Page 1 of Dance of Devils

1

BROOKLYN

When you’re poor,the days have a way of blending together.

They say time flies when you’re having fun. But when your task for the next twenty-four hours, over and over on a hellish repeat, is merely tosurvive, time becomes the enemy. It represents meals you have to source. Logistics you have to figure out…where to shower, where to brush your teeth, where to pee.

Time is measured in long, terror-filled nights hiding in the back seat of your car, only half-asleep in case someone tries to break in, or the cops show up and start hassling you.

You have to figure out ways of staying creative and keeping the lies going. Find reasons for never inviting your close friends over to your place.

…Because you don’thaveone.

It wasn’t always like this, of course. My life has never been mistaken for a Hallmark movie, and I doubt anyone has ever envied it, but at least it used to be a few notches above “living out of a 2001 Honda Accord”.

But that was before Mom died. Before my stepfather lost the uphill battle of trying to raise a kid who wasn’t his and who he’d only known for two years. Before I got swallowed into the system and ping ponged from one horror-show of a foster home to another, until I turned sixteen and legally emancipated myself.

Before the banks and the less reputable “lenders” came calling about Mom’s debts and took everything, and life became one long, slow losing streak.

My money. My dignity. Finally, a year ago, my apartment.

That's when Pearl—i.e., my Honda—and I first became acquainted. And as much as I love her, she can be arealfinicky cunt when she wants sometimes.

“Goddamnit,go, bitch,” I mutter, gritting my teeth and trying the ignition again.

When I was nine, I was in a particularly hellish foster home on Staten Island. He was a monster—Mr. Morris, I mean. But on the plus side,Mrs.Morris played piano for a local dance school. And as terrified as she was of her husband, she’d come alive when she was sitting at that piano, with the little girls in pink satin moving in perfect union at the barre behind her.

She took me with her one day—I don't know if it was a way of getting me away from Mr. Morris’s temper and day drinking, or if she really thought I'd enjoy it. But that’s all it took.

One day.

One ballet class.

I was fuckinghooked.

And fourteen years later, here I am.

Living out of a nearly-vintage car notwithstanding, I’m doing awesome, professionally speaking. The Zakharova—the company I dance with here in New York—is recognized as one of the greatest in the world.

It’s tough, brutal work. But what dreams are worth it in the end, if it’s not challenging to get there?

The only problem is, ballet as a career payssweet fuck all.

Add in the money I keep sending Derrick’s lawyer for the appeals process, and voila: my current living situation.

“Fuckoff,” I grunt at Pearl, jamming the key back in and twisting as I stomp on the brake pedal.

Pearl mutters and complains and possibly passes gas before she stops again.

Fuck.

I glance around. Mercifully, the quietish side street in Murray Hill that I’ve been parked on for the last few nights is devoid of walkers. I take a slow breath, glancing at the back seat, which has now been transformed back into a messy car from a cozy bed.

Pro tip: messy shitbox cars don’t get broken into or cased. Cars that look like someone’s living in them do.

I run a hand over the steering wheel and then pat it encouragingly.

“Girl, it’s been four days. You know the rules. Time to move. I’m thinking Hell’s Kitchen for the next few nights? Maybe West 46thand 9th,near the Galaxy Diner?” I take a deep breath and pat thedashboard. “And to do that, you need to clear off the stink face, get the sand out of your vagina, andstart. Okay?”