Page 1 of Shadow Waltz
BROKEN GLASS
ASH
EIGHT YEARS AGO…
The change felt warm in my palm, thirty-seven cents that might as well have been thirty-seven million. I rolled the coins between my fingers, listening to their soft clink against each other while Cass shifted beside me on the sagging couch. The apartment smelled like grease and disappointment, takeout containers stacked on the coffee table like a shrine to Mrs. Hargrove's latest attempt at motherhood.
“We could go tonight,” Cass whispered, their voice barely audible over the flickering TV. Some infomercial about miracle weight loss played on repeat, the volume turned down so low it was just moving mouths and empty promises. “If we sell your boots.”
I glanced down at my feet, at the scuffed combat boots I'd stolen from a thrift store three months ago. They were the only thing that fit right in this whole damn place. The leather hadmolded to my feet, broken in just enough that they didn't pinch when I had to run. And in this neighborhood, running was a survival skill.
“These boots?” I flexed my toes inside them, feeling the familiar comfort of worn sole against skin.
“Those boots.” Cass nudged my ribs with their elbow, and I could feel how thin they'd gotten lately. All sharp angles and hollow spaces where there used to be softness. The oversized hoodie they wore couldn't hide the way their wrists had started to look like bird bones. “What do you think they're worth? Twenty? Thirty?”
“Enough for a one-way ticket to nowhere.” I closed my fist around the coins, feeling their edges bite into my skin. The metal was getting slick with sweat, but I didn't let go. These coins, these boots, Cass's trembling hand—they were the only real things in a world built on lies. “Where would we go?”
“Portland. Seattle. Hell, maybe Detroit.” Cass's laugh turned into a cough, and I pretended not to notice the way their hand shook as they wiped their mouth. When they pulled their fingers away, there was the faintest trace of pink on their palm. “Somewhere with decent coffee and people who don't ask too many questions.”
The window beside us rattled as a truck rumbled past, its headlights cutting through the grimy glass and painting shadows on the wall. I could see the street below, kids my age huddled in doorways, dealing or getting dealt to. A girl I recognized from school—Jenny? Jamie?—was leaning against a lamppost in clothes too tight and shoes too high, her smile brittle as glass. The city never slept, never rested, never gave anyone a fucking break.
Mrs. Hargrove's voice echoed from the hallway, sharp and cutting through the thin walls like a rusty knife. “Ashford! You better not be planning anything stupid in there!”
I tensed, every muscle in my body coiling like a spring. She always used my full name when she was pissed, like the extra syllables gave her more power over me. Like she was calling down judgment from some angry god who actually gave a shit about kids like us.
“We're just watching TV,” I called back, keeping my voice level. Neutral. The tone I'd learned to use when the adults were looking for an excuse to make someone bleed.
“Better be. And that freak friend of yours better not be bleeding on my couch again.”
Cass flinched beside me like they'd been slapped. Their shoulders hunched inward, making them look even smaller. I felt rage bubble up in my chest, hot and familiar, the kind that made my vision go red around the edges.
“Their name is Cass,” I said, louder this time. The words came out harder than I'd intended, with teeth.
“Whatever. Just keep it down. I got people coming over tonight, and they don't need to see you two freaks cluttering up the place.”
The sound of her bedroom door slamming made us both jump. The walls in this shithole were so thin you could hear everything—Mrs. Hargrove's phone calls with social services, her late-night “visitors” who left money on the kitchen counter, the way she counted and recounted the welfare checks like they were lottery tickets.
I reached over and took Cass's hand, their fingers cold and trembling in mine. Their skin felt like paper, fragile enough to tear if I held too tight. “She's a bitch.”
“She's our ticket out of juvie.” Cass squeezed my hand weakly, their grip barely there. “Don't forget that.”
I wouldn't. Couldn't. This place was hell, but it was better than the alternative. At least here, we had each other. At least here, I could keep Cass safe from the worst of it. The grouphomes were worse—overcrowded, understaffed, full of predators in social worker clothing. And juvie? That was where kids like us went to disappear.
The TV flickered to a different channel, some cooking show where a guy in a white coat was making pasta from scratch. I watched his hands work the dough, kneading and folding with practiced ease, and felt that familiar ache in my chest. The wanting. The dreaming of a life that felt impossibly far away.
“I could do that,” I said, nodding toward the screen.
Cass followed my gaze and snorted, the sound wet and raspy. “You burn toast.”
“That was one time.”
“Three times. This week.” But they were smiling now, the expression soft and fond and beautiful. It transformed their whole face, made them look like the kid they should have been allowed to be. “And you set off the smoke alarm every time.”
I laughed despite myself, the sound rusty from disuse. It felt strange in my throat, foreign. When was the last time I'd laughed? Really laughed, not the bitter bark I used when someone got hurt or the adults said something particularly stupid?
“Fine. Maybe I'll be a dishwasher instead.”
“Now you're being realistic.” Cass leaned against my shoulder, their weight barely registering. They smelled like the cheap shampoo from the communal bathroom and something else, something medicinal that made my stomach clench. “We could get a tiny apartment above some diner. You could wash dishes, I could wait tables.”