She Danced under the Stars ✔

11

This evening, after half past seven, my dad did nothing but work on some drawings for an industrial project. As I stayed shut up in my room, I spent an hour texting Lily. In vain. I got the same radio silence as this afternoon, when I was pestering her voice mail between dance steps. Is she still carrying her phone?

I pretended to go to bed early with a book; it was about nine. My dad thought, quite rightly, that I was stunned by my escapade last night and upset about Lily's departure. I had spent half the afternoon in the bathroom and the other half rehearsing routines in the shadowy light of the living room, just not to go insane doing nothing.

My dad decided not to go out tonight. He retreated into his room at about ten. He locked the front door and kept the key under his pillow. But he forgot my bedroom window . . .

I must go and find Lily. If she has been bitten as well, she can only go out at night. Another possibility makes my blood run cold: what if she was shut up somewhere? In a vault or a basement or God knows what place without a network signal? Without any means of communication?

In that case, I absolutely have to find the one who bit me. He must know where she is. And if he isn't the one who snatched her, it must be one of his accomplices. I have to force the truth out of him.

My tongue touches my right canine tooth: they both have grown longer. I kept touching my canines with the tip of my tongue during the day. I can feel them grazing the inside of my cheek.

I push my shutters open and climb onto the window ledge; I jump from it only to land smoothly on the ground. Blessed be my dad for choosing that comfy little garden apartment ten years ago.

I weave my way through the hollyhocks and climb the low wall. This time, I set off alone across the roofs, frolicking on the corrugated iron like a drunk ballerina.