AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ChapterSeventeen
What the fuck?
The stinging sobers me up enough to decide that I’m going to give this waif the smackdown of her life.
You don’t grow up with seven sisters without getting into a fight or two, with and without hair pulling.
I raise my fists like a pugilist. “You’re dead, whoever you are.” I mean to sound cool and sinister, but the words come out slurred.
Instead of fighting me with honor, my assailant just rolls her eyes, then turns on her heel in a way that suspiciously resembles a pirouette.
“Wait a sec.”
She doesn’t. She prances away, making it look annoyingly elegant.
Oh. I remember now. She’s the ballerina I saw on stage the other day. The one I nicknamed Black Swan. The one who was much too chummy with Art on stage—performance or not.
Bitch. I should smack her while I have the chance. But she’s so fast, and my feet feel much too cottony at the moment.
I sit on a nearby bench to catch my breath.
Maybe I’ll chase her after this.
The room spins.
Okay, maybe I’m not going to chase anyone for the time being. Grr. I guess it’s Black Swan’s lucky day.
Unballing my fists, I ponder what she said to me and why. A part of me is unsure whether she was actually here. Like, maybe when you drink enough vodka, a Russian ballerina manifests in front of you. Or a bear. Maybe that’s what happened to Natalie Portman at the end of that movie.
The door to the locker room creaks.
Is the apparition back?
No. It’s Marusja.
“Your finance asked me to check if you okay,” she says grumpily.
My finance? Oh, she means my fiancé… who is related to my finances, such as they are.
“Here.” Marusja gives me her hand. “I help.”
I let her support me as I get up, and then she kindly holds me as I pull on my clothes.
“What’s a korova?” I ask when I’m done.
She looks insulted. “Who you calling korova?”
I blink at her. “No one. I just overhead someone say that.”
“It means cow,” she says with a frown. “It’s fat shaming.”
Cow? My hands curl into fists again. The Black Swan is lucky she ran away when she did—assuming she wasn’t a figment of the vodka.
“Ready to exit?” Marusja asks.
I nod, and she leads me out to a foyer where Art is already waiting, swaying slightly on his feet.
Marusja says something to the nearby staff, and they help us get into a cab idling by the curb.
“JFK,” I hear Art say as if from a distance.
We start moving.
My eyelids feel heavy.
I think I black out, or time gets choppy, because next thing I know, we’re at the airport.
Another blink and I’m in a seat in first class, with a helpful Art covering me with a blankie.
I float on the feelings of warmth and coziness for the next few moments, and then my mind goes blankas I fall into the deepest unconsciousness of my life.
