I flop on my bed and smile into the pillow. I kind of feel like I have a friend. A secret friend at that, and it makes my heart throb like a creature living in my chest. I feel great, and I know it’s from the peanuts and the energy they gave me.

Shareen’s knock is different from Mother’s. Hers is quick and sweet, whereas Mother’s is urgent and entitled somehow.

“Come in!” I tell her and pull a pillow over my face. I’m probably blushing.

I sit up quickly and blood rushes to my head as Shareen enters carrying a box of salvaged vintage pointe shoes so big it obscures her entire head.

“Hey, sweet-sugar. Don’t hide your face from me. I saw that smirk the minute you walked in.”

I slap a hand to my mouth. “You think Mother noticed?”

“Who cares. But drink that water and swallow those horse pills before she gets in here.”

I grab the water off my nightstand and chug down the vitamins.

“I’m glad you like school. No, I’m relieved you like it. If it were up to me, things would be different around here, but I’m glad you get some respite from this.” Shareen slaps her thighs after she drops the box in front of my mirror and throws her hands in the air. “This nonsense,” she finishes.

Shareen loves me, and she’s been with us since I was in diapers. She tolerates my mother and stands up to her more than anyone else in the entire world. Mother listens to Shareen, and my mother wouldn’t even listen to the Pope, I swear.

Shareen always tells me she sticks around for me. If it were up to her, she would’ve been on a boat to Granada years ago. That’s where Marshall, her son’s father, is from and where they want to retire someday. Marshall is a year younger than me, and when I was little, Mother let Shareen bring him to work. She put us both in front of Sesame Street while she cleaned the kitchen. I haven’t seen Marshall in years, but I have fond memories of getting dirty in the park and sharing bubble baths in the service bathroom while Shareen sang to us.

“How does Marshall like his middle school?” I ask her.

Shareen smiles sweetly at me and shakes her head a little.

“That boy is growing like a vine. He’s taller than me now. He likes it just fine, only cares about computers and basketball, but he’ll put up with the rest. He asks about you, too,” she tells me.

“Did you tell him I’m at Haverton?”

Haverton has a bit of a reputation for being cut-throat and competitive, not just in the arts but in everything—sports, academics, clubs, you name it.

“I told him and he whistled. Said he always knew you’d go far. Said he wants a school t-shirt and you should come to his games.”

“Noted. I’ll get the shirt. Can you talk Mother out of lording over my shoes like a military soldier?”

“No, child, I cannot. Do you know how much your mother paid for this box of old shoes? Do you know how many times I had to listen to her describe what dancing in a Freed of London feels like?”

“I can imagine.” I groan and replace the pillow over my face. “Take me to Marshall’s school. I’d rather play basketball and we can roll in the sandbox like old times,” I mumble.

“I beg your pardon?” Mother says.

I lower the pillow and she’s hovering right over my bed. I jolt upright and wipe my face clean of expression. She wants a robot, then I’ll give her a robot.

“What are you waiting for? This is the discontinued line I wore at the height of my career.”

I don’t care. I don’t even want to be a dancer anymore. I used to love dancing, but my mother has sucked all the joy out of it, just like she’s done with everything else. My life is empty, and the only reason I dance is because they’ll have no reason to love me if I don’t.

Chapter Three

Dashiell

Wake-up is at 5 am sharp, and they use an actual horn. Not a trumpet, but the kind the police use in a riot. Unpleasant is too kind a word to describe it. The room is like a gym, over polished wooden floors that reflect the halogen ceiling lights so hard it hurts your eyes. Metal cots are lined up like army barracks with drab and hella-scratchy green blankets that don’t provide an ounce of warmth.

Mom is still snoring. She looks like a kid in her sleep. I reach over and shake her shoulder, and her eyes fly open. She sits up like a rocket, looking around her desperately for some sign of comfort. She’s been like this since we left.

“S’okay, Mom. Just me. Wake up call, that’s all. You want to shower first and I’ll watch the stuff?”

Tags: Mila Crawford Romance
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