Yesterday, I gave myself . . . a break.
I didn't go into Will's store to yell at him about the Scarlet Street Fighters or to demand if he knew where Shade or Farley was. I didn't steal the family phone from Gisa—it's a miracle our apartment has free Wi-Fi—to search for information on the gang. I didn't even reread Shade's letter, because the wording wasn't going to change. I remember it clearly.
I also haven't so much as flipped open the pamphlet or gone through the papers nestled in my bag or considered how to tell my family the news. I came home, put another hundred of my savings from Wall Street on the table, retreated to my room, and stashed the bag under my bed.
Gisa was in bed when I knelt down to stow it. Up until this week, I rarely carried anything, but with the maid's job, having something to put a spare set of clothes in was nice, even if it seemed weird to my family. Fortunately, none of them noticed the change during the two days, and Gisa was too mopey to ask about it last night. Mom and Dad especially don't care to notice anything related to my old profession.
Because that's what it is now. Pickpocketing is dangerous, you've said it yourself. You can't risk injury any more.
If she wasn't so damn right, I'd be constantly angry with the rational half of me.
This week was the last time I'll ever pickpocket if this whole dance thing works out. Though I haven't the faintest idea of how it will.
My fellow passengers almost shove me off the subway with them at the stop before mine. I cling to the metallic bar at the end of a blue bench, keeping a close eye on my bag, its handle resting on my shoulder. The crowded areas are where you're most susceptible to theft, and the subway is among the worst. I should know. I've pickpocketed on subways and in subway stations plenty.
The subway doors glide shut and the metro starts up again, the speeding, gliding motion returning me to my thoughts.
First off, my partner doesn't like me. Though I was as flabbergasted as he was at his father's proposition—no, not a proposition, but an ultimatum. Either have me as his partner or have no partner at all. And Maven's not wrong: he doesn't know me like he knows the girls who have taken intensives at the Academy all summer long, in preparation for their auditions.
And I just blew all of those girls out of the water.
But if he has a grudge against me because of where I'm from, then we'll have a problem.
Not my problem for now, though. Tiberias seems to control his son well enough, and I have no power over the situation. When classes start, then I'll try to make friends with him, make our partnership less miserable for both of us.
The big problem I've previously mentioned is my family. I've figured the Academy is a four-mile walk from the apartment, or more realistically, a thirty-minute commute, between walking a few blocks and taking the subway.
The transportation part is easy enough, but the class hours will ruin me. A lot of my questions, including those concerning my soon-to-be schedule, could be solved by looking in the pamphlet, the fabric of my bag the only barrier between it and my hand. Out of some fear, I've avoided it.
Lucas said classes start in a week, next Monday, after they announce placements on Saturday evening. I have time.
But no matter what, I will be getting home late. Late to the point where I'll have to tell the truth about where I am all day long, or else come up with a hell of a story to cover me. I shouldn't have to lie to my family, achieving a dream I thought was lost, and yet . . . I'm still responsible for breaking Gisa's hand, hurting her dreams. It doesn't feel okay for me to be the sister who comes out on top so soon.
I was planning on telling them, but the second I got into the apartment, saw Tramy slumped in front of the TV, Mom slaving in the kitchen, I couldn't.
And I'm seventeen. I don't have the free will of an adult like Shade did when he decided to leave. If my parents find out I'm dancing again and spending my days in Midtown, they could pull me out, just like they did the first time. They wouldn't, but a creeping unease tells me to wait and think.
They wouldn't, would they?
Something more realistic, they said the first time.
The good news: I have a week to ponder it.
The subway begins to slow, screeching, and I loosen my grip on the handrail as the train goes from slow to unmoving with a small jerk, sending everybody on board shifting their feet.
Today's task doesn't involve dance, but it's carrying me close to the Calores, not two blocks west. The proximity makes me anxious, even if I won my place there and have nothing to be ashamed of. They should all be cooped up in the auditorium, anyhow.
But just in case, I wear my black baseball cap and completely unremarkable clothing. If I keep my head down, there won't be an issue, even if a couple are out for a midday walk.
I'm just going to the library.
I hop off the train, fast-walking to escape the torrent of oncoming passengers behind me. The station is no different from the hundreds of others throughout the city, with its dingy tiles, painted support beams, and white fluorescents.
Each set of stairs has a central landing, making for a total of twenty stairs. I take two steps at a time, reach the top, and cross the ticketing room for another set. The same gross, artificial lighting greets my eyes, and I hurry up, wanting to feel the sun on my skin, even if I lose the coolness of being underground. Shade's message carries a newfound dark meaning, but I still wouldn't mind a rain.
Off to the edge of the ticketing area I pass, there's a band of four, consisting of a guitar player, a drummer, and two singers, a male and female. The guitar case at their feet with stray dollars reminds me of the money I carry from my day and a half of work.
Paranoid, I clear the second set and exit the subway station, quickly checking that the cash is still in my possession. Five twenty dollar bills, safely tucked in a zipper pocket.
Within a minute, sweat is prickling at my underarms. It's another cloudless day, the shadows of buildings the only defense combating a blazing sun.
The station exit is at the library's side, and I continue around the corner for the main entrance. In Manhattan alone, there are dozens of public libraries, but this is the largest, one of the largest in the world, to be precise. I could've stayed closer to home; no chance of running into Academy dancers there, but . . . this one's nice.
Besides. I need to get away from home for my research, for my sanity. The less opulent library near my apartment is quiet and reminds me of my family. Here, at the main library hardly off from Times Square, it's loud and full of life, in spite of the librarians' will.
I skip stairs, weaving through those sitting on the steps, the white-marble building shimmering ahead in the intense heat. I take a moment to admire the massive columns and shaped windows before I enter, greeted with blasting air conditioning and new people.
My sister's the reader of the family, so she probably knows the building better than I do. But with the cool air to motivate me, I approach a security officer and open my bag for him. I look up so my cap doesn't hide my face.
If he has the snark Lucas had when I first met him, he doesn't show it. The officer shines a flashlight in my bag and nods, deeming me safe and irrelevant.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and make my way further into the entryway. It's an old building, columns and marble and pale stone inside and outside, and comparable to a palace you'd find in a fairy tale book. I decide that I have no idea where I'm heading, and I pull over to a map bolted into a glass case.
It doesn't take long for me to get called out on my confusion. "Is there anything I can help you with?" a woman asks behind me too quickly.
I twirl, embarrassed. Library staff, based on her outfit and overenthusiastic smile. I must look utterly lost.
"Could I use a computer somewhere?" The question sounds stupid, but I don't have the energy to rephrase it.
The woman takes me to a room full of computers, as promised.
The room itself is beautiful and reminds me of the Academy. Adorned in white marble, orangish tiles, and chandeliers, the room sprawls with colossal bookshelves taking up an entire wall and half of both its adjacent walls. They're filled with colorful reference books, too thick for me to take a second glance at as I walk by, searching for a vacant computer.
Above the shelved wall are arched windows, metal bars creating little boxes within them. Higher, as high as the Academy's stage rafters, is the ceiling, gilded and carved, a frame for the life-like painting of a pink-clouded sky in its center.
Away from the rows of wooden tables, chairs, and computers, is a massive librarians' counter, stretching from one side of the room to the other, and with plenty of scowling old ladies behind it.
While the library has an abundance of books, it's also a legitimate museum, packed with tourists, students, and scholars, but to my delight, I find a computer at the end of the back row. I sit down before anybody else can claim it.
I log on and enter a browser, thankful I don't have to type in my library card. But even if I had to, it shouldn't matter. With the scale of the Scarlet Street Fighter's attack on the rich, it should be this week's headline and nothing peculiar to be searching for.
I'm here for information on the Scarlet Street Fighters. I need to know who they are and what their goal is, other than their "exposing and bringing down the rich" drivel. Everything about them is vague to me, other than the violence going on because of them and that Shade Barrow and Diana Farley are part of them.
The thought of my brother being involved with Farley's gang sends chills skittering across my spine, and maybe it would be best if I kept myself detached from it all the way my parents do. They rarely have the news on at home, and unless Mom's heard something at work, neither of them would know of the attacks unless they read the paper.
I type 'Scarlet Street Fighters,' into Google, holding my breath.
My eyes scan result after result, and I dim the screen, continuing to scroll.
Terrorist Group, Dubbed The "Scarlet Street Fighters," Vows Revenge Against Local Billionaires.
Cygnet Hydrotech, Along With Sister Businesses, Targeted By Radical "Scarlet Street Fighters."
The "Scarlet Street Fighters" and the Mysterious Blonde Woman Who Plunged Manhattan Into Chaos.
Bloody Street Fighters—What We Know So Far.
The search results are miles-long. The articles are written by The New York Times and other well-known, esteemed news companies, though the last title sounds a bit . . . tabloid-ish.
My job having kept me busy, I haven't had the time or brainpower to consider Farley's message, not until I walked outside yesterday afternoon—and realized what my brother's been doing with his time.
I should've made the connection when first reading Shade's letter, and I feel stupid for not realizing it sooner or following up on the attack in the first place. Guilt tugs me to go home and yell after Will.
But I click on the first result, Terrorist Group, Dubbed The "Scarlet Street Fighters," Vows Revenge Against Local Billionaires, wishing they just had a website or a Twitter profile for me to follow.
If it was time well spent, I couldn't tell you.
I read the first four articles listed and then a couple more at random, before giving up and stalking out of the library to its adjoining park.
From what I gathered, the NYPD is searching for leads twenty-four-seven and aching to get their claws on a Street Fighter. I'm guessing the detectives' fervor in this case is from Mister Cygnet's—the billionaire owner of a hydroelectric company trying to bring more renewable energy into the city—generous donation to the police department.
Prior to the attack, the Scarlet Street Fighters were just another gang, with slightly different motives. Usually gangs are after drugs or money, but this one's not associated with any illegal businesses. Before now, they were practically harmless. Their attacks against greedy barons in alleys and parking garages always went wrong thanks to ruthless bodyguards. The word of a billionaire against a felon and the Fighter would be behind bars in an instant. Those who weren't so lucky, their deaths were played off as self-defense. And so it's been going for three or four years.
This is the first time they've had a notable success and more than a footer in the media.
Millions of dollars of destruction, the news lady said. They may have not killed anyone, but they did a hell of a job in destroying the buildings without getting caught. Offices were obliterated: desks and stacks of documents were burned and then put out, threats were written in red paint on walls, and a ridiculous number of computers and tablets were stolen.
In the labs of the corporations is where the most damage occurred, where the millions of dollars part starts to sound convincing. Hydropower research and miniature prototypes were burned at Cygnet Hydrotech, and similar events of "vandalism" took place at its sister companies. I'd hardly call it vandalism. This was brutal, systematic crime.
I can't help but agree with the articles. They're terrorists. There's talk of the FBI getting involved, especially after Farley and her crew hacked a news network to broadcast their message. The police supposedly have a handle on it, but if something happens again . . . I hate the rich too, but this is complete anarchy.
What baffles me is how they pulled it off. There weren't any reported deaths, meaning the buildings were vacated, which seems odd. No night watch security guards or late-night researchers, and the fire alarms and security systems were disabled.
And aside from the attack, nobody knows where they came from. The Street Fighters popped up in the city a few years ago with their radical beliefs and violence. They only attack in Manhattan, logical, as most big-shot corporations are wedged in the borough. But the police have no inkling where in the city they might be based, and they've had no luck in tracking down Cygnet's stolen tech.
I slump into a wrought-iron chair on the big lawn at the backside of the library, one of many scattered among tables throughout the tree-fenced area. It's sweltering, yet plenty of people are out, sitting in chairs and on grass, and children run around the trees.
So I did learn something. I'm just debating if I have use for it or not.
I just want Shade to be safe.
No use in thinking about it. I adjust my cap so it covers my eyes.
The papers in my bag are a sudden itch now that there's little I can do against the Street Fighters.
I have to look at them at some point.
Almost growling to myself, I yank my bag onto the grass, unzipping it. The ballet uniform and black pants are still in it, and with Gisa always in our bedroom, they're probably not coming out soon. I sift through the heap of clothing, hand knocking the wood of my pointe shoe, and grab the papers and pamphlet.
They're kind of crunched up, and I wince, flattening them on the table.
The papers clipped beneath, the cover of the pamphlet reads Manhattan Dance Academy, with a flame, small and black, under the text. Above are nine boxes, three rows and three columns, a photograph of a separate genre of dance within each. Ballet, tap, classical ballroom . . . aerial silks dancing?
Blinking, I see why auditions for placements might have to go on all week. World-renowned indeed.
Flipping open the book, there's an introduction.
At the Manhattan Dance Academy, there is not a form of dance we do not teach or do not rejoice in sharing with the world.
~TCVI
The Sixth? You've got to be kidding me. I should've noticed yesterday while looking at their portraits.
On the next page, there's a doctrine, explaining the Academy's origins, teachings, expectations, and ambitions.
Tiberias Calore the Sixth descends from a long line of dancers and businessmen and seeks to uphold their legacies, so he splits his time between the Academy and the headquarters of Calore Industries in lower Manhattan. Turns out the Calore family's second business is right off of Wall Street and has something to do with investments and finance. The information in the pamphlet doesn't go into further detail.
The Academy has long been under the instruction of the Calores, evolving from strictly classical ballet to a wide range of dance within the past century. As it is a world-renowned company that is paying men and women to dance, the owners—Tiberias and his wife, Elara Merandus—expect nothing but the very best from their students, and pride themselves on being able to create dancing prodigies.
Prodigy was the word Maven used to describe me before he found out he'd be dancing with me as his partner.
It isn't normal for seventeen-year-olds to be dancing at an elite professional level. Most start out at smaller companies, spend a few years there, before auditioning for anything remotely as large as this. Maven must be my age, Cal's a year or two older, and Evangeline and the other girls who auditioned can't be over twenty either. I've never heard of a company like this offering spots to kids just out of high school. Yet at the Academy, dancers range from eighteen to thirty-five.
Lucas said Evangeline was bred to dance for the Calores; a weird way to say it, but maybe it's true for a lot of the younger dancers.
They strive to be the best dance academy in the world, rivaling the great theatres of Europe and Russia. They want everyone to know their name. Manhattan Dance Academy.
I skim the rest of the pages, mostly photos from shows, and then some information about each genre taught. Opportunities that come with it and its levels.
It's a giant pyramid, with the Calores on top. There must be hundreds and hundreds of people who dance in the building, between the different genres and tiers. They also offer intensive training to tweens and teens, prepping them for when they audition right out of high school—for a price. Ha.
The whole setup is strange, with Evangeline being trained to dance for the Calores. Parents push their children to become doctors and lawyers, but not dancers. It's amazing, and I wish I was in the same situation—it would solve my problems—but it's also strange. Very strange indeed.
I brush off the thought with a low, jealous chuckle, shuffling the pamphlet to the bottom of the stack to view the papers. I ignore the instinct telling me I'm way over my head.