The Ward

7


4:15 A.M., SATURDAY


All this clean water, and here I am just floating around in it. I’ve always known Derek was rich; he’s my bookie after all. But this is obscene.

Is this what it will be like for everyone in the Ward once the Blues get to piping off that spring?

Thanks to Yours Truly.

I allow myself a bit of brag time in my head, because hey, I did almost die on that mission of theirs. That’s worth something. I laugh to myself, buzzing from tonight’s events. The sound echoes like gunfire against the marble bathroom walls. Derek’s bathroom walls.

Man, do I love bubbles. I love bubbles so much that if I could be anything in the whole universe, it would be a bubble. Prepop, of course. Postpop and they’re, well, gone. Bubbles just float around, not a care in the world, multicolored and clear, would you believe it?

There’s this one bubble doing a balancing act on my big toe right now. I dip my fingers in the sudsy bathwater and, sticking my tongue out as I do when aiming really, really hard, I flick my finger, sending a splash its way. But it’s a persistent bugger. No! it says. I will not go down without a fight!

It’s nice not being dead, you know?

It’s especially nice not being dead, in Derek’s tub.

The bathwater starts to feel cool, so I reach for the shiny porcelain handle and add more hot. Indulgent, I know.

The water comes streaming from the faucet like pure gold. And all this water! He must have a drainage system the size of Africa. Bet it takes up his entire roof, which means he owns the building.

Come to think of it . . . which building am I even in?

Leaning my head against the hammered brass tub, I try to remember the ride back, during which I was completely zombified. Last thing I recall is dozing off on Derek’s shoulder.

I have no idea where in the Ward we are.

I do know I was half-asleep by the time he set me in the tub—the only way to get my temp up. He must’ve been fretting about the possibility of my getting hypothermia. Eventually, when I realized I was being lowered into even more water, I woke. And there Derek was, sitting over me in my birthday suit.

So yeah. There I was, naked in front of Derek. Me. Naked. In front of Derek.

And I didn’t even get to enjoy it!

That’s when I screamed like a banshee outta hell.

“Okay, okay! I just wanted to make sure you didn’t drown. Again.”

“OUT,” I’d said, not bothering to correct him that I did not, in fact, drown a first time. And out he went.

What an effed-up night. It’s like all my dreams are coming true—finding freshwater, getting closer to Derek—but in this really messed-up way.

My mind drifts to other things, like how I’m gonna handle Officer Cory, and the logistics of this freshwater discovery. And the fact that I missed my report to boss man. I bet he’s already messaged my backup cuffcomm at home to reschedule. I’ve never missed a report before—I don’t mess around with these guys. Never wanted to give them a reason to cut my pay. We couldn’t afford that.

I sink my head underwater, eyes open. Let the heat flood over, watching a watery mosaic of light and soapy blue. Sound becomes cocoonish, as if the world only exists within a few inches of my skull.

I found fresh.

I found fresh.

Then why does it feel like nothing’s changed? Why does it feel like nothing’s better?

The answer is easy.

My sister is still going to die, whether or not Justin Cory quadruples his offer, whether or not everyone gets their fair share of the spring. Whether or not I work for the Blues, or race, or live, or bite it. Whether or not anything. She just is. All the fresh in the world can’t keep Aven alive.

I look at my arm without thinking, to the raised Xs there.

She has only two. Indoors, the Blues don’t test. We talked about bringing her to the hospital, but there’s just not enough money. Cheaper to buy the pain meds black market, and have the doctor make a house call when we’re flush with green from hefty winnings.

The last doctor gave her three months.

I dig my nails into my palms. How dare he give her an expiration date? She’s not an effing carton of milk.

And when she does “expire”?

I’m back to being alone, just like how it was before I met her.

Whatever. She’s already a corpse. You’re not losing much.

I force myself to unclench my fists, hating myself for even thinking that. It’s not true, not always, though these days she’s less and less herself. There’s a rock in my throat—if I cried it would go away, but I can’t.

Water trickles into my ear canals, replacing the air. The sensation, so small but so distinct, it’s too much. I open my mouth and choke back a wrenching gulp, taking in the sudsy bathwater.

I shoot out of the tub; my chokes become gasps. The drops on my face are no longer just from the bath, I’m sobbing. With the echoes, there are a hundred of me, each one a blubbering mess. I’m so loud, I have to sink back underwater.

The bathroom goes blessedly quiet. Walls can’t hear a girl bawling from under here.

I can still hear me, though.

A light rap rap jerks me back out of the water, just in time to hear Derek calling through the door, “Everything okay in there?”

Everything should be okay, but I’d like to say bugger off, because obviously everything is not okay. “Fine,” I shout back just a little too agreeably.

Pulling myself together with a few even exhales, I’m tempted to reach for the water once more, but decide not. It’s already cold, no use making it warm again. My fingers are prunish, and that combined with the red scratches makes ’em look like they belong to the undead.

I step out of the tub and slip on Ter’s sweatpants. Left next to them, a white T-shirt, small enough to fit me, which makes me wonder where Derek got it. Next, I make sure my canteen of gold is latched, secure, to my belt.

I’m about to leave when it occurs to me—I may want to make full use of whatever else Derek’s got up for grabs in this bathroom.

Like, maybe deodorant, if I’m lucky.

On the shelf: soap in the shape of a seahorse (why would anyone have that?), a shiny pink seashell, and a glass bottle of clear liquid, speckled with tiny gold flecks. I push down on the cap and spray the air in front of me.

The smell . . . at first it’s just boozy, like a bottle of alcohol that hasn’t been opened in too long, but after that, it’s sun on water, grass for miles, and a bouquet of real flowers. I imagine, at least. I’ve heard that stuff is great.

Now this, this I want to steal.

And it’s probably worth more than a cure for the Blight. But after I spray myself, I leave it be.

I turn to make sure everything is in its place before heading out. I haven’t unplugged the drain in the tub—not sure he’d want me to. Gray water can be reused. Derek seems like the type to have plants; he could water them with it. Or maybe he’s just rich enough he doesn’t have to. Hell, I’d take it with me if I could. Wash some of my clothes.

Voices at the door stop me short.

“Why did you bring her here?” It comes out as a hiss. A girl. An angry girl by the sound of it.

I stifle a groan. Only a girlfriend would be over at four in the morning, pissed that another girl was naked in his bathtub.

How could I not have known?

Derek says something in reply, but his voice is too low to pick out the words. I should get closer.

Careful not to make too much noise, I crouch in front of the door.

“I can see it plain as day, Derek,” she says. “I know what it looks like, remember?”

“You’re paranoid.” Derek pauses just as I’m about to twist the brass doorknob. Instead of risking it, I stay close to the tile, craning my neck so that I can hear under the door. “She’s just a friend, Kitaneh. Barely that. I’m her bookie, no different from any of the other guys.”

My stomach bottoms out, worse than cruising off the side of a building, because that’s a feeling I actually enjoy. I always knew I never really had a chance with Derek, but to hear him say it like this . . . it makes me want to puke.

“There are rules,” the girl, Kitaneh, says.

I’m sure she’s talking about bookies and racers not mixing affairs—no one would like that, but it doesn’t matter. He’s just said I’m “barely” even a friend. My neck is starting to hurt and the voices sound like they’re moving farther away, so I reach up for the door handle—I want to see this girl. When I peek out, I catch a glimpse.

Once more, I’m sick to my stomach.

She’s beautiful.

See, I never wanted to be five foot ten, have buttery-yellow hair like Aven’s or the kind of baby blues that turn guys into puddles. I never wanted to be pale-skinned, though I could have done with a few less freckles. What I have wanted was to be able to run a hand through my hair once in my life, and not always have my own personal spiral skyscrapers on my head. I’ve wanted my body, small and dense, to be small and willowy. My eyes to be dark, but still interesting.

I’ve wanted to look like myself, just different.

So, basically . . . her.

It’s pretty awful, coming face-to-face with the person who is your version of perfection. Which means Derek didn’t bring me here because he likes me, he just felt bad.

I swallow the realization like swallowing needles—I never stood a chance.

I don’t want to go out there. See him. But I know my priorities: Aven. Officer Cory.

Giving in to that silly, stupid feeling I get when Derek’s around is not on the list.

If only feelings listened to a list.