I slip through the trashcan-lined backstreet behind Ania’s row of houses as quickly as I can, trying to play it as natural as possible, like I totally belong here. As if anyone could ever believe that, especially with me stained and stinking like sewage. Again. History repeats itself in truly obnoxious ways sometimes.
The ground-level window I left through is still open when I get back to Ania’s house. I can picture exactly how it went—Remi would have turned on Jaesin and reamed him out as quietly as possible, Ania would have stepped in to defend him, and the whole thing would have devolved until they all went to bed early, everyone too pissed and too proud to be the one to close the window. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I picture the scenario, perfectly clear in my mind. I know them all a hundred times better than I know myself, so their edges are sharp and defined, their voices practically audible. I need to hear them all again for real.
With a quick glance around, I sit on the still-wet ground and stick my feet through the window opening, bracing my hands on the expertly masoned brick exterior of the house. Hips next, then boobs (ow), shoulders, and finally my head as I fall to the couch beneath the window, smearing the delicate white fabric with the caked mud from my boots. I got way messier than usual in the haste of my uncoordinated escape, and Ania’s couch is paying the price.
The room is silent, peaceful and still. They’re probably all still asleep, nestled in among Ania’s soft, expensive bedsheets and pillows. Good; that gives me a minute to pull myself together and figure out how to tell them everything. I wipe my sleeve over my eyes, the fabric coming away smeared with the grime of the sewers and some of the cheap makeup disguise I applied. I probably look an utter mess, but they’ve seen me at my worst. Besides, priorities.
I take a deep breath, hold it for a moment, and let it out as I walk over to the spare bedroom.
“Remi?” I whisper, gently pushing the cracked door open. “Jaesin?”
I stop dead in the doorway.
The bed is made. The pillows look untouched, undented by sleeping heads. There are no discarded clothes, no vials of maz, no traces of habitation at all.
Nothing.
My breath comes in burning gasps as I stumble back out of the room and burst through the door to Ania’s.
A handwritten letter lies atop her perfectly made comforter of purple and blue flowers, the barest edge of lavender sheet folded over the top. My eyes sting, and my legs are wooden as I make my way over, lifting the expensive plum-edged stationery off the bed.
Mom and Dad,
I tried to get in touch with you, but couldn’t get through for some reason. Morning rush hour, maybe? Anyway, I’ve been second-guessing the choice I made for college, so I’m going to visit the University of Jattapore. I’m taking a tour of their campus and meeting the head of the department to see if I want to go there instead of Lon Flaum, just to make sure I made the right decision. Sorry for ditching you at the last minute! I should be back in a few days. I’ve got everything I need and will call you when I get there. Have a great time at the gala on Firaday, if it’s still happening after that horrible accident. I emailed this same message to your secretary, too, so I hope you’ll get it today. See you soon.
Love,
Ania
I let the letter fall from my fingers and drift back to the floral bedspread.
They left me.
They really did just leave me behind.
They said they would, but some part of me apparently didn’t believe it, because my chest feels like a black hole, caving in on itself with a swirling mess of shock and pain. And fear. Total, petrifying fear.
I really am on my own now.
I sit down hard on the edge of the bed, heedless of the mess I must be making, and hold my head in my hands, burying my fingers in the longer portion of my hair. The strands feel greasy and disgusting between my fingers, and probably look just as bad. Dirty tears slide through the grime on my cheeks and drip onto my stained pants, leaving little dark circles. I’m disgusting, a mess, inside and out. Ruined.
Why did I ever expect anything else?
I haven’t truly cried in years, which I’ve always considered a point of pride for some reason. In the last day, though, I’ve cried more than I have since my mom died. Yet another thing gone. Another thing I’ve held on to that’s lost, over, ended, gone in the span of one heaving sob.
Fuck absolutely everything.
Filthy droplets splash onto Ania’s pristine wooden floors, pooling where they fall with not even the barest gap between boards to settle into. I cry until my throat is raw and my nose is too clogged to breathe, until my chest aches and I feel wrung out, exhausted.
Empty.
I pull my hands back from my face, blinking against the sudden brightness on my swollen eyes. My hands are washed clean where I had them cupped them over my eyes, but the rest of me is still crusted with dirt and worse, my smell a nauseating contrast to the room’s pure, clean scent.
A shower. I can at least use Ania’s shower before her parents get home, then figure out what to do after that. A clean head is a clear head, or so my dad always used to say. It can’t hurt.
I sniffle and dash my tears away with an angry swipe.
Enough. Pull it together, Diz. You’re harder than this. You grew up in group homes. You lived in the Caves for a year before you got into the Cliffs. You’ve gotten by your whole life. This is no different. You knew they were going to leave.
You don’t need them. You don’t.
Let. It. Go.
I wipe my nose on my sleeve and stand, pressing my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth to push the last of the tears away. Sitting there and crying about it isn’t going to help anything. It’s time to move forward, on my own two feet. Take care of me, like Davon always says I’m so good at. I have to look after myself.
With that thought, I square my shoulders and rip the now-filthy cover off Ania’s bed, stuffing it down her laundry chute on my way to her en suite bathroom. My boots come off first, toed off so I don’t have to touch them, and my socks follow, with much wobbly balancing. The alternating blue and white tiles are cold under my feet, solid and grounding. I toss my boots into the shower to rinse them off first so I won’t have to handle them after I’m clean, but just as I reach out for the hot-water knob—a rhythmic thump, thump, thump overhead.
Footsteps. Ania’s parents are still home.
My heart hammers against my rib cage. If I’d turned the water on, that would have been it, they’d have found me and called the police, and no job with MMC would have saved me. I hold my breath and strain to listen for more indications. Are they leaving soon? Or do I have to wait for hours? Or leave in my current state and find a shelter that’ll let me use their shower?
I’m so screwed.
I tug my socks and boots back on hurriedly, swearing under my breath as my fingers get tangled in a threadbare hole. I have to get out before they find me, have to call Davon for a ride—
Another thump, thump, thump, then a stumble, a crash, and peals of laughter.
Familiar laughter.
They haven’t left yet.
I crumple in on myself, arms wrapped around my torso like I’m holding my own organs in. They haven’t left.
My heart in my throat, I dash for the staircase leading up to the main floor of the house and burst through the door, leaving my dirty footprints everywhere. As I stumble through, everyone turns to look at me, their eyes wide, confused, concerned, and in Jaesin’s case especially, still angry.