It was the same routine. I knew the rhythm well, as though it was in my bones from years of the repetitiveness. Despite the lack of time spent in this apartment within the grand scheme of things — our moving boxes had only been thrown out a couple of weeks ago — may body still moved like a common dance. The keys clinked into the bowl, hollow and waiting for the ring to give them some purpose. Then, the most uncomfortable sneakers slid off with socks that were never on the back of my heel. (I kept making a mental note to switch over to ankle socks or even higher, seeing as how they looked better with the uniform.) Finally, the door would click shut behind me, and the sense of security in the house would heighten when I heard the little "beep" of our system my dad had installed, confirming the door shutting. Those sounds — they truly made home feel like home.

"Did you have fun at the nursing home, Gem?"

I padded towards the kitchen, thinking over my answer with grave importance as I picked through the apples until landing on what looked like a nice and tart green Granny. "It was nice. Mrs. Landingham is still talking about her son, Jeb. He needs to come visit." As I took a bite, I walked back through the kitchen and into the living room. My words sounded muffled to my own ears as I continued. I wonder what my mother would have said? "I think he's busy campaigning for governor or something? Paige even thought he might be running for president. He probably could in this convoluted world."

"Chew with your mouth closed, please." Dad's eyes barely peaked from over his newspaper to take in his only daughter, but I smiled with a mouth full of apple anyways. I knew his routine as well as my own, figuring he was scanning for whatever new trials were making their rounds — or looking for new clients. Working at Hogarth's firm brought a lot of out-of-office work. "I thought working with senior citizens would teach you proper manners."

"Hey! I have good manners, father — and the senior citizens didn't teach me anything." The oldies at the nursing home hadn't done me any good with manners, but they brought a fair amount of chatter and good laughs. If I had any sense of real penmanship, I would try to craft some memoir with the stories these crooners crafted. "That crowd has worse manners than our neighbor in the last apartment."

This was all part of our nightly routine. Dad considered it bonding, which was essential after the Incident a couple of months ago. He might never admit it, but I think he was scared he could lose what he had left. The amount of stress that man went through was untold, and I didn't know how much to ask about. Dad liked to cook to unwind, which was a good thing for my belly and for his headspace. (I never left the table unsatisfied. The plate never left the table with food on it.) I swore it made me rush to do my school work a little faster, just so I could get to the table and eat sooner. I would finish my homework and quickly run out, hoping to find the food ready to be served — as if we were synced to finish our separate work at the same time and everything would always be perfection. Sometimes, we had to wait for the good things in life (which included my father's cooking.)

When I pattered down to my room and settled in, the time it took to finish my homework sure seemed like it was a lot than expected — and a glance to the clock showed a wide margin to prove my point.

And that sent my heart bounding in my throat. Because, this was a valuable opportunity, that I probably couldn't count on again until the weekend when Dad left for errands.

First, I checked to make sure the door was shut, and all the blinds were closed. Then, as quietly as possible, I spun the little lock on my door and heard it click into place. As I dimmed the lights, finally, the little bursts of purple did their things on my fingertips.

Life was all about rhythm. Every gust of wind was Mother Nature playing her instrument, allowing the life outside to sway to her beat — and the Moon crooned at night to leave the stars twinkling. Never in a million years did I think that my own music would be so special, or that when I moved my fingers enough — the purple sparks turned into more. As one small burst spun around my index finger, I could see the tangible item coming into place. What I wanted, what I imagined in my head, they were all there and touchable in front of me. I could just begin to make out the glisten of silver, a necklace like my mom's, and it made me grin like a mad man.

A lot of people would call it a curse. Mostly, that was the evangelicals who thought that sort of power was a curse that meant Satan had marked that person as their own. Ever since the Incident, all they had been preaching about was lack of God in this world anymore — and that we were the ones left. We were the satanic ones, left to rot as the Rapture came. I tried not to think about that, and reminded myself that if they were still here — it couldn't be the end. As the image continued to form in my hand, I guessed once more that the general public would probably think this was a blessing — a reason to do some good. Sure, it was cool.

But what was a seventeen year old supposed to do with illusions?

Here and alone in this room — I felt free. The images I could so clearly see in my head were made real in front of me. They were tangible; they could become real. And, if I was the only person who knew, then that was okay for the moment. Because, no one needed a little girl to help them find their place right now. As powerful as I felt, my place in the world hadn't been decided. I knew — nobody could take this away from me.

"Gem! Come get your dinner!"

With my concentration gone, the item continued to hover. I glanced at it, and then the door, before snapping my fingers and ridding it from my sight. I scurried up, flicking on the lights and forgetting about my excitement from only moments earlier.

I stabbed a Romaine heart, letting my fork make the satisfying crunch as Dad continued to gab on about the law firm. In his words, they had been taking on quite a few odd clients in the past couple of months, and from what I could gather — not all of their clients were walks in the park. Often though, the wealthy weren't exactly the smartest or most reserved of the bunch. With all of the high rated and well trusted law firms in Manhattan, Hogarth's was quite the firm to draw in the crowd that the firm wanted. They knew pretty well who they were pandering too. Why wouldn't they be expensive and drawing in the absurdly wealthy — the only people who could afford their fees?And Dad had to buy the bills some how. Having me go to a private school all the way over Brooklyn and volunteering whenever I could all meant something to him. I had to get into a good school, and being the daughter of a high-paying lawyer wouldn't be enough. Neither would my grades.

"How's school?"

Speaking on the subject, I felt as though a good and long sigh would accurately represent what it felt like in class right now. "Paige Winters is pulling her hair out," I reflected. I could still see her, cheeks flushed with agony as she stared at a group of high schoolers who needed to understand College Algebra the same way she needed to remember it. She was only brought in after the Incident. "I think half of the class is too."

"How about you? Are you doing okay in class?"

I grinned awkwardly from across the table. "I could be doing better, ya know?"

My dad didn't like that response, but we didn't have much of a choice in the matter. The school was trying to find the best people to teach the classes — but even with the salaries they were paying their full-time teachers, there was a multitude who didn't want to take over other's jobs. Everything was still so fresh to most; some kids still hadn't come back to school yet. Whispers in the halls made it seem as though some never would.

"You could get a tutor."

That wasn't the worst idea ever — but it wasn't the best one. Yeah, I actually kind of liked having someone closer to my age try and teach me instead of the school temp who just so happened to have a doctorate in something that required a lot of math classes. But what if they got it wrong? Paige (or Ms. Winters as she liked to be called in class) was trying her best, and we all knew that. It didn't make it any easier when nearly all the students were in a state of mourning over something utterly out of their control. (It also didn't help that no one knew why they were mourning. There was still so little information.) Paige was an old friend of my dad, and I guess my face in one of her classes seemed to help a little. I could imagine that even though I looked horribly confused and pained by what was in front of me on the board, she was still comforted by my engagement. I would be, if I were in her shoes.

"Could I get one from a different school — one of the geeky schools? They'd have plenty of smart kids who are probably looking to earn a buck or two, right?" I took another bite of the salad my dad had made. (He was always on the health kick). The lettuce was old, but we needed to use it before we got more. Grocery stores ran out quickly. Dad had said it had something to do with a lack of drivers coming in and out of the city. There were more of those wiped out than previously thought.

"Hey, doesn't Mrs. Parker from next door know a kid who goes to Midtown? Why don't you go talk to her?"

My heart sank. "Do I have to?"

I had barely known Mrs. Parker while we had lived here. We moved in a couple of weeks before the Incident, and other than giving her cookies our first night, we hadn't really interacted much. There had been the day of the Incident, and then my dad's occasional trips over to touch base with her. Sometimes he would be a couple of minutes — other times he didn't come back for hours. I knew I could just run next door and check on them, but walking into that apartment felt weird. It felt like something was missing from the place and I couldn't place my finger on it. My dad said she had a nephew who had disappeared after the Incident, but it wasn't like everyone else. He had actually disappeared — in the old sense of the term. Just thinking about it now made my stomach flip over in an uncomfortable manner, and I wanted to think about something else.

My dad hated that I was so unwilling to step foot in the place because of that feeling, but it always rushed over me whenever I look at her. Across the table from me, he rolled his eyes and put his fork down. "Gemma." It wasn't his normal plead; this was a command. I hated when he did his whole 'i'm in charge!" routine — and about the most random things. Why couldn't he just go next door and ask her?

"Why can't you do it?" I fired back, setting my own fork down and making a stance. We were at utter odds, but I wasn't going to budge on this. I didn't want to feel weird for the next week because I had asked for one name from the lady next door.

"Because I want you to do it, and I'm your dad — so I'm in charge."

It was a weak pull.

But it worked. The sound that came out of my mouth was somewhere between a groan and a whine — bubbling up through my throat as the reality of the situation hit.

I knocked on the door lightly, waiting for a few seconds before trying it again. I didn't hear anything from inside the first time, but the second wrap on the door caused a stirring from somewhere behind the wood. I tried to balance a plate of food in one hand, resting my other my hip as the commotion got louder. Dad had thought a little of his cooking might create a better introduction, seeing as though she barely knew me. Three different locks all found their own way of opening — that was the new norm; it used to just be two locks in Queens — and then I saw big eyes behind glasses staring at me.

"Mrs. Parker?" I gave her a weak smile, taking in her appearance. She was utterly disheveled and there were heavy bags underneath her eyes. "We had some extra food and you know how my dad hates leftovers. We thought you might want it?"

She glanced at the plate, covered in aluminum foil, and then smiled back up at me. "That's really sweet of you guys." There was a twinkle in her eyes not there a few seconds ago, and the door swung open a moment later. "Do you wanna come in for a little bit?"

I didn't really have an option, and the little voice in the back of my head was telling me that my grade in math depended on her recommendation of a tutor. Dad said the kids at Midtown were probably wishing for a little money — and they seemed to be pretty high in demand. Midtown was known through the boroughs for the kids they managed to get for a public school. Upper East-Siders who's parents had too much money to even know what to buy would drop hundreds on some of the seniors from Midtown if they could help their boozed-up and partied-out children ace the ACTs and get into good schools. So, I took a few steps inside with the memory that I was doing this to help my grade.

The apartment was disheveled, kind of like Mrs. Parker herself. Except, the apartment was a sort of disheveled that worked in New York. She could pull it off, as though this was authentic to her and her world. I kind of adored it — compared to the clean house that my dad and I kept. Upon scanning and spotting a spot to set down the plate, I explored the apartment a little more. There were a couple of walls lined with well-worn books, mostly paperbacks. A few hardcovers had self-help titles printed over them, the metallic and faded letters popping against dark binds.

"Those are Ben's."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Your nephew?" I had sworn that he was younger. No one Mrs. Parker's age could have a kid old enough to read.

Her voice sounded small and distant as she replied, "My husband's."

"Oh, really?" I thumbed through one of the books: a small science fiction novel with a futuristic and dated cover. I never knew she had a husband, I thought she was on her own. "Where's he at right now?"

She didn't reply. The air in the room felt like it had shifted, and when I put the book away and went to look at her, I found her looking right at me with pursed lips. "He passed away, sweetheart."

"Oh."

A dull knife felt like it had plunged it's way into my spine, and I groaned in my head for being stupid enough to ask a question like that. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Parker. I didn't mean to bring up any bad memories. I just figured your nephew couldn't read—I figured….I don't know. I thought he was too young? Cause you look..." I shrugged gently, biting the inside of my cheek to keep myself from fumbling anymore. I think someone had tied the shoes in my head together and I was tripping everywhere like an idiot.

"Peter's seventeen, actually."

That knife in my back? Yeah, I had just managed to twist it. "Oh my god," I sighed. "Seriously, Mrs. Parker — I'm so sorry." My eyes glanced over to the door, and I made a little gesture. "You want me to leave, right?"

"No, no," she waved my hand away. "It's alright. You just moved in, so I'll give you a pass." She even winked. This lady was an angel, and the only thing I had given her was a cold steak and some salad. I was practically the devil. I had to have horns to her, right? "Now, come take a seat — okay? I'll heat up the food and you talk."

I didn't question anything. Instead, I promptly took a seat on the couch. It was well-worn and loved, and I sunk deep into the cushions as though they were enveloping me in a hug. My shoulders relaxed when I was in this apartment, and my other tense spots melted away the more time I spent here — despite the awkward encounter only a few seconds ago. There was a sort of spell here, like there would never be any bad vibes or encounters. The scent of pine and vanilla tickled my nose. This felt like a home — maybe even more than where I was living now.

Distantly, I heard Mrs. Parker say, "You look like you have something on your mind?"

"So, uhm — I'm not doing very well in College Algebra at school," I admitted, choosing to play with the tassel on one of her couch pillows. "…and my dad recommended that you might know some kids who could help from Midtown?" I didn't want to take my eyes off this pillow, so all of my concentration went into making sure none of the lines from the tassels got tangled with each other. The microwave beeped, and the door opened. Mrs. Parker took the food out, and I could hear her humming quietly to herself. She was even talking to herself with little things like, "…huh, she might work. No! Peter said…" and then "Wait, he might be available."

Mrs. Parker was a little kooky.

"Wait a second! I know just the kid! Have you ever met Ned Leeds?"

The name didn't even sound remotely familiar. I shook my head. She pouted, but brought her plate over and plopped down next to me. "He's one of Peter's friends. He'd be a great tutor for you — really nice kid, good at math as far as I remember. Just remind me to give you his number before you leave, alright?"

"Yeah, okay," I agreed. Confident in the knowledge I had done what I had come for — I figured I should leave. But, the serenity and comfort of this apartment kept me from moving a muscle. "Mrs. Parker?"

"Call me May."

That felt odd, but regardless, "Okay, May. I was just wondering if this is how you normally spend your nights." I couldn't believe she got to live in this quiet little oasis. It was perfect for studying and relaxing. The more time I spent here, the more I adored it.

"Well, it is now, I guess. It was normally a little louder with Peter."

I couldn't help myself. I knew that talking about her missing nephew might not be the best idea, but the question was already falling off my lips. "Was Peter a loud kid?"

"On the contrary!" She chuckled. "He wouldn't make that much noise unless he dropped something or fell. Which was a lot. Clumsy kid, you know?"

I laughed with her, smiling at the thought of a high schooler that looked a little like May, and how clumsy he had to be. She balanced everything beautifully — a pinnacle of grace. The ungraceful genes must have gone to her sibling. "Is that why he had all those paperbacks? So, they wouldn't make a huge thud when he fell?"

May nudged me as she took a big bite. "Never thought of it like that!" Chewing, I watched hew face change several times before settling on a cherished smile. "But it makes a lot of sense."

We continued to talk forever. It was easy to chat to her, and in return — she seemed comforted by the fact that there was someone else to talk to in her lonely apartment. We must have talked for an hour or two, because the next time I glanced at a clock, it was nearly eleven. I cursed to myself, making May pause mid-sentence. "I'm so sorry, but I give myself a really strict bedtime. Would you be willing to keep this up tomorrow?"

May, who had long since covered herself in a throw blanket, sat up from her spot and looked at the clock with me. "Oh, God — yeah. Go get your sleep, sweetheart. I should probably head to bed, too. Plus, your dad is probably starting to worry a little about me keeping you so long."

I doubted that, but gave her a shrug nonetheless. "He's probably on the phone with the law firm or my mom." I slipped on my shoes with the tug of the heel, turning over to May as she moved towards the kitchen and fixed up the kitchen. She looked tired, and not the kind that results in little sleep from the night previously. I could see the years of problems facing her, and how she persisted on despite the pain. Somehow, the light in her eyes never went out. It seemed to be brighter when I asked about Peter. "May?"

She turned her attention over to me, and I took in a deep breath. "Would you be willing to talk more about Peter tomorrow? He sounds like he's a nice kid."

May looked as bright as ever, and hastily nodded. "Of course! Just make sure you come back over with food again tomorrow. And, oh!" She scribbled something down on a scratch piece of paper before reaching around to give it to me. "Ned's number. Give him a ring, okay?"