Chapter 5: A Thousand Dollars

Clara's POV

I tightened my grip on the fork, my face burning with shame. Then I took a deep breath.

"My dad..." My voice caught. "He hurts me. A lot."

The words felt strange coming out of my mouth. Like I was admitting something I should have been able to hide.

"My stepmom..." I stared down at my plate. "She's pregnant again."

My fingers curled tighter around the fork.

"There isn't enough money anymore."

I swallowed hard.

"And my dad wanted me to..." My voice dropped lower. "To get close to that rich—"

"Damn it."

Grandma's voice cut through mine.

I froze.

For a second, I just sat there, staring at her.

My nose suddenly burned, and I blinked quickly, trying to stop the tears I didn't want to shed.

"Is there anything else?" she asked.

"They gave me money," I said. "It was the thousand dollars my mom left me."

I reached into my backpack and pulled out the envelope and laid the bills flat on the table between us, spreading them out so she could see.

"It's fake. All of it. Same serial number on every single bill. I found out at the grocery store this afternoon."

Grandma Irene put down her sewing. She took off her glasses, picked up one of the bills, and held it up toward the lamp. I watched her turn it over in her hands.

She set it back down on the table.

Her jaw tightened.

"Damn it," she said quietly. And then, louder, "what a bunch of heartless bastards."

The words hit the walls and sat there.

She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the bill on the table like it had personally insulted her.

There was something in her expression that made me feel, for the first time since I'd stepped off that bus, like someone was actually on my side.

I took out the letter. The envelope had gotten damp and the paper had gone soft at the edges, the ink slightly blurred in a few places. I held it out with both hands.

Grandma Irene took the letter from me. She put her glasses back on and sat very still for a moment, just looking at the handwriting on the envelope.

Then she unfolded it carefully—slowly, like the paper was something that mattered—and bent her head to read.

I looked at my hands. At the fake bills on the table. At the low fire.

The room was very quiet.

"I want to finish school," I said, when I couldn't hold the silence anymore. "I want to apply to a conservatory. I know it's a lot to ask."

I took a breath. "If you let me stay—just two years—I'll pay my own way. I'll find a way to make it work. And when I'm done, when I have a job, I'll take care of you. I promise."

She didn't answer. She folded the letter back along its original creases, slow and deliberate, and set it on the table beside the bills. Then she stood up, picked up my empty bowl, and carried it to the kitchen.

I heard water running. The sound of ceramic against the sink.

"Conservatory," she said, from the kitchen. Her voice was flat—not unkind, but unreadable. Like she was talking to herself. "Not easy to get in."

I didn't say anything. I just sat there with my hands in my lap and waited, because there was nothing left to say and nothing left to do but wait, and I'd gotten very good at waiting.

She came back into the room wiping her hands on a dish towel, and she looked at me.

"You're going to school in this little town?"

"Yes!" I answered quickly.

"You handle the transfer paperwork yourself!"

I nodded so hard my neck almost hurt.

"The transfer..." I started. "My stepmother already—"

I stopped.

She had arranged everything two days ago.

Not because she cared.

Because she couldn't wait for me to be gone forever.

She jerked her chin toward the stairs.

"Small room upstairs, on the right. It's yours."

Then she turned back to the table.

"Clean it yourself."

"Thank you." My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat. "Thank you so much, Grandma."

"Don't thank me! Go clean your room instead!"

She frowned at me.

"And take a shower. Do you want to get sick? you're soaked!"

I quickly grabbed my suitcase and hurried upstairs.

The room was small and plain. A single bed with a bare mattress, a wooden dresser, a window that looked out over the side yard.

On the windowsill, a terracotta pot with something brown and dried in it that had probably been a plant once. I set my violin case on the mattress first, before anything else.

I saw the new crack—a thin line running about two inches along the lower edge of the case, toward the clasp. I ran my thumb along it, then lifted the lid.

The violin lay in its velvet bed, exactly as it had since Pittsburgh.

The broken strings coiled loosely against the body, one of them catching the light from the hallway.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at it for a moment.

Then I closed the case.

Footsteps on the stairs—slow and deliberate. Grandma Irene appeared in the doorway.

I shot to my feet instinctively.

She had a folded towel and a faded flannel nightgown tucked under one arm, and in her other hand a small wooden box with a brass latch.

She dropped the towel and nightgown into my arms without ceremony. "There's a blanket in the closet. These are yours to use."

Then she held out the box.

I took it. It was lighter than it looked.

"This is—"

She looked away for a second.

"There's about a thousand dollars in here."