The rent went up again. Maya pulled out the chair across from her. And Denise pushed an envelope across the table. Electric company. Past due.
A second envelope sat beneath it. Medical charges. Maya recognized the amount. Her stomach dropped. You said insurance handled most of that.
It handled some. Why didn't you tell me? Because you have school. That doesn't make bills disappear. I know.
Denise's voice cracked just slightly. Maya looked away. The apartment suddenly felt smaller. She pictured Denise cleaning hospital rooms under fluorescent lights while other people slept. Extra shifts.
Swollen ankles. Cold dinners. And Maya sitting in classrooms where people like Brooke spoke about tuition as if it were simply another expense. I'll get another job. No.
I can work nights. No. I can cut training. Denise's expression changed. Absolutely not.
Aunt Denise. Your father did not spend his life teaching you discipline so you could throw away everything that keeps you whole. This is rent. And school is your future. Maya's voice hardened.
Future doesn't matter if we lose the apartment. Denise stared at her. For a long moment they were both too tired to pretend. Then Denise reached across the table. You think I haven't been scared before?
Maya lowered her eyes. After your father died, I was terrified every day for a year. I was scared when the landlord called. Scared when the hospital cut overtime. Scared every time you said you were fine because I knew you weren't.
Maya swallowed. Denise squeezed her hand. But David wanted you to have choices. I know. He did not want you spending your whole life proving yourself to people who already decided not to see you.
Maya thought of Brooke. Karen. The phones. That anonymous account. I'm trying not to.
Denise studied her. What happened at school? Maya froze. There it was. She could lie again.
Instead she said. Someone's making things harder. Denise waited. Maya looked at the bills. Not tonight.
Her aunt nodded slowly. Okay. But the worry stayed in her eyes. Later, after Denise left for another hospital shift, Maya walked to Riverton Athletic Center. Walter was outside locking a storage shed.
You look terrible, he said. Thank you. You're welcome. She sat on the concrete steps. Walter joined her.
For a while they watched traffic move along the wet street. Then Maya told him about the rent. Not everything. Enough. "I can pick up work," she said.
Walter shook his head. Of course you can. Maya frowned. What's that supposed to mean? It means your answer to every crisis is to hand away another piece of yourself.
I'm supposed to do nothing? No. Walter looked at her. You're supposed to stop confusing sacrifice with strength. Maya went quiet.
He continued. Brooke is pushing harder because you keep absorbing everything. School, home, Denise, everybody else's emergencies. What choice do I have? Walter looked toward the gym doors.
Eventually the choice becomes whether you protect everyone except yourself. Maya stood. I have class tomorrow. Walter nodded. She picked up her backpack.
As she turned her phone vibrated, a message from an unknown number. Maya opened it. A photograph filled the screen, her, inside Ruth's kitchen that morning, helping Ernest, taken through the front window. Underneath were four words, always playing the hero. Maya's face went cold.
Walter saw it. What? She handed him the phone. His expression changed instantly. The second message arrived before he could speak.
See you at lunch. Maya looked toward Crownbridge in the distance. Though the campus was miles away, Brooke was no longer waiting for Maya to make a mistake. She was choosing the time and place herself. The next day, Crownbridge felt too bright.
Sunlight poured through the student commons windows and flashed against polished tables, glass railings and stainless steel counters. It was the kind of clean, expensive brightness that made every stain seem visible. Maya noticed that before she noticed Brooke, the commons was crowded. Nearly every table was full. Adult students in business clothes, nursing scrubs, varsity jackets and work uniforms filled the room with conversation and the clatter of trays.
Maya stood at the entrance with her backpack over one shoulder. For one second, she considered leaving. Then she remembered Karen Bennett telling her to stay away from Brooke, as if the building belonged more to Brooke than to her. Maya kept walking. She bought soup, a sandwich and water.
No milk this time. The thought annoyed her. She hated that Brooke had managed to change something as small as what she ordered for lunch. Maya chose a table near the far windows. She set down her tray, opened her anatomy notes, tried to breathe normally.
For three full minutes, nothing happened. Then laughter rose behind her, not loud, close. Maya did not turn. Brooke's voice came next. So it's true.
Maya kept reading. Brooke stopped beside the table. Evan Miller stood behind her. Two of Brooke's friends remained a few feet away. More importantly, several phones were already visible.
Maya looked up. Brooke smiled. I heard you've been training at Riverton. Maya said nothing. "Like actually fighting?" A few students nearby glanced over.
Maya closed her notebook. I'm eating. Brooke tilted her head. That wasn't a question. Maya's pulse began to climb.
She kept her hands flat on the table. Brooke leaned closer. "What are you? Some kind of secret tough girl?" Evan laughed. Maybe the scholarship comes with combat training.
Maya looked at him. His grin widened. The first video had taught them the wrong lesson. They had watched her take humiliation without reacting. Now they wanted to know how far they could push before she broke.
Brooke pointed toward Maya's backpack. Does your little old gym teach you how to stare people down too? Maya stood. Not fast. Not aggressively.
She picked up her tray. Brooke moved into her path. Maya stopped. Move. Brooke's smile hardened.
Oh, there she is. Maya shifted left. Brooke stepped left. Maya shifted right. Brooke blocked again.
Someone at the next table raised a phone. Then another. Maya heard the faint digital chirp of recording starting. She looked around. The same pattern.
Eyes everywhere. Help nowhere. Lisa Grant was working behind the cafeteria counter that afternoon. She looked up from the register and immediately saw what was happening. She started to move.
A line of customers blocked her path. Maya looked back at Brooke. I'm not doing this. Brooke's expression turned almost cheerful. Doing what?
This. Maya stepped around her. Brooke's hand struck the side of Maya's cup. Water spilled across the table and onto the floor. The room quieted by degrees.
Conversation thinned. Forks stopped. Maya looked down at the spreading water. Then at Brooke. Brooke lifted both hands.
Accident. Maya could hear her own heartbeat. Slow. Heavy. She remembered room 214.
Walter's voice. Do not show people your anger just because they want proof they can control it. Maya took one breath. Then another. She bent to pick up her tray.
Brooke reached out and grabbed the front of Maya's varsity jacket. The white leather sleeve pulled tight across Maya's shoulder. Maya froze. The commons went silent. Not quieter.
Silent. Maya looked down at Brooke's hand. Then up at Brooke. Let go. Brooke smiled.
Or what? Maya's face changed. Not into anger. Into focus. She placed one hand over Brooke's wrist.