The next morning, I sit with Mom and Roan for breakfast. I even cut off the overcooked, brown crusts of Roan's sunny-side-up eggs and spread an excess of grape jam on his slice of bread.
I'm too nauseous every day to have breakfast with them—a system I forced upon myself after countless breakfasts gone wrong with my father—but today I'm extra sick to my stomach. I feel my intestines knot within each other, tubes wrapping around my empty stomach and squeezing around the gastric juice. Albeit, I sit with Mom and Roan and eat a sliced up apple.
"You're in a good mood today," my mother notes as she sips her coffee, her eyes searching me over the rim of the mug.
She has no idea.
I nod and smile. "I guess it's the Christmas spirit." Even though Christmas is still in two weeks, New York never fails to be theatric about its decorations for the whole of the month.
Roan snorts. "You hate Christmas."
He's right; I hate all the jolly, family holidays because of my not-so-jolly father. I have the right to hate it. I flick the stem of the apple in his direction. "Well, I don't hate it this year."
"Oh, right," Mom says as if remembering something. "You're doing that charity project with Mr. Roman today. Is that why you're so happy?"
The lump of apple loses its appeal half-way through chewing in my mouth. I force myself to swallow it down. "Sure."
Over the table, Mom reaches out and squeezes my fingers. I stare at our hands. Her fingers are long and pretty compared to my short-nailed, calloused hand. "You've always been a good person at heart, Sage. My sweet, little girl. I'm proud of you."
I squeeze back her hands and look to the ceiling in an attempt to stop the tears from leaking. "Thank you, Mom."
After we finish breakfast, I run to the bathroom and hunch over the toilet seat. I heave out the half-apple and the remains of last night's dinner until tears spring from my eyes. They slide down the white porcelain of the toilet seat. A sob retches itself from inside me as I pull the flush and watch it swirl down the drain in spirals. I pick up my bag and start my day.
༺༻
The glass is cold against my cheek. Through the small window, I watch tiny snowflakes fall on the ground, then listen to the van's tires crush the thin later of snow on the asphalt road. It's only slightly snowing, but it is enough of a distraction for me at the moment. And it is enough for everyone else in the van, as it seems to silence them for the whole ride.
Theo, Atlas, Yvonne, and I sit in said vans, driving along the sectors of Manhattan and the Bronx with cartons and cartons of canned food and warm meals in styrofoam containers in the back. The Romans, the Suttons, and a handful of other important people along with their assistants and helpers drive in front of us in three other vans.
Every once in a while, a curious civilian—a mother with a stroller; a man in a business suit; a toddler with wide eyes—stops to stare at us as we pass by, and I try to imagine what they see from their eyes. A giant Roman and Co. blue logo slapped on four consecutive black vans: a circle entwined with two shaking hands. They must think, wow, maybe there still are some good people on this Earth.
I think of a scene in a movie I watched when I was younger. Two kids going on a road-trip with their foster parents. One of them held up a 'help me' sign through the window that grabbed other drivers' attention, and consequently, they were pulled over and were able to run away.
That's when I recall Mom's words from this morning, and the movie scene dissipates from my mind.
I'm brought out of my reverie when the van slows down and the engine lulls to silence. Atlas is the first by the door, and he pulls it open before we all pile out behind each other.
We stand in the poorer parts of South Bronx, an area near the home of Johnny Miles. There is a large banner with David's face on it and an advertisement about doing good. The shiny banner showcases his sharply trimmed salt and pepper beard, piercing lead eyes, and a dashing smile. It makes me see why people would think he is a good man.
A team of workers starts to unload the food from the truck to the long tables set up. The three other vans park alongside us, and soon enough the image of us attracts a lot of people within seconds. People with grime on their faces, in layers and layers of torn up sweaters, jackets, scarfs, and hats. They share the same expressions: downturned lips and heavy eyes—eager to get their free meal of the day.
I stare at David. He stands with his wife and a few assistants, passing piles of folded clothes. He has his hands clasped behind his back, in a crisp suit with a perfectly etched smile on his face but wary, darting eyes: we're here to help you but don't get too close to my Armani watch. It glints under the pale sun that watches us from above.
A warm hand wraps around mine and straightens my clenched fingers. I look down to see Theo squeezing my hands in reassurance. He smiles, and a small, white snowflake lands on his thick brows. "This is good for them. Just think of them today."
I nod and try to listen to him, forcing myself to tune out the sound of flashing cameras and choosing, instead, to direct my gaze to the line of people forming before me.
I stand between Theo and Yvonne, passing on cans and warm containers of food. The people take it with their heads down, muttering thanks and words of gratitude, but avoiding my eyes. It pains me, and I want to tell them, look at me, I can only afford canned food, too.
Yvonne impatiently passes on the food with her manicured index finger and thumb, as though these people were poisonous. A reporter holding a camera calls out to us for a smile. She presses her face to mine so that our cheeks touch and I whiff her expensive perfume. She smiles a gracious smile before the camera flashes, and her scowl is back.
"Would you stop that?" I ask Yvonne, my tone laced with annoyance.
"Huh?" She raises her plucked eyebrows in a challenge.
"You know what I'm talking about." I narrow my eyes. "They deserve better."
She scoffs. "Mind your own business, Mother Theresa."
I grit my teeth and breathe through my nose. This will all be over soon, and today is not about me, or David and his people. It's about the people standing in this line. I turn away from her and hand the next Styrofoam container to the scrawny kid that's been too patient for this.
"Just be glad you're on this end of the line," Yvonne whispers as she leans in close. She stands straight and slyly directs her gaze to David who is shaking a man's hand.
"Don't . . ." I say, biting back my shock. She promised not to say anything if I kept to myself after the ball. Does she know about all the things I dabbled with since then? I study her expression, but she only smirks with her eyes.
"Oh, don't worry. You're safe. For now," she adds, and shrugs a shoulder. "You did keep your promise, right?" She tries to sound confident and assured, but it doesn't work. There is a hint of underlying worry. Yvonne is more worried about this than she lets on. She can threaten me all she wants, but she knows what I am capable of.
Now, it's my turn to hide a smirk. The damage's already been done, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. Detective Loughty and his team will be at the scene when the exchange happens, and David will be put behind bars once and for all.
"Of course," I say.
I start to turn back to the piles of carton on the table, but Yvonne grabs my arm and pulls me to the back of the banners where we stand out of everyone's vision. I pull my arm out of her grasp. "What do you want?"
"I just want to remind you that if I even find out that you overstepped anywhere, I will end you," she threatens menacingly.
"I told you I didn't," I say, staring into her sharp, unflinching eyes. "And why do you even care so much?"
"That doesn't concern you," she spits. "Stick to your place, Harlem Girl. Don't forget where you're from."
She steps back and fixes her fur collar that's dotted with snow, her light hair snapping and whipping in the wind. I want to silently watch her walk away and let her think she has won this—backing down is the best thing I can do right now.
But I can't stop myself from saying the dangerous words out loud. "You don't have to worry about where I'm from, Sutton," I say, and tilt my head. "At the end of the day, I know who I'm coming home to. But what about you?" I pause. "How does it feel to spend every second of the day worried about your and Atlas's relationship and how it determines whether or not you have a trust fund?"
She stares back at me with half-fluttering blinks and a pinched mouth, still registering my words. A cloud forms when she shakily takes a breath. "Who—how do you know this?"
I smile. "Only a fool wouldn't catch on to it. And I'm a lot of things, but a fool is not one of them," I say. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go back to feeding these people. I can't forget where I come from."
I sidestep her and walk through the thin layer of snow. There may be consequences I will have to face after what I've just done, but I am strangely calm. My head is as numb as the tips of my cold fingertips. And I'm just waiting for the inevitable crash that is coming soon. I don't know what it is, but I know that it's coming, and I've become acceptant of it.
"Sage," Yvonne says hesitantly. I've never heard her say my name so softly. I pause in my steps and let her speak. "Please. You don't understand what it all means to me, what's on the line here."
I stare at the long tables where everyone stands. Theo's back is given to me as he converses with a woman holding her very pregnant stomach. Once she takes the food with a grateful smile, I glimpse his handsome profile as he cranes his head and looks around the crowd, searching for someone. My heart twinges with warmth when I realize that he is looking for me.
"Believe me, Yvonne," I finally say. "I do understand. I know what's at risk here."
༺༻
Back at the charity set up, I take my place next to Theo and open up a new carton. It's the last one in my pile, and after looking around, I realize that everyone is almost finished. But unfortunately, the vans of food we brought are not enough for the lines of people in front of us.
"Where were you?" Theo asks.
"Yvonne wanted to have a little chat with me," I reply dryly.
He nods and gestures for me to elaborate, but Yvonne is already walking back to the tables. She looks perfectly composed again when she stands next to me as if nothing just happened. I look back to Theo and shrug: now's not the time to explain it. I go back to the task at hand.
Halfway into my box, the person who takes the next container grips my hands tightly. I pull back in shock and look up. But the woman has a black scarf covering her face, leaving only her eyes visible. She squints at me through hardened eyes, and I'm hit with a weird sense of familiarity. I've stared into those eyes before
"Do I know you?" I ask hesitantly. Maybe I'm imagining this familiarity.
"What brings ya here with these lot?" she asks accusingly. I've definitely seen those eyes and heard this husky voice before.
They're the same eyes that stared distantly in her home, telling a story I knew too well. "Mrs. Miles," I say in a low voice, careful not to let Yvonne listen
"You're a traitor," she grunts and shakes her head. "You have the gal to be standing here with them people."
I want to explain, but I am too close to Yvonne. My lips part and close like a fish, my voice stuck in my throat.
She lifts her scarf and spits at the ground. "A disgusting traitor. And to think I let ya in my home." I can see the accusation and pain in her eyes when she looks at me. Then, she speaks the last words that dagger my heart. "You're just like the rest of them."