced a small TV. A wooden dining table with mismatched chairs sat near the window. The walls were covered in artwork: paintings, photographs, sketches pinned up with thumbtacks. A bookshelf in the corner overflowed with art books and random paperbacks.
Everything was old. Nothing matched. The coffee table had water rings. The rug was worn thin in places.
It was perfect.
"Kitchen's basic but it works," Rosa said, gesturing at the small galley setup. Old fridge, gas stove, microwave with a cracked door. "Your room's down here."
She led us down a short hallway past two other doors and a bathroom, stopping at the first room on the left. When she opened it, my breath caught.
The room was tiny—maybe a hundred square feet. A double bed took up most of the space, with a small desk and dresser squeezed in. But the window faced south, letting in moon light. Through the glass, I could see the elevated subway tracks, a graffiti-covered wall across the street, and the corner bodega with its bright awning.
It wasn't luxurious. It wasn't even particularly nice.
But it was mine.
"I know it's small," Rosa said apologetically. "But the light's good for painting, yeah?"
"It's perfect." My voice came out rough. "Thank you, Rosa."
She beamed. "Let me introduce you to your roommates. YUKI! DIEGO! Come meet the new girls!"
Footsteps thundered in the hallway. A moment later, a Japanese-American girl appeared in the doorway—early twenties, high ponytail, overalls covered in clay dust. She waved enthusiastically.
"Hey! I'm Yuki Tanaka, Parsons sculpture major. Welcome to the madhouse." Her grin was infectious. "Fair warning: I work weird hours and sometimes the kiln smells like burning hair. Sorry in advance."
Behind her, a Latino guy in glasses poked his head in, clutching a stack of art books. "Diego Morales, Pratt illustration. Hi. Ignore Yuki, she's always like this." But he was smiling as he said it.
"I'm Elara," I managed. "This is my mother, Maria. I'm a senior at St. Valerius."
Yuki's eyes went wide. "St. Valerius? Holy shit, that's like... uber-rich-kid school. Are you secretly loaded?"
The silence stretched too long.
"Yuki," Diego hissed, elbowing her. "Don't—"
"It's okay." I cut him off, my voice flat. "I'm not rich. I was just... staying with a wealthy family. I'm not anymore."
Understanding flickered across both their faces. The kind of understanding that said they'd heard stories like mine before. Foster kids who aged out. Scholarship students who got kicked out. People who didn't fit into the world they'd been placed in.
"Well, you're one of us now," Yuki said firmly. "And if you ever want to paint, the big table in the living room is fair game. We're all night owls anyway."
Diego nodded. "If you need quiet to study, just say so. We're pretty good about keeping the noise down."
They left, and Rosa pressed a plastic container into my hands—banana-leaf-wrapped parcels that smelled like heaven. "Pasteles. You must be starving. Eat, eat."
Mamá took the container with shaking hands. "Thank you," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you so much."
Rosa squeezed her shoulder. "We take care of each other here. That's what neighbors do."
After Rosa and Carlos left, Mamá and I stood in the tiny room, staring at our suitcases.
"This is it?" Mamá's voice was small. "This is where we're living? We don't even have our own kitchen."
I set my art supply case on the desk. "Yes, Mamá. This is it. We need to be careful with money. And look—" I pointed out the window. "The subway's two blocks away. I can get to school in twenty minutes."
She sank onto the bed, crying quietly.
I turned away, unpacking methodically. Clothes in the dresser. Art supplies on the desk. SAT books stacked by the bed. Everything in its place.
On the wall above the desk, someone had painted in small letters: "You are the artist of your own life. Don't give the paintbrush to anyone else."
I stared at those words for a long moment.
Then I pulled out my phone and texted Rosa: "First month's rent—can I pay you now?"
Her response came immediately: "Whenever you're ready, nena. No rush."
I wrote out a check for $750, hands steady.
Behind me, Mamá's sobs gradually quieted into exhausted silence.
Outside the window, the elevated train rattled past, and somewhere in the distance, someone was playing salsa music. The bodega sign flickered on as dusk fell.
It wasn't Blackwood Estate with its marble floors and crystal chandeliers.
But it was freedom.
And freedom, I was learning, looked a lot like a tiny room in the Bronx with good light and neighbors who asked if you were okay.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts.
"Hey, Elara?" Yuki's voice called through the wood. "We're making Mexican food for dinner—Diego's idea. Want to join us? You and your mom?"
I glanced at Mamá, still sitting on the bed, her face buried in her hands.
Then I looked at my reflection in the window—thin, tired, covered in fading bruises. But my eyes were clear. Determined.
"Yes," I called back. "We'll be right there."
Yuki cheered. "Awesome! Bring your appetite. Diego always makes way too much food."
I helped Mamá wash her face in the shared bathroom. She didn't speak, didn't meet my eyes, but she let me guide her to the dining table where Yuki was setting out mismatched plates and Diego was plating what smelled like carnitas.
"So," Yuki said, plopping down across from me with a beer in hand. "Tell us about yourself, Elara. What kind of art do you do?"
I thought about all the paintings I'd created for Sloane. The portraits that bore her signature instead of mine. The landscapes that hung in galleries under her name.
"Oil painting," I said. "Mostly portraits. I'm applying to art schools this month."
Diego's eyes lit up. "Which ones?"
"Columbia, RISD, Parsons." I paused. "I got conditional acceptances. I just need to submit a final portfolio by December."
"That's amazing!" Yuki raised her beer. "To new roommates and future artists!"
We clinked our glasses—water for me, beer for them. Mamá managed a weak smile.
It wasn't much. A shared meal with strangers in a cramped apartment in the Bronx.
But it was the first time in years that I'd sat at a table and felt like I belonged.
And that, I thought, was worth more than all of Blackwood Estate's marble and gold.