I hope that in these hard times, everybody's finding their way of coping with social isolation and possible loss of loved ones. Whether or not you've been directly impacted by the COVID-19 virus, my thoughts go out to all of my readers and your families. I hope you can find some happiness to your day in my writing. :)
As most of you have, I've had a lot of time off due to the virus. I've made a lot of changes to the first part of my fanfiction, a list that I will later be posting on my Wattpad profile. Now that I have fully edited my story to my liking, I will be posting at least once a week; let's go with every Saturday and a potential second update in the middle of the week.
Part 2 — The Rise of the Fighters
"So your family's been in the Hamptons all week, and you've been in your penthouse all alone?" I ask Maven to clarify, spaghetti noodles dangling off my fork.
Maven only shrugs. "More or less. Our security guards might as well be family, so my parents have had a few extra stay in the guest bedrooms. Some of my friends from my old school and their parents offered to take me in for the week, but my mom wanted me at home. She knows how they can be."
Crossing my legs at the ankle, I sit back in my chair at the restaurant Maven and I walked to for lunch. It's become a tradition of ours to go out once a week, ever since we discovered the two of us have more in common than one would think.
Save for the first time, we always come to a consensus on where we go and split the bill in half. Today we decided on a crowded Italian restaurant bedecked in wooden chairs, brick walls, and hanging lights, sandwiched smack in the middle of Times Square. For all that this neighborhood is, the restaurant is a simple one, though Maven's told me it has the best pasta I'll ever eat.
"What?" I say. "Are the boys there that bad?" Though I suppose I don't need to ask, considering Maven went to one of the most elite private schools in the state until he had to switch online to manage dance. Rich boys are always spending up their money the usual way: parties, drugs, and sex.
He shakes his head, but his cringe indicates otherwise. "I don't think they're . . . that bad, but my parents do. I'm not sure who else they expected me to make friends with at that school, though. They're all full of themselves and spend their every breath trying to impress each other so they make it into the right social circle by the time they graduate. It's pathetic."
Though I've lived in Midtown for almost two months, his lifestyle is still the most foreign thing. The way Maven talks about the parts of his week I don't see—his old prep school, the studies at Columbia he crammed in before he became a Corps dancer, the galas and dinners he's been forced to attend over the years, his father's dynasty—makes it all seem like something out of a fiction novel half the time. But the other half . . . I swallow another forkful of spaghetti, laden with fresh tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella cheese, and smile at him.
We usually steer clear of conversations regarding our backgrounds, both an eternally-sore spot. As I work for the Calores, I should probably know more about Maven's family and their business, and one of these days, I'll tell him about Dad and my bad habit of pickpocketing, but lately we've spent most of our time discussing dance and arguing over baseball. I scramble for a response, attempting to come up with something that won't sound entirely stupid.
"You and your brother never had to impress anyone? Shouldn't Cal have been making business allies since the day he could talk, heir to your father's company and whatever?' The words sound casual, easy, even as every one feels absurd on my tongue.
Maven, too, resorts to taking a bite of his own pasta to allow him some time. Then a swig of water. He unfolds the black linen napkin to wipe nonexistent scraps of food from his face.
It's the last week of summer in the eyes of most New Yorkers, and soon enough this sweaty nightmare of a season will be just that: a long-gone fever dream. Temperatures have dropped to the low seventies, and kids are going back to school. The Academy dancers have gotten the week off; the Calores celebrate the end of summer like it's Christmas, and as according to Maven, have retreated to the South Fork of Long Island. The Hamptons.
He mentioned it quickly when I asked where the rest of his family has been all week. Though the Academy's nearly empty with the ten-day break, I would've thought the Calores would be around prepping for the coming torrent of choreography and rehearsals. But no. Every night this week, they've hosted a lavish party at their estate—fifteen acres, Maven said, though it meant nothing to him—for Tiberias Calore's various partners and big-name clients and other friends.
Apparently, it's the event of the year for the high-society of Manhattan and restarts every evening for another round, and naturally, it's the most exclusive gathering and only the richest and most famous make it in. A chance for the Calores to solidify new relations with potential partners and whatnot, all over glasses of the finest wines and hors d'oeuvres.
Or so Maven told me. I wouldn't know the first thing about business or gourmet food.
The only reason he isn't there is because of Columbia, where he decided to undertake a week-long summer immersion program, just because he knew he'd have the time off. So I guess I can't blame his parents for leaving him ninety minutes away. This time anyway.
"I would imagine Cal's bracing himself for another long evening of talking to the other guys and girls his age set to inherit their parents' companies." Maven looks up from his napkin and laughs a little. "But not really, no. The other boys were the ones trying to impress us at their parents' behests—though Cal got the brunt of it, heir to Calore Industries and all."
Tiberias Calore puts the rich to shame and has them groveling on their knees. I'd be impressed if I didn't hate the idea so much.
When I don't respond, Maven mutters, "I can't believe you haven't just Googled my family. Those search results are insane."
I raise a brow. "Who says I haven't?"
"You ask too many questions to have stalked us," he says it bluntly, smirking. "And since you've made it this far, I suggest you don't. You'll get scared, trust me."
Somehow, I believe him. I've had plenty of time this week to venture back to the library to do some research, but part of me doesn't care nor want to know exactly how well-off Maven's family is. Rich-as-shit is a broad spectrum, especially to people like Ann and me, and could entail a lot of different numbers. Besides: knowing some statistics on the Calores isn't going to change what I'm doing at the Academy or make me feel any different about them. Rich is rich, isn't it?
Even though the look Maven gives me suggests otherwise.
"My father makes the Forbes list for America's top-hundred richest men, if that helps."
It does, but I don't register it. Not as I see that shift in his eyes and the bobble in his throat. He's thinking about it again.
Five weeks have passed since the night of the Street's Fighters' display. The government and the police have done a magnificent job of covering it up; they played it off as a "test firework" for some upcoming festival, but anyone who actually recognizes the emblem would think it sounds like the stupidest notion in the world. Then there's the media, who either don't have enough evidence to investigate or just turn the act into a heartfelt story about the city giving back to the community. The reporters spent all of five minutes covering it on the local news before returning to their usual squabble.
Five weeks, and I haven't heard "Scarlet Street Fighters" once. I've been running around myself, pointing fingers at the government, the reporters, them, and finally myself. The NYPD continues their hunt for the so-called terrorists, but their fervor in the case has died down and it's beginning to look like a dead-end in spite of the fireworks stunt. I wish I could just drop it, pretend that they aren't going to pop up again with a new threat next week. But they could. They will, eventually.
In a panicked fit, I told Maven everything.
I started with the apartment gossip I've heard over the years about the Street Fighters. Until I explained it aloud, their insane vigilante plots sounded like smoke and mirrors in my head—and entirely pointless when I've never heard news of them having a successful hit—but when I said it to Maven . . . their cause started to sound real and I started to understand why they exist. Everybody knows there are corrupt businesses hiding in every corner of this city, and I have no doubt they've wronged plenty.
Then Shade. Hard as it was, I told Maven how my brother up and left my family last year with no explanation. My mom thinks he's in a gang, I muttered, continuing on to say I didn't believe it until I read his latest letter and heard the closing line of Diana Farley's message.
My friend Kilorn left too, I said, then backtracked to my run-in with the Street Fighters' figurehead, Diana Farley, and my local grocer—and Farley's personal informant. That was when I saw the tattoo inked onto her neck, hidden just below the collar of her jacket.
"Maven . . ." I warn him, glancing around the packed restaurant. The lady at the table behind me is within an easy earshot, our backs only a few feet apart.
Just having heard the name Diana Farley could get me into unimaginable trouble, and I'm lucky enough Maven's kept his mouth shut; I had to talk him down from going straight to the police to order Will Whistle's arrest all those weeks ago. He's worried for his family more than anything else. Cygnet Hydrotech got hit, and my father's never heard anything about them being the least-bit underhanded. They're not even going after the corrupt, Mare. They're just going after corporations. And Calore Industries is double the size of Orrec Cygnet's company.
"Five weeks," Maven still says, but he keeps his voice down and leans closer. "That's longer the time between the attacks and the fireworks. What if they're planning something big and we have information on it?"
I have various reasons justifying why I haven't gone to the police myself. If Will's tight with Farley . . . one chat between the police and him could have the Scarlet Street Fighters out of commission. But as much as I want Shade and Kilorn out, I don't want them in prison either, and I have no inkling as to what part they've played in Farley's grand operations. Shade's been there longer—he could've been one of the vandals when the Cygnet buildings were attacked. As for Kilorn . . . the thought of Kilorn spending so much as a night in jail sounds laughable. He's not cut out for it, just like how he's not cut out to be in a gang.
There's also the matter of the Academy. If the rest of the Calores found out I've known about the Street Fighters all along, I wonder if I'd still have a place there. It's not like Farley's gang is the mortal enemy of Calore Industries, but I worry. If her words are all she cracked them up to be and Maven's right about them going after corporations, then the Calores will be on the Street Fighter's hit list sooner or later.
I'm an accessory to the Scarlet Street Fighters. The only reason Maven hasn't talked is because he needs me to do it. Otherwise, I'll be in deep, deep trouble with the law.
I shouldn't have told him any of it.
"You make it sound like your family's untouchable, Maven," I murmur. "Somebody will slip up eventually, and the police will bring the Fighters down long before they can try anything." I almost tell him not to worry, but when I realize I'm chewing on my plastic straw I hold my tongue.
Maven sighs, rubbing his hands across his face. "It just feels like I'm staring at an atomic bomb and passively waiting for it to explode," he explains and raises a brow, "the Fighters?"
I shrug. "Scarlet Street Fighters, Street Fighters, Fighters . . . whatever their name means, it's a mouthful. I've taken the liberty of shortening it. But listen."
My partner's going to go grey soon if I don't do something. We don't talk about any of this often and when we do it's always at least five blocks from the Academy, but when we do, Maven's always looking for a solution. It's eating at him, and even now as he stares at the table I see the guilt in his eyes.
"I'm going back to the apartment tonight," I say before I can regret it.
Six weeks. I've already put it off for too long, and another day might have Mom pulling out her hair. Maybe she already is.
It was a decision I made this morning as I gazed out through the glass of Julian's studio. Without classes to keep me busy and Maven having been at Columbia all week, I've spent most of my time in that beautiful room, going between staring at the window and the mirror. But today was different: though she was too old to be my sister, a woman with vivid red hair was walking across the street I looked down upon around eight. Gee.
A stop at Will's downstairs won't take much time at all. I wasn't planning on staying home overnight anyway.
"Yeah," I say, nodding to myself. "I'll talk to Will, see what I can out of him."
I've spent hours over the years negotiating with Will, and he isn't an eat nut to crack. When I've tried to bring my prices for pickpocketed jewelry up, he's brought them down; Will's manipulated me like that since I don't have another buyer to turn to. Though he could be worse and likes me enough to only rip me off a little.
Before I met Farley in the flesh, I didn't know he associated with gangs, though I suppose he has to pawn off his stolen goods somewhere. Who knows who else he deals with when I'm out of the store?
"You're finally ready?" He's not asking about Will, though. Maven might be freaked out, but he doesn't forget about my family. He tilts his head and gives me a long, meaningful look. "I don't want you to go just to see him."
I shake my head. "I'm really, really selfish for waiting this long. I was planning on it anyway, so I might as well . . . kill two birds with one stone." The last part comes out in a darkly sarcastic way.
Noticing the hand I've draped halfway across the table, Maven puts his over it, and our fingers intertwine. Though it might look like it, it's hardly a romantic gesture as Maven gives my hand two firm squeezes.
"They have to accept you. You're a dancer at the Manhattan Dance Academy, Mare. You've made it, and nobody can tell you otherwise."
Yet I still raise my brows skeptically. I've sent money home every week without a return address on it. At least Shade's better than me in that way and stomachs the guilt of seeing their letters. But if they could . . . Mom and Gee would be begging me to come home, even for just a visit. Dad, Bree, and Tramy are too man to sign their names, but they'd be leaning over Mom's shoulder the entire time she penned it.
That letter, that visit . . . they'd want more. Of course they would; I would too in their shoes. Maven's right: with the amount of money I'm making, my parents can hardly argue against my new career. But they'd want me to come home. They will want me to come home.
And I don't want to go home. I like living alone and in an air-conditioned loft, not having to fight for control of a fan. I like going out places with Maven after class, and on the nights he's busy, I like dining by myself in my room. It's certainly better than being at the table in my old apartment.
I like being away from East Harlem.
Not home.
Perhaps things have changed with the money I've sent, but I suspect a great cloud lingers over the Barrow household, mainly due to me and Shade. Coming home for one evening won't change much.
"It will be fine, Mare." Maven says it passionately enough that he must believe it himself.
"I know." You can always walk out again if it comes to it.
A woman clad in a white shirt and black pants comes by with two separate tabs, and Maven and I quickly pull our hands apart. As though we think we're guilty of something.
I look up to say a thank-you, but the female server only gives me a smile and wink before dropping off the two booklets containing receipts.
Some people.
Even if when I look back towards Maven, I catch the slightest rosy blush on his face.