He throws me the cloth bag and I cover my face and allow Mr. Gretzky to lead me back upstairs to the bathroom. I have another shower and try not to think about the look on Bobby’s face when I told him I can’t be his wife.
There’s a new outfit beside the shower, a red sundress and black leather flats. Shoes that are barely shoes. What do they think I’d do with sneakers? Hit Mr. Gretzky on the head and try to escape? And where are these outfits coming from? Did Eli do a clothing haul when I got here or something?
The dress feels too small. It isn’t but my breasts are pushing over of the top and the waist is tight. I half expect Mr. Gretzky to tell me to change back into my T-shirt and shorts, but he barely looks at me before throwing the bag over my head and leading me to the food room. Scrambled eggs and buttered toast are waiting for me. At home I was never allowed bread unless Mom was away and even then, Zia Teresa bought expensive sourdough. My toast is plain old sandwich bread. The kind that comes in a bag. It’s incredible.
“Who cooks my food?” I ask Mr. Gretzky. “Can I thank them?”
He ignores me. Five minutes later I’m back in the cage. A week ago, if you’d told me my biggest issue with being kidnapped would be the boredom, I would have said you were crazy. But it is. With nothing to do, my problems cluster around me like mean birds, pecking and squawking.
“Zia,” I whisper. “Please help?”
I’m scared she won’t answer, that her voice has abandoned me like everything else, but then it comes.
Get up, bella.
I get to my feet, feeling clumsy and overexposed in my red dress. “What should I do?”
What do you usually do when you’re bored?
I smile. I know exactly what to do. I’m amazed I didn’t think of it before.
It takes twenty minutes to run through my warm-up scales and then I sing. I sing Adele. I sing The Beatles. I sing Kate Bush. I sing Edith Pilaf. I sing sitting down. I sing pacing the cage. I sing until my voice goes husky and then I keep going. As the hours pass, the sensation of being watched grows stronger, but I don’t care.
Singing is easier than talking. I find strength in the repetition of it, the rise and fall of my voice. The pull of my abdomen. The emotions you can pour into lyrics and behind them. Singing is the easiest way to be me.
Eventually my voice gives out, but it’s okay. I already know what to do next. I take off my flat shoes and practice ballet. There isn’t enough room to dance but using the cage bars as a handrail, I move from position to position, humming Swan Lake. Soon my skin is glowing, and my mind is blissfully empty. When bad thoughts push in, I push them back, re-focusing on the positions. Mr. Parker might have forced me into it, and I might have the wrong body and be stupid, but ballet has made me strong. I’m going to dance every day I’m down here.
I’m practicing dégagé combinations when the basement door bangs open. I freeze in place, one hand on the bars holding me prisoner. It’s not Mr. Gretzky. The silhouette in the doorway is too large.
A thrill runs down my spine. I know who it is. The only person I want to see even less than I want to be held in captivity. Boots pound on the metal stairs and the basement door melts back into darkness. His voice scrapes out from the shadows. “Keep going.”
I freeze. I didn’t realize I’d stopped dancing. I try to start again but my legs are melting into the floor, and I can taste my own teeth.
He moves closer to my bubble of light, poison green eyes shining.
“Hello, Mr. Rossi,” I say.
His footsteps are slow and heavy. “Keep. Dancing.”
I move jerkily into fifth position, raising my hands over my head. Adriano comes forward, materializing out of nothing. He’s so much bigger than the others. His head reaches the basement ceiling. I think of the half-bull man we studied in Greek Mythology. The one who killed people for fun. I lower my arms into demi-seconde and see the gun strapped to his side. My skin goes ice cold. I hold the pose out of pure muscle memory, my insides trembling. I want to collapse.
Zia!I scream in my mind.Zia!
The voice comes again, slow and calm.Dance, bella. Just keep moving.
I do little girl positions. First, second, plié, pirouette.
Seconds scrape past like hours, my arms and legs vibrating with fear.Please just go away, please just let me live, I repeat to myself.
I cycle through the same poses until my legs are shaking. He knows I can do more, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches until my body goes rubbery and I collapse to my knees.
“Did I say you could stop?”
I try desperately not to cry. “No.”
“Look at me.”
I lift my gaze to his. Adriano’s scar gleams in the lamplight, silver against his olive cheek. He must have got it in a fight but all I can picture is him deep in a forest battling a bear. Him, shirtless and holding a sword, and the bear with a snowy muzzle, swiping at his face. The animal gets a single slash before Adriano seizes his throat, tearing it open with his teeth.
