The Brokenhearted

by Amelia Kahaney

  CHAPTER 16

  I have no idea how long it takes me to race Serge’s still-unconscious body to the car, or how much time I spend searching his pockets for the keys with shaking hands. I find them just as he wakes up and clutches his bleeding head. I guide him into the backseat and hop in the front.

  By the time they start shooting again, I’ve already started the car.

  It’s only when I peel out of the parking lot and a bullet flies through the back window, shattering the glass, that the rules of time and space begin to conform to something resembling normal again. I whip my head around to make sure Serge hasn’t been hit, then push the accelerator to the floor. The speedometer swings to 110 as I reach the Bridge of Unity.

  “Anthem,” Serge says from the backseat. “You can slow down now. It is not in their interest to follow us.” His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, his expression a mix of awe and—if I’m reading him correctly—pride. I slow the car down to eighty and take a deep, shuddering breath. My mind is utterly blank as the adrenaline in my veins begins to ebb. How can I possibly explain to him what just happened? How can I explain it to myself?

  “How’s your head?” I ask him, turning my eyes to the road again.

  “Just a small cut,” Serge says, pressing a handkerchief to his forehead. “And a headache.”

  “Serge,” I start. “I’m so sorr—”

  “You’ve run two red lights,” he says as I speed through an intersection. “I see your powers of driving, at least, are not greatly enhanced.”

  I think of him teaching me to drive in this same car, the Motoko, just a year ago. I managed to knock off both his side mirrors in one week. He was so patient both times. So much more patient than I had any right to expect.

  “This is the first time I’m driving you somewhere,” I joke lamely.

  “We have experienced a number of firsts tonight, you and I.”

  “Sorry I didn’t stay in the car.” I say, wanting to say more but instead falling quiet again, not sure how to talk about what’s just happened. But Serge doesn’t push or prod me for answers.

  He leans forward in the backseat, his head near mine, speaking softly. “I’m sorry tonight didn’t go the way it should have.”

  “Me too,” I say, my stomach twisting, when I think about what the kidnappers might be planning now.

  “You realize their demands will continue to escalate. They are neither intelligent nor reasonable.” Serge draws out that last word, his upper lip curled in disgust at the memory of the masked gang.

  I nod miserably, wiping my sweaty forehead with my sleeve. I’ve spent the last few hours not letting myself think the unthinkable, but now I can’t help it. “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  My gaze meets Serge’s in the mirror again. “Yes.” He pauses. “For now.”

  I press my lips together and blink hard, concentrating on the movement of traffic ahead of me. A hole opens inside my chest as I picture Gavin being struck again and again, a gun barrel pointed to his head. A part of me wishes I had never walked into that party that night, if it could save his life. And yet I can’t imagine a world in which we never met. Tears gather at the corners of my eyes, blurring the brake lights in front of me into streaks of red. “For now, but not for long,” I whisper.

  Serge is quiet for a beat. “I have always admired your open mind, Anthem. Especially considering how you were raised.”

  “You mean, considering the money?”

  “The money, yes, and always with the ballet, working so hard, with such focus.”

  I’m not quite sure what he’s getting at, so I keep quiet as I pull the car into the garage under Fleet Tower. When I park in the empty spot next to the Seraph, Serge pushes down the lock on my door. I sit back in my seat, surprised.

  “But you must be more careful. A gifted person like you cannot afford to be careless with her life.”

  I turn around and face Serge in the backseat.

  “Especially now, when it appears there are gifts you are just discovering. You cannot risk confronting them without protection.” He reaches toward the dash and flips open the car’s glove compartment, just long enough for me to see the glint of a pistol. Then, without a word, he shuts it.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. Right now, there is nothing more to say.

  Half an hour later, I dart down the hall and sneak into my room. I dig through my backpack and find three Brawn Bars I packed this morning. My exhausted body perks up after my first leaden swallow, and I quickly force down two bars, saving the third for later. I crumple the plastic wrappers into a ball and begin to pace the perimeter of my room. It’s time, I think. Time to look at what I’ve become.

  I walk toward the ballet barre bolted on the far wall. Even now, after everything that’s happened, my body automatically falls into the battement combination we’ve been doing for our Giselle rehearsals, running through a few dozen pliés and positions with one hand resting lightly on the barre. I move from fourth to fifth position and back again, scissoring my legs faster, faster, pushing my feet out and back until they seem barely to touch the wooden floor.

  I try an experimental leap, a grand jeté from the barre all the way to my bed.

  The rules of physics say there’s not a chance in hell I’ll make it.

  But I do. I land lightly and soundlessly in the center of my bedspread. I look back over at the barre, estimating the distance at about fifteen feet.

  Maybe it’s just a fluke. Except I know it isn’t. I’m certain, deep down, that I can do it again and again.

  I grit my teeth in concentration and spring forward off the bed, whizzing soundlessly through the air, almost hoping I’ll crash down on the carpet and discover my limits. But I land lightly, balancing on top of the barre itself, my bare feet curving around the smooth, varnished wood.

  I hop off the barre and spin in a series of fouettés toward the mirrored wall in the corner of my room. At three feet away, my reflection confirms that I’m still me. Still the skinny girl with the skeptical eyes and stubborn mouth, the pale redheaded features, the faint constellation of ginger-colored freckles. But up close, when I lean in, my eyes glow a rich emerald, no longer the heather green they used to be.

  I take a deep breath and yank my turtleneck sweater over my head. I cross my arms over my bare breasts, covering most of the scar in the center of my chest. Same tiny shoulders, bony neck. Same scrawny arms. Same perfect posture, the product of years of ballet. I throw back my shoulders and lower my arms. Same almost-flat chest. And in the middle of it, a line of black plastic stitches, neatly knotted at each end.

  At last, I let my eyes run along the long, jagged wound. I find a wiry piece of plastic sticking out from the scar and begin to tug, methodically untying the series of tiny knots until I’m able to pull several of my stitches out, to slide the plastic wire from beneath my skin. I barely feel any pain, just a minor pinch. Gritting my teeth, I keep pulling, untying. The stitches leave behind nothing more than a faint pink welt with pink dots on either side of it. Apparently, my new heart doesn’t just make me fast and strong. It also lets me heal at hyperspeed.

  The scar extends from my sternum to the tops of my breasts. The cut is sealed, my mutant heart trapped firmly inside my chest. My newfound rage, and the ability to act on it by hitting until I break bones, to run until I’m nearly flying—all of this is a part of me now, forever sewn inside me. Lodged in the same place I keep my pain, my fear, my love.

  I look into my bright green eyes in the mirror and smile sadly, mourning the person I once was. The old Anthem Fleet is gone now. I’m no longer the shy, small girl who spun in perfect circles in a mirrored room. Now it’s up to me to find a way to break the kidnappers, to spin fast enough to save Gavin. I begin a series of pirouettes in front of the mirror, first spinning to my right, then to my left. Every second turn, I let my bare foot fly out in front of me, imagining it making contact with Miss Roach’s masked face.

  My heart whirs with stubborn, stupid
hope.

  After a dozen kicks, I put a hand to my scar. I think of Serge’s warning. I’m ready to risk everything if it means Gavin will live.

  CHAPTER 17

  I slice through the water, focusing on the burning in my muscles and the rhythm of my breath. The sun hasn’t come up yet. I’m in our resistance pool, an extra-long, skinny rectangle of teal one lap wide in an all-glass room across from my father’s office on the lower level of the penthouse. Anxiety propelling me forward, I swim freestyle against the push of the synthetic current.

  As I swim, my fear and exhaustion turns to angry energy, and I feel more and more certain that Gavin is still alive. With each overhead stroke, my determination to get him back grows surer, more urgent.

  Soon I’m paddling and kicking hard enough and fast enough to send great sheets of water pouring out over the lip of the pool, soaking the whole room. I recalibrate, reminding myself not to push as hard as my new heart can.

  I swim until my arms feel like snapped rubber bands, then pull myself out of the pool and put on a black terry robe with FLEET INDUSTRIES embroidered on the back. I sprawl out on the chaise longue, barely winded. An unusually beautiful sunrise streams through the glass wall—such a bright shade of fuchsia that it almost makes Bedlam look good—and I take it as a sign that Gavin is still on this earth.

  I shut my eyes and lean my head against the mesh of the chaise, telling myself that after breakfast I’ll figure out how to find them, destroy them, do anything it takes. I get lost in fantasies of sneaking up on Miss Roach, grabbing her by the hair, making her talk . . . until I hear the ping of a text message.

  I wipe my hands on my robe and fish the phone out of the pocket. It’s probably Zahra checking in with me for news of Gavin, or maybe my mother texting from upstairs, looking for me.

  But an unfamiliar number pops up, full of zeros and fours. A hot balloon of dread begins expanding in my stomach when I read the message.

  Good morning Princess. Pleasure to see you last night. U R crazier than we thought. We need the rest of the $$$ by midnight on Sunday. If you fall short, this is the last time you’ll ever see Loverboy alive. No theatrics this time.

  My breath catches in my throat when a second text pops up. It’s a photo of Gavin, a light-brown shock of hair falling over his face. The one eye I can see squints against the flash of the camera as if he hasn’t seen light in a long time. A yellow bruise covers half his face, his eye swollen, encrusted with something dark. He’s flinching from the camera, holding up the front page of the Daily Dilemma, the bottom half of it smeared with blood. I touch the picture and zoom in with my fingers. The date printed on the masthead of the paper is today’s. It is proof that Gavin is alive.

  My hands begin shaking so violently that I drop the phone. “Damn it!” I shout, scooping it up from the puddle under my chaise longue and frantically drying it off with the corner of my robe.

  I bite the insides of my cheeks and suck air through my nostrils. There’s no way I can get the rest of the money—not even close to that amount—by Sunday. My father was right. They’re just going to keep asking for more. I think longingly about my trust fund, but it’s locked away until I’m eighteen, which isn’t for another seven months.

  I wrap the robe tighter around me and stand up on shaky legs, my mind racing. The only solution is to find him, I realize, my fingernails digging into my fisted palms. To find him and take him from them by force. But how? My thoughts spin to Serge. We have a tacit understanding now. But Serge won’t let me anywhere near the kidnappers alone. And I can’t let him risk his life again—next time, I might not be able to swoop in and pull him out.

  I drift out of the pool room, pausing in front of my father’s half-open office door. An enlarged aerial photograph of Bedlam fills a whole wall, all of North Bedlam shaded green—for renewal, for hope, for money—and the rest of the city the dull gray of pigeons, cement, and guns.

  To find people in the South Side, I realize as I study the winding streets on my father’s map, I have to get help from a South Sider. And if I have any hope of forcing Miss Roach to give up Gavin, I’ll need help from someone who’s not afraid to play dirty.

  I know only one person who fits the job description.

  An hour later, I’m sitting in a cab with my Seven Swans bag next to me on the seat, headed over the Bridge of Sighs. I told my father I was headed to the studio to try to get back in the groove, and he patted me absently on the head, saying Atta girl, there’s the old work ethic I know and love. Luckily, my mother is having one of her weeks where she doesn’t rise until noon.

  “You sure you want to go there?” the driver says. He’s missing both front teeth, and the identification card reads ISHMAEL GREEN. I nod as I scan the twisting knot of streets ahead of us. I have no idea how to find Ford, but I’m pretty sure I remember how to get to Jax’s lab, and I’m hoping she will lead me to him. Not that I relish the idea of visiting the lab. The thought of setting foot in there again makes my skin feel too tight for my body.

  When we’re just a few blocks away, I actually see Ford. He’s in his usual sportswear, a black vinyl Windbreaker with white piping on the sleeves and matching pants, ducking into a MegaMart.

  “Stop here,” I say, and hastily shove a crumpled wad of bills into the cab’s Plexiglas money slot. “Keep the change.” I dash from the cab toward the sliding glass doors.

  Inside the MegaMart, I’m greeted by a pimpled guard no older than I am, an Uzi strapped to his chest. He looks me up and down and yawns, then passes me a flier with today’s specials on it.

  “Welcome to MegaMart,” he says listlessly. “Keep it moving.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and nod, then head into the cavernous aisles to find Ford. I have no idea what I’ll say to him. The aisles of the MegaMart are narrow and grimy, everything coated in a thin layer of dust, packed to the rafters with crates of goods sold in bulk. All around me, squabbling families are piling their carts with blocks of cheez product, cases of beer, cans of beans the size of oil drums. A bent old woman sorts through an enormous bin of tube socks marked THREE FOR THREE, FIVE FOR FOUR.

  I’ve seen commercials and billboards for MegaMart—the chain has been spreading like kudzu through the South Side—but I’ve never been near one before. At the end of each aisle is another guard, another preposterously large Uzi at the ready.

  As I round the end of the aisle past a pyramid of fifty-pound bags of Hound Healthy dog food, I spot Ford. He’s near the pharmacy, studying a wall of BuffShake canisters. I move to stand next to him, careful to keep a few feet between us.

  “Bulking up?” I ask.

  He whirls around, his face carved into a tough-guy mask until he recognizes me. “Anthem!” he says, breaking into a wide grin. “You came back! Jax’ll be so happy I found you.”

  “I think it’s me who found you,” I correct him.

  “Whatever.” Ford shrugs. Then his face darkens a little. “You shouldn’t have run off so soon. It’s dangerous. For your, you know.” He looks down at my chest, waving his hand in an embarrassed circle. “For that whole . . . situation.”

  “Well, I’m fine. Good as new,” I mutter, my face turning purple.

  A guard approaches us. “Keep it moving,” he says. Ford nods, eyeing the Uzi. Keep it moving must be MegaMart’s slogan.

  “This place is the worst,” he says under his breath. “They think people are going to riot over shaving cream and tuna fish.”

  “Listen, I need to talk to you about something—” I start.

  “Not here,” Ford interrupts, grabbing me by the arm. “There are cameras everywhere, and these little punks are trigger happy. Let me just pay for this”—he holds up a canister of shaving cream—“and we’ll talk somewhere else.”

  I walk with him toward the cashier, who looks even younger than the guard, and wait while Ford counts out $23.59 in singles and change. When we’re finally out the door, he exhales, jogging a few paces and doing neck rolls as if he’s just finished a
workout. “I hate that place, but it’s so damned cheap.”

  “So anyway,” I try again, conscious of the four security cameras bolted above the MegaMart doors, turning my face away from them. “I need some information.”

  “Not here. I know a place,” he mutters, zipping up his Windbreaker. “It’s just up the block.”

  “Not the lab,” I say. “I’m not going back there.”

  He nods and takes off, walking fast. I have no choice but to follow. He crosses the street and makes two quick rights, then stops at a pockmarked green door.

  “Try to look older,” he mutters, then pushes the door open with his shoulder. “And uglier.”

  Like anyone can see me in here, I think when I cross the doorway’s threshold into the barely lit space. The room is dominated by a large bar, at least a dozen stools already occupied by slouching boozehounds even though it’s only 10:00 A.M. The place is so dark that I need to wait for my eyes to adjust before I keep walking. Ford pulls me by the sleeve of my coat toward a booth in back, past the bar. The smell of grain alcohol, beer, and rollies is thick.

  The bartender, a buxom girl with bad skin and a blue bouffant, smiles brightly at Ford. She scowls when she catches sight of me, but I hustle past her.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says after we slide into a wooden booth toward the back. “Lemme buy you an EnergyFizz or something.”

  “No thanks,” I say, taking a breath and preparing to state my case. “I’m actually here for a favor.”