Chapter 27 The Glass Wall
Sloane Miller's demands are a special kind of poison.
"I need my custom pointe shoes from the boutique on 4th," she says, without even looking at me. She is stretching at the barre, her leg high and effortless, while I stand three feet away with a bottle of overpriced alkaline water in my hand. "And I need my organic green juice from the stand in the heights. If you are not back by the 1:00 PM technique class, the video of your little midnight stroll goes to the Board. Go."
I do not say anything. I can not. I just take the crumpled twenty dollar bill she tosses at my feet and walk out.
The weight of the five thousand dollars is a physical pressure against my hip, tucked into the hidden pocket of my leggings. I have exactly sixty minutes. To the Academy, I am an errand girl. To Sloane, I am a toy. But to myself, I am a woman on a clock.
I do not go to the boutique. Not first.
I run.
I ignore the scream in my ankle, the way the fresh stitches pull and burn against the rough athletic tape. I weave through the silver cars and the people in linen suits, a blur of black fabric and desperation. Saint Jude's Rehabilitation Centre is a low, glass fronted building tucked into the quietest corner of the hills. It is where the rich come to fix their broken bodies, and where my sister is currently being held as a charity case by Genevieve Sterling's abandoned promises.
I burst through the sliding doors, the blast of air conditioning hitting my sweat soaked skin like ice. The lobby is quiet, that expensive, heavy silence that smells of lavender and bleach.
"Room 402," I tell the receptionist, my voice coming in gasps.
"Name?"
"Zora Vane. I am her sister."
The woman looks at my frayed hoodie, my messy bun, and the frantic look in my eyes. She hesitates, her finger hovering over the security button. "Visiting hours are not until—"
"I have fifteen minutes," I say, leaning over the desk. I do not care if I look crazy. I do not care if I am breaking the rules. "Please. Just fifteen minutes."
Something in my face must break her professional shell. She nods slowly. "Quickly."
I do not wait for the elevator. I take the stairs.
Room 402 is at the end of a long, white hallway. I stop outside the door, my hand on the handle, trying to catch my breath. I can not let them see me like this. I can not let Mom see that I am drowning.
I push the door open.
The room is dim. The only sound is the rhythmic hiss click of a machine and the low hum of a television show no one is watching. My mother is sitting in a plastic chair by the window, her head resting against the glass. She looks ten years older than the last time I saw her at the shipyard. Her cleaning uniform is wrinkled, and there are dark circles under her eyes that look like bruises.
And then there is Lumi.
She is propped up in the bed, her hair in two messy braids. Her legs, the legs that used to move like lightning, the legs that won three regional championships before she was fourteen, are thin and still under the white thermal blanket.
"Zoe?" Lumi's voice is small, a ghost of the girl she used to be.
"I am here, Lu," I say, crossing the room in three strides. I collapse onto the edge of the bed, taking her hand. Her skin is too cool, too dry.
Mom wakes up with a start, her eyes widening. "Zora? How did you get here? The Academy said you were under a restricted schedule. They said if we contacted you—"
"I am on an errand," I lie, the words tasting like ash. "I just had to see you. Is she okay? What did the doctors say?"
My mom looks away, her jaw tightening. "They said the nerve damage is stabilizing, but the window for the first corrective surgery is closing. If we do not have the deposit by Friday, they are moving her to a long term care facility in the Flats. Zoe, the care there, she will never walk again if she goes to that place."
Lumi's grip on my hand tightens. She does not cry. Lumi never cries. She just looks at the silent television, her chin trembling. "It is okay, Zoe. You do not have to do anything else. You are already in that cage for me. I will be fine."
"No," I say, my voice a low growl. "You will not be fine. You will be back on a stage."
I feel the five thousand dollars against my hip. It is right there. I could pull it out. I could hand it to my mom right now.
But I can not.
If I give it to her, she will ask where it came from. If she tells the hospital, Arthur Thorne will trace the illegal money back to me. He will use it to put me in jail and my mom in a courtroom for laundering. He will take everything we have left.
I have to be smarter. I have to play the game on the outside while I fight the war on the inside.
"I am going to get the money, Mom," I say, looking her dead in the eye. "I already have a lead. A big one."
"Zora, do not do anything dangerous," Mom pleads, reaching for my arm. "I saw the news. I saw what you did at the Gala. That boy, Caspian, his father is a powerful man. He will crush you."
"He already tried," I say, standing up as I check the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes left. "I have to go. I have to get Sloane's juice."
"Juice?" Lumi asks, confused.
"It is a long story, Lu. Just stay strong. I am coming back for you. I promise."
I kiss Lumi's forehead and squeeze my mom's hand. As I walk out of that room, the soul of the story is not a metaphor anymore. It is the sound of Lumi's breathing. It is the way my mother's shoulders are slumped with the weight of a world that does not want us to win.
I run back toward the boutique.
I buy the juice. I buy the shoes. I make it back to Studio C at 12:58 PM, dripping with sweat and my heart threatening to burst out of my ribs.
Sloane is waiting. She looks at her watch, then at the green juice in my hand.
"You are late," she says, a cruel glint in her eyes. "Thirty seconds late."
"I was in line," I pant, holding out the juice.
She takes it, takes a sip, and then slowly pours the rest of it onto the floor at my feet.
"It is warm," she says. "Go get another one."
I look at the green liquid spreading across the floor. I think of Lumi's thin legs. I think of the five thousand dollars.
I do not scream. I do not hit her. I just pick up the paper towel.
"Yes, Sloane," I say, my voice a flat, dead calm.
I am on my knees, cleaning her mess, but my mind is at the shipyard. My mind is at the Pit. And my mind is on the next verse of the song that is going to be the anthem of her downfall.
You can pour the wine, you can spill the blood,
But the flowers still grow in the middle of the mud.
I am the Janitor. And I am just waiting for the lights to go out.