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For a moment, everyone froze.
“Meli tiene una erupción,” someone called.
Melissa had a rash.
My mind raced. Rashes were one of the defining symptoms, alongside coughing, for the Withering.
Then, like an ocean wave, dancers darted, crawled, and jumped away from Meli, who was staring at the shoe she had taken off. The cotton we used to avoid getting blisters and raw skin hadn’t done its job, and there was crusting blood all around her heel.
“Everyone!” the Maestra snapped as she hurried over to the girl. “Good hell, it’s a blister not a rash. Calm down and get out.”
No one argued as they scurried like park pigeons from the room. My heart pounded in my chest.It was just a bit of blood.I knew how the Withering was transferred, by sharing bodily fluids with someone who was infected. Magda was careful. I was careful.
Plus, we had preventative pills. Pastillas negras. We would be fine.
Youare fine,I told myself, even though my ears rang, and my feet were firmly rooted in place.
Maestra Cecelia looked up at me—I was the last one in the room—and jerked her head toward the door. Time started up again, and I obeyed. Experience had turned me into a sort of feral animal; afraid of Élites, afraid of the water, afraid of loud noises. Unfortunately, unlike most animals, I had no sense of fight or flight; the only thing I was good at was freezing.
When I walked into the dressing rooms, Lucero and Aurora shot me glares hot enough to melt ice which was nausea inducing. One thing I had learned in the Bendiciones orphanage was that there were people who disliked you simply because you were talented, and the best course of action was to leave them alone.
Magda was at my side in a second. “How does it feel to be the Chosen One?” she asked. Sweat made her loose curls cling to her forehead. Magda had a talent for sarcasm that had only sharpened as we got older. She lacked the obvious malice I sometimes received from the other girls, perhaps because of her ability to appear both beautiful and terrifying.
“Are you okay?” I asked my best friend.
Her pretty head tilted to the side as she wound her pinky finger through my own and squeezed. “I’m fine. Blisters and rashes don’t scare me the way they do everyone else.”
I stared at her for a long moment. “They should.”
She nudged my arm, a reminder to lighten up.
Maestra Cecelia rushed past with a plastic bag hanging from her black-gloved hand. She darted into her office, likely to dispose of anything contaminated by tears, snot, or blood, and closed the door. Meli emerged from the dance studio a moment later.
She gave a weak smile to the room. “Everything’s okay,” she said sheepishly.
“See?” Magda continued. “All is taken care of.”
I took a deep breath and ignored her statement. “Are you hungry?
“Not as hungry as you,” she responded with a wink.
There seemed to be a phenomenon between couples I’d observed when one person was low, and the other reached over to lift them up. Magda and I were not lovers, but the concept was not romantically exclusive. It brought me no joy to cite Magda as the sunshine to my raincloud, but I was grateful.
The door to the Maestra’s office opened, and she called to us. “Carmen, Magda, don’t forget that your new costumes will be here tonight. Be here at six sharp.”
Only two hours to travel and eat, then.
It wasn’t a terrible amount of time, but Arrebol culture wasn’t known for its speed. Especially when the working-class typically only served other Trabajadores in their restaurants. If we didn’t want prepared meals, Artistas could have leftovers sent back to the back alley where we would be seated—which tasted better than it sounded. Day old paella was still enjoyable.
We nodded our agreement and dropped to the floor, switching our worn black leather Flamenco shoes for outdoor shoes. Magda preferred woven sandals, but I had a pair of fur-lined boots. My feet wept as I released them from their tight prison. Years of dancing had turned my feet ugly. The boots were expensive—the most decadent thing I owned—but worth the relief.
As soon as we were changed, Magda said, “Let’s go to Ronaldo’s.”
I turned to my friend and made a face. “I know you really like it there, but if we eat day-old paella one more time, I’m going to throw up. I’m serious, all over the stage tonight.”
Magda tugged on my arm. Her face was twisted in feigned anger. Ronaldo was her boyfriend, and she wasn’t just heading there for the seafood-filled rice dish.
“Please.”She batted her eyelashes.
