The Prologue (2 page)

I resume my stance standing against the wall of the school, one foot propped up and resting against the interior bricks. I’m hoping it can be a peaceful morning and everyone will leave everyone else alone, but clearly that’s not meant to be.

“You joining us after school today, Ezekiel?” Cameron asks, and I want to roll my eyes. How much more juvenile can you get, trying to humiliate someone by calling them by their full name?

“For what?” I ask, keeping my stance light and easy against the wall.

Something white and black flies through the air, making metallic clicking noises as it turns over and over, and I catch it reflexively. I know what it is even before I look down. A can of spray paint.

“Bridge on Riverside. Your marks are fading, I thought we could retouch it later tonight,” Cameron says. “Celebrate having only a few months left before summer break.”

I toss the can back to Cameron. “Can’t. I have plans.”

He raises his eyes. “Plans without us? Found someone more fun to play with?”

Dominic senses the rising tension between the two of us and lets out a big snort of laughter. “If you call babysitting his kid sister fun, then yeah, I would say so.”

Everyone lets out a loud chorus of laughter at the idea of Zeke Quain babysitting, and even though I hate being laughed at, I’m glad Dominic was the one to say it. I’m not able to produce that sarcastic tone where Cindy is concerned.

“You get off kid duty early, you know where to find us,” Cameron says, pointing at me with his finger. “We’ll keep a cold one ready for you.”

I nod that I understand, though I hate being pointed at like a child. Everything about Cameron rubs me the wrong way, but I put up with it because I don’t care enough to start a fight. Just as I’m thinking no way in hell will I meet up with them tonight, no matter how early Cindy is done at practice, the warning bell rings. We all groan at the thought of class and begin to go our separate ways. Dominic and I head for the closest flight of stairs.

As we walk, we pass Evie Parker and Tony Stull again, and my eyes can’t help but be drawn to Evie’s. My fingers itch to pick up a pencil every time I see her, she has such a classic face; full red lips, Marilyn Monroe beauty mark on her left cheek, high cheekbones, and those eyes, feline with the unique violet color. I squash the urge, just as Evie looks my way and our eyes meet.

I’m struck by how empty they look. Normally, Evangeline Parker looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world, or she’s frowning down her nose at me. Right now, though, she looks as if she has the weight of the world on her shoulders, and she doesn’t have a hope left.

Something stirs inside me; sympathy? Pity? I squash it as ruthlessly as I push down the urge to draw, and just because she’s made me feel emotion, emotion of any kind, I wink and smile at her, and Tony sees. Both of them look horrified, and the last I see of Evie right then is Tony’s arm tightening around her, keeping her safe as he rushes her away down the hall, away from the ugliness of the world that consists of people like me.

Ezekiel

2

“I’m home!” I call out, not sure if Cindy is already here, and pull the front door closed behind me.

“Zeeekkeeeee!”

The shrill cry echoes through the small apartment, and all of the sudden a figure dressed in pink hurtles toward me. Cindy crashes into me, almost knocking me over, even though she’s only eleven and weighs next to nothing. I knock into the door behind me and then laugh, hugging her as tightly as she’s holding me.

“I thought you’d never get here!” Cindy cries. “I’ve been waiting forever!”

“Forever, huh?” I ask, checking the time on my cell phone. “How about like, five minutes?” I check her over, taking in the long brown hair already in a bun on top of her head, pink leotard and black tights on, ballet shoes dangling from one hand. “How did you get ready so fast? Do you wear all that underneath your real clothes? I mean, I know you like to dance, Cindy, but jeez… Do we need to have a talk?”

She giggles and sticks her tongue out at me, and I laugh and scoop her up, tickling her as I do so. She giggles some more and screams, and then I put her down and we’re out the door. We walk the two miles to the base of the construction company our dad works for and load up in the battered, fifteen year old Honda Civic, taking off for the dance studio.

Cindy is practically out of the car before we come to a complete stop, and she sprints up to the door of the studio and waits until I get there to open the door for her. She walks in with a prim “Thank you, sir,” that makes me grin and shake my head at her. Then she’s off across the waiting area, behind the wall and onto the hardwood of the dance floor. She plops down next to the barre and begins to tie up her shoes, and I sit down in one of the chairs of the empty waiting room to do just that: wait for her.

I could leave, go catch up with Cameron and Dominic, or even cross the street to the Starbucks. Sometimes, when all the other dance moms arrive on the scene, chattering and flashing their Patek Phillipe watches and Tiffanys diamond studs so brightly I’m nearly blinded, it’s tempting. But watching Cindy dance is one of the few things left in the world that calms me. It used to be drawing, too, but I don’t do that anymore.

Jenny Hunt, a girl who goes to Grandview Heights with me and hangs out with Evangeline Parker’s elite crowd, comes out of the dance office and waves at me. I wave back, because even for a rich prep, she’s pretty all right. She’s nice to Cindy, and I’m okay with pretty much anyone who treats my little sister like the gold I think she is. Plus, Jenny agreed to do the extra one-on-one dance sessions with Cindy for twenty bucks a lesson, which I know is dirt cheap, and she probably would have done them for free if our pride wouldn’t have been insulted. I’d have maybe taken the hit, where Cindy was concerned.

My sister is the only one who has any power over me, emotionally. I allow it because she’s probably the only person I love, and the only person I know, without a single doubt, that will never abandon or disappoint me. In fact, I’m the one who worries about disappointing her. Being there for her, supporting her, is the only reason I don’t sink deeper into Cameron’s crowd, the reason I restrict myself to drinking, nothing heavier. I’m determined that Cindy will rise above the life my dad and I lead, and I will do everything in my power to spring her up into the stars.

She’s been in love with ballet ever since she was five and our mom took her to the Palace Theatre to see the Nutcracker. From then on, all Cindy could talk about was ballet. My mom, laughing, had bought her a tutu and ballet slippers, and a little instructional video that Cindy had memorized within a week. I’d been enrolled in football then, since we had more money with my mom around to work too. Football was fun, but when I saw how badly Cindy wanted to do ballet, and knew that we couldn’t afford both, I’d dropped out and Cindy had started to dance. By then, I was learning I liked art better anyway, and school could tutor me in that regard.

In no time at all, she’d been the best in her class, owing to both incredible talent and relentless practice. Ballet had been her rock, even when my mom had gotten cancer when Cindy was seven and I was thirteen. It had taken a year, but my mom had healed. And then she had run off, leaving us with a heap of medical bills and a bad taste in my mouth about love, family, and dependability. We never would have been able to afford to keep Cindy in dance if the studio hadn’t both known about the tragedy, and also badly wanted to keep Cindy since she was nearing competition age. They saw prestige and medals and trophies for their studio in Cindy’s graceful twirling. Not to mention, they all loved her.

They had bartered with us; a year of free dance lessons, if we could keep her supplied in everything she needed. Dad had flatly refused, but I was determined that Cindy, at least, should keep her dreams. I hadn’t drawn, hadn’t picked up a pencil or paintbrush, since my mom had run off. It had been a struggle, finding someplace within walking distance that would employ a fourteen year old kid, but eventually a café directly across the street from our apartment had taken a chance on me. They’d employed me as a busboy, and while at first I’d hated it, I’d made just enough to get Cindy everything she needed to compete, and pay half of all the fees for entering the competitions, per the agreement with the studio.

Cindy had kicked ass, and eventually the experience at the café had landed me my current job at the local country club, which paid a lot better, especially in the summertime when I could work days, and even more during wedding and golf season. Now, Cindy pays half price tuition, and the cheap extra lessons from Jenny, who is also one of the studio’s stars and teaches there part-time. I pay for all of it, since Dad is still struggling underneath the medical bills.

Cindy’s room is full to bursting with trophies and awards, and with the help of her teachers and Jenny pulling some strings, she’d achieved one of her dreams – performing in the Nutcracker at the Palace Theatre. I was proud enough to burst when we’d gone and seen her dance. My dad had sat woodenly throughout the whole performance, hadn’t even stood up and clapped at the end when Cindy had come out for her curtain call. I still despise him for that moment.

Usually, Cindy is the one subject that we could agree on, the only thing we don’t really fight about; we both believe she deserves the best in life, and to hell with the two of us. Our relationship is filled with tension, and usually I do my best to simply avoid being home whenever possible. Between work, school, and getting Cindy everywhere she needs to go, it isn’t all that hard.

There’s just something incredibly calming about watching Cindy out on the dance floor, twirling and skipping and hopping. Her skin, just as brown as my own, flashes and blurs with the pink and black and white of her ballet outfits, the strange contortions of her body impressing even me. I can watch her dance for hours, and when she begs me to do drawing and paintings of her dancing, it’s the only time I’m really tempted to break my rules.

Then, and when I look at Evie Parker’s face.

High pitched, feminine chatter pulls me from my deep thoughts, and I’m grateful. I look over at the door, and sure enough, the dance moms and their daughters are entering in waves. They’re a flood of neatly pressed pants, precise hems and securely tucked blouses. Their daughters are all pressed from the exact same cookie cutter, a little tall, lithe and skinny, leotards and tights neatly arranged, not a hair on their bunheads out of place.

They all file past me with similar glances of confusion and distaste, and the only thing that keeps me meekly in my seat is the knowledge that all these girls are only a year younger than me, and my eleven year old sister is a better dancer than all of them. For Cindy’s sake, I keep quiet and avoid any drama.

Grandview Heights isn’t the richest suburb of Columbus, Ohio by any means, but we do border Upper Arlington and Dublin, which are two of the more prestigious places. We’re also close to the elite, scenic Riverside Drive, with houses that back the river, and the enormous ones on the other side that are worth a pretty penny because they’re built on the ridge overlooking the river. Evie Parker, along with her precious Tony, even Jenny and all their cohorts, live on Riverside Drive, away from the squalor of the average-income houses and cheap apartments where the rest of us live, off of Grandview Avenue.

There’s only one central high school, and I’ll forever wonder why Evie and her crowd attend public high school, instead of one of the private schools. I can tell just by looking that all these dance girls have been born and bred in the private school system, without ugliness or poverty being allowed to touch them. They gather to warm up on one side of the dance floor while Jenny finishes with Cindy, all of them giggling and chattering, complaining that Daddy won’t buy them the thousand-dollar prom dress they wanted, even though Mommy said it looked fabulous.

I try to resist rolling my eyes, and then fail. Half of the moms stick around to watch, while the other half troops over to the Starbucks for their weekly coffee klatch, as though this is the only time they’ll ever have to see each other and catch up. Because between the nanny, housekeeper, and gardener, they just still have way too much to do. The influx of rich people here is simply because this dance studio is one of the best in Columbus, and these girls and moms travel all over the city in order to get the very best.

I shake my head at myself. It’s not that I’m jealous; I’d rather die than suffocate in a life like that. It’s the ignorance, the lack of level headedness. Don’t they realize that there are so many more, bigger problems out in the world? I serve these people almost every day at the country club, and I will never get over their shallowness.

There’s only one guy at the club that I have a semi-respect for, and that person, amazingly enough, is Ian Parker, Evie’s dad. He strikes me as an alright guy, even for being filthy rich. He’s usually the one heading the charity fundraisers at the club, doing most of the organizing and leading. He also always tips the staff extremely well, and my friend Tessa told me once that it’s because he’s a self-made man, and waited tables to help get himself through medical school. If that’s true, his work has definitely paid off. Dr. Parker has come a long, long way from being a menial waiter.