My apartment might be sad, but Kilorn's is hands-down depressing.
A few days later, I stop on the second floor of my apartment, and not bothering to knock, I let myself into my friend's apartment.
Gisa wasn't wrong: it's barren, more barren than usual.
I give his living room a look over, in case Gisa missed a note lying somewhere on his couch or table. Then I wander over to his joke of a kitchen, nothing more than a fridge, oven, and microwave, and go so far as to look in the fridge. For anything that might give me a clue.
The last time I was in his room would've been when it was his mom's, years and years ago when we'd play hide-and-go-seek around the apartment building. I enter it again, finding a bed, nightstand, and closet.
The plain sheets and comforter are crumpled back, but I find it hard to believe that Kilorn ever makes his bed. I toss his pillows onto the floor, heave his mattress up to look under it, and pull the sheets further away from the bed.
I throw open his closet door to find a dusty floor, a couple of hangers, and the rest of Kilorn's junk he elected not to take with him. A skateboard, a guitar he never should've bought, and an empty laundry basket I doubt he touches more than once per month. Among other things.
And last, I turn back on myself, returning to his bed and nighttime stand. Littered with useless knickknacks and a clock, I sift through more of his crap, looking for something, anything to give me a trail. The drawer right beneath contains a flashlight and nothing but.
Gone. He's gone.
Only now I realize that he's found them. He's not sleeping out on the street or on the subway looking for them when he could do it just as well from here. That would've been the best-case scenario, but it doesn't make sense. He's found them, and now he's gone.
It's silly to think about. The island of Manhattan is so small, and yet scouring every building in the city would take a hundred years. Not to mention the other four boroughs and Jersey City right across the Hudson.
Though Kilorn's not here and the apartment's quiet, I shut the door to his room.
And silently slink down against it, crumbling to the floor.
I've been climbing a lot of stairs lately.
This morning, when Mom and Gee were out again buying new medical provisions and groceries, I finally had the chance to roll over my dance supplies to a duffel bag, save for the shoes I keep on the roof.
Classes are in four days, and I've spent most of my time up there, playing an insane game of catch-up. Everybody thinks I leave the apartment and head downtown, but I'm usually right up there, just a few stories above. I haven't brought home money this week, diving into my savings from Wall Street to keep cash flowing onto the table. Mom and Dad have noticed the change, how I've only deposited hundreds and fifties this week, but they don't complain. We desperately need it, with my brothers unemployed and Dad struggling to keep a consistent job.
Considering what I did on Sunday, I'm good with ballet, so I've focused on the other genres I told Tiberias I used to dance in.
Up on the roof, I spend hours tapping and making up jazz combinations, hunting for weaknesses in my technique. I haven't actually performed choreography since dancing in the studio, which is highly unnerving, as I'll be dancing in advanced tap and jazz and hip hop classes next week. So I've reviewed most of my modern dancing: made sure I actually can do moves in tap shoes, rather than in socks on my bedroom floor, and loosen up and dance hip hop.
Rolling out my neck, stiff from spending another whole day dancing, I approach my apartment. My visit to Kilorn's just a moment ago was a rare reprieve in my practice, and nobody knows it better than my body. My calves and hips and ankles and everything ache.
I enter my apartment, and Mom, Dad, and Gisa are sitting in the living room, Dad in his wheelchair, covered by a blanket though it's July. Somebody left the window in the kitchen open, ushering in flesh-melting heat. Tramy and Bree are nowhere in sight, and it's just me, my sister, and my parents in our shabby house.
Closing the door, I say, "Dang. Any of you go outside today?" Mom had the day off, and the chances of Dad or my siblings going out are low, yet I ask anyway just for something to say.
But as the lock clicks into place and I make for a spot at the empty chair, each of the members of my family turns their heads from the wall ahead to me, gawking at me, a puzzle to be solved. Out of the three, Gisa looks the most concerned, fiddling with the braid Mom did. She can't do it herself with her wrist situation.
Something happened. Something's wrong, by their faces.
My first thought is Tramy and Bree are missing, and for a heartbeat, I imagine Mom and Dad telling me my brothers have left, gone to wherever Shade is.
But with a glance, the door to their bedroom is closed. They're probably lying on their beds in there, trying to catch a break from the heat.
"What is it?" I ask, taking a step towards them. I feel awkward in front of my family, the three of them not daring to say what's on their minds. I can fake a smile in front of an audience, but I struggle here, not knowing what to say or do. "Is this about Kilorn?" I think fast; a pause will give me away. "Did you find out where he is?"
A half-guess. The pit of my stomach wonders if it's something else, if they found out about the Academy.
The TV buzzes in the background, but I can't see the screen from here and the volume's too quiet. An untouched bowl of pretzels lingers on the table in front of the couch where Gee and Mom sit. Even without the heat, I could cut the tension in the air with a butter knife.
"What's wrong?" I ask again. Another step. Whatever they're meaning to tell me, clearly they didn't plan on how to say it. Mom and Dad exchange a look, and my sister bites her lip.
Gisa speaks up. "I wasn't snooping, I promise," she says, and I raise my brows. A chat starting this way can't be good. "I went under your bed for some colored pencils. You used to keep art supplies under there, I figured you still might. I wanted to work on coordination with my hand."
She found my duffel bag full of dance supplies. There's nothing else under there but a bunch of discarded books and clothes inside storage containers. I don't bother telling her I threw my art supplies away years ago. "And?" I ask, playing it off as nothing. It's not strange to hold onto them, though my parents wanted me to throw them out long ago for solace. Not a big deal.
Dad keeps his eyes trained on the TV now, though the dullness in them tells me he's not paying attention. It was always him who kept his mouth shut at the table when I'd gush about class or a competition. A silent protest. He doesn't speak now either.
"You still have your old dance stuff," Mom says at last. "Not to mention a leotard and a pair of pointe shoes I don't remember buying for you."
I try to walk, perch myself on the nearby chair I had intended to sit on, instead of standing at the door. Clearly apart from my family three-to-one, I'm riveted in place, my thighs leaden and my feet nailed to the floor. Yes, I've kept my dance shoes, and it was meant to be a secret until the day I die—it would mortify me if they knew I practiced in them. Not a big deal.
Yet if I started shoplifting, not for necessity but for pleasure, my parents would have none of it. They'll tell me I've gone too far, that this is the last straw.
This is a confrontation.
She thinks I shoplifted the new shoes and leotard for shits and giggles. Because I'm just some stupid teenager who can't get her head out of the clouds and realize that dance is over.
I would've agreed with her last week. Maybe even thrown those shoes out myself.
In spite of the heat, my skin feels cold, verging on goosebumps.
"We thought you were over this, Mare," Dad chimes in at last, and I will myself to be composed. This will be the first time—in well, forever—that he's told me aloud how he feels about me and my little hobby.
I try to look at my father with impassive, willing eyes. He barely holds my gaze.
"It was fine when you were little and when I was working, but after this winter . . ." he trails off, and I don't already want to hear more. "If you're practicing on your own . . . it's a waste of your time, to tell you the truth. I'm sorry. But you can't steal these things from stores. You can't pickpocket random people off the streets."
There it is. The disapproval Dad's been holding onto for so long, always on his face but never on his lips.
"I didn't . . ." steal them. "I didn't . . ." steal them. A very rich family gave them to me, along with a job as an elite dancer for their company. Didn't you look in the side pocket of the bag? Didn't you see the papers?
A waste of time that's amounted to dozens and dozens of hours. I've danced in my room every day since I quit, and they think I'm wasting my time. The irony of Gisa finding my shoes and leotard days after I landed myself a position at the Manhattan Dance Academy is too much, and I want to fall to the floor and burst out laughing. And crying.
"I—"
"You're almost eighteen," Mom says gently. I almost think she's going to rise up from her seat on the couch to give me a rub on the shoulder and a hug, but she stays firmly rooted, as do I. "It's not too late to go back to school or get your GED. This pickpocketing and shoplifting . . . isn't safe or right."
Like safety or rightness has ever mattered before. Before Gisa's wrist, before this, my parents hardly said a word about the money I brought in, even if it made Dad feel horrible that he couldn't do it himself and tempted Mom to pull more hours. They never objected because they needed it. They still do, whether they like it or not.
It takes all of my will not to snap those very thoughts at them. To call them hypocrites for what they've allowed.
As for high school . . . no way I'd go back. There's nothing that hellhole could offer me, and a missing semester in my transcript makes it just about useless. I don't know what I ever would've gone to college for, what college would've wanted me in the first place.
"I'm not going back to school," I say a bit coldly. "It would be a waste of my time." I find it in me to cross my arms, repeat the words Dad used. Waste of your time.
From the couch, Mom stares me down, but it's hardly effective. Not when Mom's a high school graduate, and she's still wearing her maid's uniform and her greying hair in a sad ponytail.
I return Mom's stare, the woman who's given her life for me and her other four children. The bags under her eyes and wrinkles on her hands say it well enough, too. All those checks, all those tight smiles, and don't worry about its every month. She taught me how to bun and pony my hair, how to do my stage makeup, stitched the stupid rips I'd get in my costumes when I was too rough on them.
My rock, even if I hate admitting that I needed her more than the teachers at my studio.
Dad hasn't seen me dance in years; I couldn't have been older than twelve when he last saw me at my recital. From then on he made up excuses, saying that he wasn't feeling well or that the competitions and recitals were too loud for him. I doubt I'll ever understand why he was so against going, spending a couple of damn hours on me. Maybe he just didn't care enough.
"Fine," Dad grumbles. He's getting pissed off, done with this conversation. "Get a job, then."
My focus shifts to him, but my eyes aren't as clear as before.
I got a job. And then a second one.
That's not what I say. "And what about dance?" I ask. They won't understand what I mean by it.
Mom and Dad stare blankly at me. Gisa examines her wrist.
"What about it?" Dad asks.
"Did you ever think I was any good?" The question comes out blunt, like I'm not consumed by knowing the answer.
Dad opens his mouth, but Mom cuts him off with a sharp, "Daniel."
"Ruth," he says anyway.
They've discussed this before. If my classes were worth it, if the money was worth it. Because it's common knowledge that dancers who go to dinky, rundown studios never go anywhere with their talent. They would've pulled me sooner if they had the chance, the balls to take away the one thing I was ever good at.
"We haven't seen you dance in years, Mare," Dad says. He speaks slowly, pushing away his annoyance as if I'm some kind of wild animal who will bite if he shows the slightest sign of agitation.
I nod my head, agreeing with him. "You haven't, Dad. You haven't seen me dance since I was twelve years old." I spit the words with venom. "Mom missed my last two competitions for work, but otherwise, she was there." I take a breath to steady myself. I feel like I'm about to fall into the door. "I would've performed a solo at the recital, you know. It was going to be the opening act, and I would've begged you to come."
Tears burn in my eyes. I don't back down, though, staring at them with all the intensity, all the blame in the world. I performed the solo on Sunday, in front of a crowd of eight-hundred, and my family will never know it. They wouldn't believe me if I told them. A wild, wild fantasy of mine, they'd say. I'm not sure if the papers would be evidence enough.
"Why does it matter?" Dad barks, giving up the calm pretense again. I half-expect him to rise out of his chair in anger, though it's impossible. "Did you really believe you had a shot at becoming a professional dancer? People like us . . . we're not meant to be stars, honey.
"We're meant to work for a living and expect food and shelter in return. Shoplifting shoes, practicing in your room, isn't changing that."
It wasn't just the money, but also a bone-deep doubt and lack of faith. It was a hobby to them and a passion for me. A way of life. Another piece of my heart cracks off.
Though Mom doesn't say anything, though Mom always did my hair . . . she feels the same.
My mouth quirks into a frown, and I decide against telling them the truth. No, they wouldn't believe me in the first place. My position at the Academy might last a very short amount of time anyway.
But Cal believes I can do this. So do the others, even if they don't say it. My family would too if they could see me.
"Your father means he wants you to have a safe, decent life, Mare," Mom amends, trying to fix Dad's harshness. They keep using my name while they talk to me and I can't stand it. "You loved to dance, but it's not possible anymore. So it's best if you try to let go."
You never supported me, I want to say.
With two sisters, two dreams, they could only make an exception for one. They had no problem letting Gisa contine sewing, deeming it practical and something she could actually make a living out of. Looking over at Gee, I can't bring myself to blame her, but I find the opposite is true of my parents.
Maybe they don't deserve to know.
Over a decade of backbreaking training and relentless practice, and never once did Mom or Dad consider that maybe was good enough. Mom saw too, and yet she was resolute when they sat me down. Dad didn't bother to think twice, more concerned about money than anything. Never bothering to ask me how I felt, though he certainly heard an earful of it.
A new plan begins forming.
"Fine. Shoplifting shoes won't change that," I whisper, acquiescing. "I won't steal from now on. I'll land a job, and then I'll grow up."
Mom raises her brows, surprised. Dad's face is unreadable.
I shrug, the picture of rationale and understanding. "I'm almost eighteen. You're right."
Not. Right.
"We're looking out for you," Mom says, pressing her lips together. "We want you to be happy, sweetie." I almost sense guilt in her voice.
"I know," I say, not believing myself. My legs feel less heavy and the nails come out of my feet, and I walk across the room convinced I'm going to vomit. "Thanks, Gee, by the way, for ratting me out." I glare at my sister.
"Mom walked in on me," Gisa mutters.
"We'll see you for dinner?" Mom asks, motherly-worry coating her tone.
Everybody's least favorite time of the day. Dinner, when we all make the most painful small talk you've ever seen out of thin air, taking second servings just as an excuse to get up from the table—if only for a moment.
"Yes," I state, monotone, walking the rest of the distance to my room and slamming my bedroom door behind me.
The scene switches in an instant, going from loud and accusing to quiet and small. My bedroom looks the same as always, yet something changed. Something changed in this entire apartment.
The open bag is fully exposed, pulled out between my bed and Gisa's. My brand-new pair of pointe shoes sits at the top, incriminating, but sure enough, the side pocket holding the Academy's papers is untouched. Why Gisa felt the need to look in my bag for colored pencils doesn't click; she must've been curious, recognizing it from the family closet where we store our extra junk.
As much as I need to, I don't slink down against my bedroom door and sob my eyes out. I already did that once today for Kilorn.
I lift the large bag up onto my bed, assessing what I'll be able to bring with me.
The shoes and dance clothes don't take up a lot of space, and I stuff shirt after shirt inside, bending a drawer lower for pants. Two pairs of jeans, leggings, some shorts . . . I go to the top drawer, pulling out my underwear and socks and bras, shoving them into another side pocket of my bag.
I've never collected knickknacks or security objects, so I look around my room and find nothing else worth bringing with me, besides for a family photograph tucked under the clock on my nightstand. I'll have to stop at a drugstore to buy toothpaste and a brush, along with soap and some other hygiene products.
Ripping a sheet of paper from out of Gisa's stray notebook, formerly used for drawing up designs, a pencil lying beside it, I write my family a note:
An opportunity has presented itself, and I have to chase it. I'm sorry if you don't understand. I'll send money, and I promise I'll come visit soon.
Outside my room, Dad's turned up the TV volume and Mom's bustling away in the kitchen, but I still mind my noise. I leave the note on my bed and zip my duffel bag.
I heave it out the window and climb over the barrier myself, pushing the window shut before I hurry up the fire escape to go and retrieve my other shoes.
It's almost seven o'clock when I reach the Academy and find Lucas guarding its front door.
"Moving in so soon?" he asks, nodding at my bag. The sun's beginning to dip below the taller buildings, tossing the streets into shadows. It's still in the mid-eighties, though, and my forehead sweats under my baseball cap.
"Yes," I return, trying to be calm. "My apartment's too far away for the travel to be worth it."
It was never about distance.
It's dinnertime at home, and I'm not there. They've found the note by now, no better than the goodbye Shade gave our family. Mom's crying, Gisa's on the verge of tears, and Dad's brooding. My brothers have come out of their room to find out what the commotion's over; they act like it's no big deal, but inside, their hearts are beating a little too fast.
Maybe I'm naive and idiotic, but I couldn't let this chance go. So I wrote my family a note explaining what I was doing in as few words as possible, not entirely making sense.
Lucas moves towards the door. His eyes are sympathetic as if he knows what happened. My stage face must not be very good tonight.
"Come on. I'll set you up."