Feuds (21 page)

“I'm talking about this,” he said, pulling a thin envelope from his briefcase. He leaned toward Cole, his breath reeking of whiskey. “Go on, take a look.” Cole accepted the envelope with hesitation, then opened it and pulled out several printed photographs. Davis and him kissing on the fire escape. The two of them talking inside the ambulance. His hand touching the small of her back at Emilie's party. Them making out at Emilie's party. It was all there, their entire history.

“What are you going to do with these?” he hissed. He suppressed the urge to rip them up, to spit on them—simply because he knew Parson would have more, and he knew that reaction was what Parson wanted. Cole breathed hard, trying to keep his fury and panic in check.

Parson smiled broadly, reclaiming the envelope. “Wouldn't you like to know?” he said. Cole couldn't help himself—he lunged at him. Parson put out one hand to stop him, his face revealing his displeasure. “It's all over now, kid. We're in the home stretch. These babies,” he told Cole, waving the photos in the air, “are just icing on the cake. Keep control of yourself. Keep your eye on the prize. Finals are next. Wouldn't want everything to blow up in our faces now, would you?”

“You set me up,” Cole spit out, barely containing his anger.

“I'm on your side, Cole,” Parson replied, his eyes narrowing even as his mouth turned up in a smile. “What's wrong? Don't you trust me?”

 

13

DAVIS

The morning after she saw Cole at the FEUDS, all Davis wanted to do was get back to training. Hard training. Something to distract her from the way she wanted him still, despite everything she'd seen—and the raw brutality he was capable of. His strength terrified her; and yet, it could protect her, and she felt that he wanted to. She wanted him wrapped around her. Something inside her told her he'd never touch her like he'd touched the guy in the cage … but the fact that he'd done what he'd done at all was enough to send chills down her spine.

She had to dance to take her mind off it. Preferably with her fellow ballerinas, with whom she always felt grounded. She been off her game for the last few days, and she could feel it all over her body—her muscles slackening and some tightening up, the calluses on her feet softening. It was probably all in her head, but still. She needed her body back. When she was dancing, she felt her clearest and best.

There was a group drop-in session—“open floor”—scheduled at nine that morning, and thinking about it made Davis feel good, normal. Usually the most dedicated ballerinas went to the optional sessions; Davis loved being surrounded by the girls who loved to dance as much as she did. Sure, there was that edge of competition—but there was also an element of innate understanding among them. They got what it was like to work hard, to jump higher, to stretch farther. She needed those primal feelings now, and she needed to be surrounded by the others, to reenter her old routine. Getting her routine back would make her feel like herself again.

Moreover, Emilie was one of those serious ballerinas, and she almost never missed an optional practice. Surely she'd be back by now. Chloe had said so, in her usual irritated way, when Davis had last asked. Once she saw Emilie, everything would be back to normal. It would mean Cole had been mistaken, there was no disease. It was just coincidental, a few people getting sick at the same time. Davis could picture the sense of relief she'd feel, and suddenly she was desperate to have it—to see Emilie and know everything was okay.

It was eight o'clock, far later than she usually departed for the studio—she liked to get there before the other girls to mentally gear up, get in the zone—but she'd allowed herself to sleep in after the shock of the night before. The river sparkled diamond patterns, and the familiar Slants shanties stretched beyond them from Davis's perch in her monorail car, high above the city. Normally the sight would have seemed beautiful to her, but today it made her shudder. Then again, so did the sanitation checkpoint she passed as she made her way off the monorail. Prior guards were patting Imps roughly, like they were objects rather than humans. One caught Davis looking and smiled at her, but she cast her eyes downward rather than returning his greeting. Every gesture, every mannerism—Imp and Prior alike—felt false now.

Once in the studio, Davis tossed her ballet bag on the floor next to the grand piano. She instinctively reached for her DirecTalk—which she always removed during practice—and groaned when she remembered it was gone. It had disappeared sometime the night before, when she was at the FEUDS. She should have had that chain replaced months ago; all of that data would be lost, and she had no easy way of getting in touch with anyone now. But there was nothing to be done about it just then.

She turned back toward the piano, flexing her toes. She wished a pianist were there now. Sometimes during practice, students who were studying to become classical musicians—pianists who played in the orchestra with Vera, for example—came to play for the dancers. Davis loved the quality of the live music versus the sounds piped through the state-of-the-art, surround-sound system the studio boasted. It would have been a nice distraction just then from her fears and worries and thoughts of Cole—and her anxious desire to see Emilie—which ran through her head like a song on repeat.

Emilie wasn't in yet, but she'd be in soon, Davis was certain. Chloe had told her “in a day or two” when they last spoke several days ago. Three other ballerinas—one who was very young in a purple leotard and matching tutu, and two Davis recognized from neighboring territories—were warming up on the opposite side of the room. It was good to have other people around. Good to have the distraction, something to keep her out of her own head.

Davis began some shoulder alignment stretches, then slid into à la seconde position for hip rotation. Her back ached and still she turned as far as she could toward the right, fighting through the pain. She breathed deeply once, then again. Normally stretching and its associated pain—and ensuing relief—were enough to wipe her mind clean of any distractions, but this time, things were different. She couldn't quit thinking of Cole and the way he'd hit that other guy, that hulking monster named Brutus.
Not a monster, just another kid.

But she couldn't feel afraid of Cole, even though she felt she ought to. The way it had looked … he'd been fighting
for
something, not against his opponent. He'd told her himself: everything he'd told her had been about something bigger—a future for his family. He'd been fighting because he had to. It had been so clear, watching the crowd—the way they'd jeered and thrown things into the cage—that Cole had had little control over the role he played. Even the way the cage was set up: with a huge chain lock preventing the fighters from leaving. The way Cole had slammed up against the bars during that first round, facing outward toward the crowd, his face pressed against the metal ridges of the enclosure and his eyes full of terror. Davis's heart had nearly halved in that moment, she'd been so afraid. It had been like he was pleading for escape in that instant, before Brutus had jerked him back into the fight. She wasn't supposed to love Cole, but she did. She'd known it then by the panic she'd felt at the thought of anything bad happening to him.

And the Priors watching—they'd soaked up the violence with obvious glee. The Imps had loved it, too, but it was the Prior reaction that sickened her, because she'd never thought people like her—educated, intelligent, cultured,
superior
—could give in to such depravity. The weird thing was, it didn't make her less afraid of Imps. It just made her more afraid of Priors. It made her equally afraid of everyone.

It was ironic, really, Davis thought as she began a series of pliés, then jetés, warming up her muscles. They were all finally equal … but a very, very bad kind of equal. There were no pedestals anymore. They were all finally knocked down and crumpled like papier-mâché, she realized as she moved in a pirouette. So where did that leave her and Cole among the mess? Did that make each of them good or bad or both or something else altogether? Everything Davis had grown up believing in had been exposed as one enormous lie, and it left her feeling lost, like she couldn't even be sure of who she was anymore or where she stood in the world around her. It was like she had no home, no truth. Like she had to start all over with no one to guide her.

Davis whirled faster, willing the thoughts to go away. It was easier when she didn't know, didn't think about anything but ballet and the Olympiads and helping her dad win his campaign and watching her little sister blossom into a genius physicist. Everything was easier when it was all about her: her immediate life and the little stumbling blocks within it that she could so easily overcome. When the rest of the world was involved, it got messy. And it was encroaching. She could no longer hold it back.

She realized all of a sudden that she no longer
wanted
to. It was everywhere: in the jealousy she felt when she'd watched the Imp girls dance, their sexiness thrumming from their bodies without effort … it had made ballet look like a stiff farce. It was in the anger she felt at the fact that something like the FEUDS—reducing humans to toys designed for brutality—could exist. It was all a sick, twisted, convoluted mess of things she couldn't control. Why was everyone else okay with it all? Why was she apparently the only Prior who felt too frustrated to let things exist as they always had? Cole had been right about everything. And her world—her life—meant nothing anymore without knowing the truth.

Davis caught sight of herself in the mirrors that lined the room and felt disgusted by the stiff perfection of her movements. She stopped, took a breath, and instead of moving into another series of jetés, she lifted her arms over her head, dipped her chin toward her chest, and swiveled her hips as if they were independent from her spine. She stared at herself in the mirror through lowered lashes. She stopped watching herself and tilted her head back, moving her body to the memory of Cole. Their beautiful moment together on the fire escape during the roofing party—with the wind at her back, his hands in her hair, on her neck; just the two of them alone up there, with everything else falling away—it moved her. She let it move her body in ways that were unfamiliar but felt right. She tried to let her shoulders and hips move without her brain communicating anything but the sounds and memories of Cole's touch on her body, his voice in her ears, out there in the chill of the night air. The two of them leaning together. Davis moved faster, until she was dizzy and felt feverish in her movements. She stumbled, catching herself against a young girl, maybe fifteen. The girl glared at her.

“Sorry,” Davis said, gasping for air. “I wasn't paying attention.”

“Maybe you should practice somewhere else, then,” said the girl, frowning. “This studio is for serious ballerinas.”

Davis felt a bubble of laughter rising in her throat—she tried to choke it back, but it surfaced anyway, pushing its way out. Its uncontrollable abandon felt something like hysteria. Tears welled in her eyes and a lump formed in the back of her throat. She was weak and trembling, and she couldn't hide it any longer. The girl gave her a freaked-out look and turned back toward her friend, whispering something in her ear. The girl had no idea who Davis was, which was a relief. She clamped her hand over her mouth and grabbed her bag from the corner, untying her slippers and pulling on her flats in their place. What had made her want to be a ballerina? It was her mother—but her mother wasn't there anymore, and the futility of being an artist when the world was falling apart—and she with it—hit her with a force that left her breathless.

Davis slipped out of the room and headed for the reception area. Behind her, as the door was still swinging shut, she heard a loud crashing sound and turned just in time to see a piece of metal—a street sign?—ricocheting off a window inside the studio. One of the littler ballerinas let out a frightened cry.

“Focus, Cecile!” An adult, maybe the girl's mother, clapped her hands sharply. Through the frosted glass of the now-closed studio door, Davis saw the little ballerina resume her positions. Davis shivered and continued toward reception. Emilie still hadn't showed nearly forty-five minutes after open floor started, which wasn't like her. She needed to know what was going on. She approached the broad information desk, where a perky blonde in a blue strappy tank top sat, fielding calls.

“Can I help you?” she asked when she was done, looking up at Davis through semiglazed blue eyes.

“I was just wondering if Emilie Rhoads reserved a locker for today,” Davis said. “Could you check for me in the system?”

“Just a sec,” said the girl, turning to her mounted tablet. She peered closely, then murmured into her DirecTalk:
“Emilie Rhoads, Record Locator.”
Davis heard the tablet scrolling through records, and then a long beep indicated that it had retrieved results. “Nope,” the girl said. “She hasn't been in lately.”

“Nothing for today? Nothing coming up?” Davis felt panic rising in her throat, but she tried to tell herself it wasn't that weird. It really wasn't; often she booked her lockers day-of. That was kind of the nature of open floor. “Well, thanks anyway,” she started, turning to leave.

“Wait,” said the receptionist. Davis turned back to see her squinting at the screen. “Oh,” she said. “Right.”

“What?” Davis was impatient. She moved closer to the desk.

“There's a note here. I forgot. Membership canceled.”

“Canceled?” Davis's throat tightened. “Why? Does it say why?” The receptionist raised carefully groomed eyebrows, frowning slightly.

“No,” she said slowly, her ponytail swishing as she shook her head. “And even if it did, I'm not authorized to give out that information.”