Page 67 of Blade

On Friday, Ana got behind the wheel of Jolene’s car and drove to the clinic, where they met with a woman named Marta who made Jolene listen to the heartbeat of Hugo’s baby growing inside her. “It’s our policy,” Marta said. There were also several pages of information Marta said she had to read, word for word, as Jolene pleaded with her.

“You don’t understand! My father will kill me.”

Marta’s voice began to tremble with discomfort.

“There are other options, such as adoption ...”

“You don’t understand! He left me alone!”

She whispered, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” But then, “The baby might feel pain.”

“Ana! Make her stop!”

Marta told them they could come back “with proper ID, or a signed parental consent form. Or they could notify her parents and wait forty-eight hours ...”

Her eyes glanced at the Palace logo on Jolene’s sweatshirt.

“We helped your friend, but that was different. We have to follow the law and notify your parents,” she said. “And don’t wait longer than a week—you’re too far along.”

They rushed out of the clinic, back to the car. Ana was already spinning solutions, about getting another ID or going to a clinic somewhere else. But Jolene was shaking her head, like she knew it was useless.

Finally, she looked at Ana.

“Stop, okay. It’s over.”

Jolene cried while Ana drove, eyes fixed on the road, hands gripping the wheel.

In between her giant sobs, Jolene said these words—“He’s going to kill me.” Until she finally fell asleep with her head against the window.

Now Ana was alone with her thoughts, and they weren’t good ones.

One whole year, and where was she in this dream that had brought her to The Palace? One whole year she could have spent with her mother, and maybe she should have. But that was not what Connie wanted. What Connie wanted for her was this, the dream Ana had come here for. The one she could no longer help her daughter achieve.

Eyes on the road. Hands on the wheel. Listening to tires on the asphalt, the wind wisping past the windows. Jolene’s soft exhales, fogging up the glass.

Thoughts turning to Emile.

Emile. Emile. Emile.

Carrying Kayla up those steps, and into his house, and into his bed.

Emile.

His hand reaching for Ana as she lay in the snow.

Ana blinked, hard. Because what the hell were these thoughts? And why was all this happening? Why couldn’t she stay focused? On the skating and just the skating. Fight the fear. Land the triple flip, and then the Lutz and the loop?

Eyes on the road. Hands on the wheel. Ana started breathing like Dr. Westin had taught her to. She examined the fear and talked to it, telling it how strong she was. How smart and capable. But most of all, how angry it made her feel. Being afraid.

And for the first time since she’d been having her sessions in the room next to Dawn’s office, she felt it talk back. She felt her mind asking her questions. Asking for proof about this strength and knowledge she was claiming to have. Proof that she could keep herself—or any of them—safe, in this place.

Eyes on the road. Hands on the wheel. She searched for something soothing. One anecdote. One story that would convince the fear to loosen its grip around her throat. She thought about Indy’s fantasy, where her hands became blades that made Dawn run away. This brought a smile and one quick burst of laughter.

But her brain was left unconvinced. Indy’s story wasn’t real, of course, and Dawn had shown her that. How quickly she would yield to her longing for that monster. The giant weed.

They got home after dark, and Jolene felt sick the moment she opened her eyes. Ana followed her down the hall, away from the skaters who had gathered to watch the Nationals on TV, even the transplants and locals—the room was packed. Shannon Finch called after them.

“Hey—where have you been? You missed Indy’s skate.”