She bustles around the kitchen and grabs a white to-go box. “Why don’t you pick a few things out for your classmates? Your, um, stepbrothers enjoy the éclairs, right?”
I almost say no because I’m mad, but then I decide I might as well accept everything Lucy is offering since she’s taking my job away.
I stuff a dozen pastries into the box and get my coat. Just as I reach the doorway, Lucy says, “You’re a good worker, Ella. If things change, let me know.”
I nod sullenly, too pissed off to mutter anything more than a thanks and goodbye. The walk to school doesn’t take very long. When I arrive, the grounds of Astor Park are mostly empty, but the parking lot is surprisingly full.
It’s too early for most of the students to be here. The only ones who come early are the football players. Sure enough, as I approach the front doors of the main building, I hear a few shouts and faint whistles coming from the practice field. I could go over and watch Reed and Easton practice, but that sounds about as exciting as watching paste dry.
Instead, I slip inside the school, shove the pastries inside my locker, and text Callum.
Why is Steve dictating where I work?
There’s no immediate reply. It occurs to me that Callum wasn’t a fan of me working at the bakery, either. Reed got mad, too, when he heard about it, saying that my job implied to everyone that the Royals were mistreating their ward. I explained to both of them that I got the job because I was used to working and wanted money of my own. I don’t know if they understood it, but eventually they accepted it.
Maybe Steve will come around, too? For some reason, I’m not too hopeful about that.
Lacking anything better to do, I wander down the hall to find the owners of all the cars outside. In a computer lab, a bunch of students are clustered around one screen. Toward the end of the hall, I hear the clashing of metal against metal. A peek inside the window reveals two students waving swords at each other—advancing, retreating, and slashing at one another. I watch the sword play for a few minutes before moving on. On the other side of the hall, a huge number of students are silently engaged in a different kind of battle. This one is comprised of boards and chess pieces. In almost every hallway, I see huge posters for the Winter Formal, as well as signup sheets for what seems like a million different clubs and organizations.
Seeing all this makes me realize that I don’t know much about Astor Park. I assumed that it was like any other school with its football in the fall and baseball in the spring, only stocked with wealthier kids. I hadn’t paid much attention to extracurricular events or activities or groups because I didn’t have time for that.
Now it looks like I have nothing but time.
My text alert goes off. Callum’s response flashes on the screen.
He’s your father. Sorry, Ella.
Seriously? Two days ago Callum was making a grand speech about how he feels like my father. Now he’s backing down? What changed between then and now?
And what gives Steve the right to do this? Can parents really prevent their kids from working? My mom didn’t care what I was doing so long as I could assure her I was safe.
Furiously, I key in a response. He has no right!
Callum replies with, Fight the important battles.
It’s good advice, I guess, but it causes an ache to develop in my chest. If Mom were alive, I wouldn’t have to deal with Steve on my own. But…if she were alive, would I even know Reed? Easton? The twins?
No, I probably wouldn’t. Life is so unfair sometimes.
I pull up in front of the main gym. The double doors are propped open and hip-hop music blares in the background. I spot Jordan inside, wearing booty shorts and a bralette. Her back is to me as she curves one arm elegantly over her head, and then she spins around on one foot, using her other leg to whip herself into a pirouette.
I rub one foot against the other. Mom and I used to dance around the house. She told me she wished she could’ve been a professional dancer. In some ways, she was. Like a dancer, she moved her body and got paid for it. The only difference was no one in the audience wanted to see a pirouette or appreciated the graceful arch of a limb.
Plus, she had to take all her clothes off.
I don’t have any real classical training—not the kind that I suspect Jordan has. The few classes Mom was able to pay for were more of a tap and jazz mix. Ballet was too expensive because you were required to buy specific shoes and leotards. After seeing my mom’s despondent face when we checked out the prices of gear, I told her I thought ballet was stupid, even though I was dying to try it.
The other dance classes only required me to show up in socks or bare feet, and I was happy with that, but…I won’t deny that I sometimes stood outside the door of the ballet room, watching the girls dance by in their pastel leotards and toe shoes.
I can’t help superimposing those images over the one I’m watching now—until Jordan spins to a stop with her eyes shooting fire at me. Too bad I can’t pin the murder on Jordan.