Chapter 4

Jessica's POV

By 7 PM, backstage at the National Youth Ballet Finals was absolute chaos.

I drifted through the steel rafters near the ceiling, peering down at the dressing room.

Amy sat at the vanity, pale as a ghost. Her makeup was done, her white tutu perfectly fitted. She looked like a porcelain doll that could shatter at any second.

She was trembling.

"They're gone! I can't find them anywhere!" Sarah dumped the makeup bag upside down, sweating. "David, are you sure you packed Amy's lucky shoes?"

David paced the cramped room. "I'm positive. They're her favorite pair. How the hell would I lose them?"

"Then where are they?!" Amy clutched her chest, her breathing growing shallow. "I can't dance without those shoes... Jessica gave them to me. I absolutely cannot lose them."

"Don't even say her name." David's voice turned ice-cold.

He stopped pacing, his eyes darkening. "I know exactly what happened. That little bitch took them. Snuck in and snatched them when we weren't looking."

Hovering in mid-air, I actually found it hilarious.

David, I gave those shoes to Amy. Why the hell would I steal them back?

But his mind was made up. He slammed his fist onto the vanity, knocking over a row of bottles.

"She just can't stand seeing you succeed. She knows what those shoes mean to you, so she hid them to ruin this for you." He gritted his teeth. "Vicious, selfish little brat."

"David, yelling about it now doesn't fix anything!" Sarah was on the verge of tears. "She goes on stage in thirty minutes!"

Luke pushed the door open, holding a brand-new pair of white ballet shoes.

"Hey, Mrs. Austin. I just ran to a dance shop down the street. They're not pink, but the size should be right."

"Oh, Luke, you are an angel." Sarah took them and crouched down to slip them onto Amy's feet.

Amy pulled her feet back.

"I don't want them." She shook her head, tears spilling over. "Jessica gave me those shoes. She isn't here today... if I don't wear them, it feels like she's really gone."

"Amy." David snapped. "Snap out of it. She doesn't want you to win. She wants to see you fail. Put the damn shoes on, get out there, and win that trophy. Shove it right in her face."

I just watched them.

Those shoes were a gift from my dance teacher, Marianne, the year I got into the Juilliard pre-college program. She told me they were the shoes she wore for her very first performance. She only wore them three times, but every time she did, she won.

When she handed them to me, she said, "Jessica, put these on, and don't ever let anyone make you feel like you owe them."

I left them on Amy's desk because she was crying that day, terrified she'd freeze up on stage.

"Just wear them this once," I told her. "Don't be scared."

But she refused. She didn't want to take something she knew I loved.

Sarah, however, caught the whole exchange. She glanced at Amy's closed door, her face completely deadpan.

"She likes them?" she asked.

"Marianne gave them to me. I was just going to let her borrow—"

"Then just give them to her," she cut me off.

"What?"

"Borrowing isn't enough." She stared me down. "She already feels guilty. If you word it like that, she definitely won't take them."

She jutted her chin toward the door. "Go back in there and do it right. Tell her they're a gift. Tell her you bought them specifically for her."

I stood outside her door for a long time before finally pushing it open.

When I told her, Amy lit up, though she still hesitated. "Jessica, are you sure? These shoes—"

"I'm sure. Just take them, okay?"

Only then did she smile. She hugged the shoes to her chest, then threw her arms around me.

At that moment, she really thought I was giving her a heartfelt gift. She had no idea how many times I'd been forced to play this part, handing over the only things that were truly mine.

The backstage lights stung my eyes. In the end, Amy cried as she shoved her feet into the white shoes Luke bought.

At 8 PM sharp, the competition began.

Amy was the finale.

She danced light and soft, like a bird about to take flight. The audience applauded; the judges scribbled their scores. But I knew better. She couldn't hold those high-difficulty turns. Every single time, her footwork was just a little too weak.

If I were there, if I was dancing the Black Swan, we would have been the brightest pair on that stage.

But those three people in the audience didn't give a damn about technique. They only cared about one thing: the prophecy didn't come true, and Amy was alive.

That was enough for them to celebrate.

The results came out. Third place.

Sarah tearfully pulled her into a hug, David held the trophy high, and Luke stood by, beaming. They kept saying things like, "You did it," and "You broke the curse."

I watched from the shadows.

I was better than her. For ten years, every single day, I was better. But in my entire life, they never gave me a single word of praise.

As the backstage cleared out, David's expression darkened.

He pulled out his keyring, tossing it lightly in his hand.

"Time to go home and deal with our little problem." He gritted his teeth. "She's been in that freezer for forty-eight hours. Not only did she waste electricity turning on the compressor, but she also stole your shoes. I am NOT letting her off easy."

"David," Sarah sighed, "don't go too crazy."

She didn't try to stop him, just added, "Just make her apologize to Amy and let it go."

"Apologize?" David scoffed. "I'm gonna make her stare at Amy's trophy. I want that brat to know she will ALWAYS come second in this house."

They packed up and drove back to the diner.

It was 11 PM. The diner had been closed for hours; inside, it was pitch black.

David didn't bother turning on the lights. He flicked on a flashlight and led the way, striding purposefully toward the basement. Sarah, Amy, and Luke trailed behind him.

I floated right above David's head, watching him descend step by step.

There was an indescribable smell lingering in the basement air. Thawed frost, mixed with the sickeningly sweet rot of something spoiling. It was faint, but distinctly wrong.

David wrinkled his nose. "Did that brat seriously soil herself down..."

He didn't finish. He stepped up to the freezer door, clamped the flashlight in his teeth, and gripped the brass key with both hands, lining it up with the lock.

My soul pressed against the heavy metal, watching him in dead silence.

Clack.

The heavy bolt gave way.

David grabbed the handle.

"Jessica!" he barked through the door. "Show's over! Get your ass out here now!"

He yanked it hard.

A putrid stench blasted him right in the face.

The door swung open.