Calore Dance Academy// Red Queen AU

Chapter 8

"How's the wrist?"

Gisa pretends to sleep, but I catch her looking at me through a curtain of hair as I shove my bag under my bed. My bag, which contains little else than an ugly red uniform and now a pair of black pants.

"Still gross and stiff," she huffs a moment later out and sits up. "How were the streets?"

A rare question. My family never inquires after my days, not interested in the specifics of how I put money on the table each night.

An ironic question as well. I didn't steal a dollar today.

Rather, I worked my ass off on the residential floors of the Manhattan Dance Academy for nearly a full shift, leaving only because I'd miss dinner otherwise. And it turns out Ann was right: anybody can handle a vacuum and a feather duster. Though changing the sheets wasn't much fun, when I just about had to climb over the bed to get them on. Not to mention the ten bathrooms—and their ten toilets—I had to clean, each more glamorous than the last.

Minimum wage and truly nothing glamorous. That's what I signed up for. And even though the idea of watching those dancers . . . well, dance . . . sets my stomach churning, some part of me refuses to turn away from it. Some childish, longing part of me.

I left around five with a note to Ann in the Maid's Quarters, taking the subway on my way back. Having never been home late, I hardly intended to lose my streak today. So I practically sprinted home, only to have Mom tell me supper's running late by a few minutes.

I don't even think about telling Gee, let alone my parents. Not yet.

I plop down on my bed, folding my legs together. Our beds, furniture, and wooden floor are all shrouded in shadow, though the sun won't set for a while. Gisa has the shades drawn for the evening nap she was attempting to take, now that she's out of her apprenticeship for the foreseeable future.

"The same," I lie. Everybody's calmed down since the attacks on Wall Street, judging by the once-again-prosperous streams of people I walked through in Midtown. Though the media's still reeling, from what I've heard. I bring none of it up to Gee. "I'm probably the first person in history to call Times Square boring, but I swear it is."

A laugh, brief and forced, comes from my sister. "Not nearly as exciting as Wall Street, I suppose."

Not blame. Not blaming. She's just trying to make light of the situation. I remind myself of that yet again as I look down at my feet. But if seeing her curled up on her bed didn't shake my thoughts from the Academy, that did.

"I—"

"I went down to Kilorn's today," Gisa blurts, probably seeing my pursed lips, and I raise my brows. Even in the semi-dark, her eyes are clear, glazed over toward the window behind me.

All those damned thoughts of the Street Fighters, Gee, and dancing crumble away too as I remember the livid face of Kilorn Warren, my best friend. His most recent words to me: If I can't pay bills, I'll learn to fight.

My breath catches as my palms sink into my bed. Since his fit on Wednesday, I haven't checked up, in spite of my promises to myself. I've had little time to think about him at all, since everything. My friend of ten years, and . . . I forgot to check up.

I chased him down the stairs, and that suicidal bastard stormed out on me.

I gave him space, but I meant to check in on him yesterday, having figured a day to himself could do him good. Instead, I continued on my usual escapades and came home to dance like a fool on the roof.

A pit in my stomach yawns open, and I begin to feel really, really sick.

"And?" The word comes out of me weak.

I swear that Gisa's perfect posture stiffens in the shadows.

"He wasn't there."

Something between a displeased sigh and an angry growl leaves my throat, and I sprawl out onto my bed in exhaustion.

So he's left. Off on his endeavor to find the Street Fighters and to become one of them. I can imagine him right now, walking along dusty, hot sidewalks all by himself. I wonder if he's using his little savings for hotel rooms or if he's slumming it on the streets. Knowing Kilorn, he'd take his chances, arguing it's warm enough in the alleys and gullies of New York.

Gisa and I sit there for a moment, staring at one another, but not understanding. We've never been like that, able to communicate with just our eyes like Shade and I could.

So I say, "Was the door open?"

She nods. "Yeah. Surprised I didn't find some squatter in there, actually. A lot of his clothes were gone when I looked, packed up with his toothbrush and all. No note, either."

Bold of Gee to go and check on Kilorn by herself. She's never admitted it, but my little sister has a crush on my best friend, though he's four years older than her. Gisa's hardly timid, but every time I've seen her around Kilorn, without fail, she's a blushing, stumbling mess. I don't see it, but maybe that's just because I've known him since he was a kid-idiot. Nonetheless, not knowing must've put some courage in her. Enough to knock on his door, find it open, and find no sign of Kilorn inside.

Would've I remembered to check on him later tonight or tomorrow morning, if not for my sister?

Shit. Too late. Three days, and he's gone. I wonder if he's found Farley and her horde yet. Guilt curdles in my stomach.

"All for nothing, then," I whisper, giving her wrist a pointed look. "Sorry, Gee."

It was a stupid plan to begin with. The Scarlet Street Fighters clearly have ten times the resources I thought they did; appealing to Farley would've been a waste of time, no matter how much I could've made on Wall Street.

She shakes her head this time. "Not your fault I was being stupid."

"Yeah, but . . . do you know what Mom would do if she found out I let you walk by yourself in Midtown five days a week? She'd slaughter me."

"You were with me when it happened," she argues lightly.

"You know that's not the point," I say gently. As if to soften the blow towards myself.

Whether she was halfway across the city or right before my eyes, I wasn't there to protect her that way Mom's asked me to since day one. I force myself to look away from her hand and to her eyes, still finding no words in them.

"It's just a sprain, Mare. Even if it's that bad, I'll be able to sew again in the fall."

But at what cost? I almost say the words aloud. Gisa needs all the experience and apprenticeships she can get before she starts applying to fashion schools—and their scholarships. She might be fourteen and unimaginably talented, but . . . I can't bear the thought of Gee's dreams coming to an end because of one stupid mistake. My mistake.

A few months will stunt her progress, maybe make her mistress forget all about her.

"And it's not that bad, Mare."

I glare at her, and Gisa's mouth tightens. "Really. I haven't seen you move your hand one inch. Mom said it was bad, too."

Gee huffs, "Well. Mom's overdramatic. You know that."

I give her a knowing smile, however bitter. "I know. But not this time. She wasn't exaggerating this time."

Another huff. "Well, it's hardly any good to torture ourselves over now. What's done is done."

Hardly knowing how to respond, I shift my head away from Gisa to the shuttered window, where muted beams of sunset shine through. Not so far from here, I met Cal, eyes not so different than the dying sun. Somewhere on those golden streets Kilorn wanders, in search of his great life's purpose. Shade, too, though I could hardly be certain if he's in Manhattan at all.

"Dinner should be about ready," I say, recalling Mom's words.

A beat of quiet. "Yeah. Let's go."

To another silent and burdened dinner, same as always.