Mama is having one of her bad days.
She always seems to get worse when the magnastorms roll in. There’s one out there right now, lightning flashing pink through the small window of our lodgings. Natural light is as much of a luxury as everything else in the dust.
She won’t eat, Halle says, her voice cracking a little. She’s crouched in front of Mama with the richest broth we could afford, trying to trickle it into Mama’s mouth by the spoonful, like she’s the parent instead of an eleven-year-old kid.
I take the bowl from her.It’s okay. I’ll give it a shot. You read to Kelda. I keep messing the words up.
Halle gratefully goes and curls up next to seven-year-old Kelda on a pile of ragged blankets, taking up the etched metal tablet to talk her through the letters and sounds and words.
I take Mama’s hands and try to curl them around the bowl, like she’ll wake up and hold it if I just coax her enough. But she doesn’t react at all. She stares through that tiny window and hums softly, a misty film over her dark eyes. I don’t actually like getting this close to her when she’s like this. Because when I’m this close,I can make out the melody she’s humming, and the familiarity of it shivers down my spine. It makes the urge to do the one thing I’m not supposed to—use my storm-touched ability—harder to resist, so I try to keep my distance when she’s having an episode.
And then I’m crushed by guilt because of it for days afterward.
Carefully, I tip a bit of broth past her lips… but it just trickles back out again, dribbling down her chin and onto her shirt. And all of a sudden, it’s too much to keep inside my skin anymore.
I want to slap Mama.
I want to scream in her face.
I want to claw my way out of this worthless shell of a body and transform into something else. Something towering and monstrous that can eat the world.
At least then I wouldn’t be empty and hungry anymore.
But I can’t do any of these things, and the tightness in my chest, the tingling itch to phase on my skin are so unbearable. All I can do is snap to my feet and throw this worthless bowl at the wall with every ounce of strength I have. It hits with a clang that splits my ears and then clatters to the floor, broth spilling everywhere.
Val?
I turn, taking in Kelda’s wide eyes staring up at me. Scared. Of me.
It’s okay, Halle says, squeezing Kelda’s shoulders.Val is just mad at the situation. Not us or Mama.
Halle is so good at that. Finding the calm, soothing thing to say. I can never find those kinds of words.
My shoulders sag, and I leave the mess where it is, crossing over to my sisters. They scoot apart, making room for me betweenthem, and I let them cuddle close, curling into me. Kelda leans her head against my shoulder, and Halle encircles me with her arms, making sure she’s touching me and Kelda both.
Sorry, smalls, I say after a moment.I just…
I wish Mama would wake up. I wish she’d gather the three of us into her lap, even though we’re all too big to fit now. I wish we could do what we used to do on stormy nights like this, when Mama would sit with us, running gentle fingers through our hair, tracing our faces and arms.
I wish I’d known we were going to lose her like this—slowly, painfully, days of hope and normalcy constantly destroyed by backsliding and despair. It’s worse than the way we lost Papa, in a sudden, violent dock accident.
My empty stomach growls, but none of us say anything. It’s one of those things we’ve silently agreed to ignore, even as Mama works less and less and I scramble to keep something—anything—in the pantry.
The chapels are looking for runners, Kelda says, so quiet it’s almost under her breath.
You’re not running for those people. My voice comes out harder than I meant, and I regret it almost immediately when I feel Kelda flinch. But I don’t regret saying it. Chapels pay runners next to nothing to run their errands and do all their menial labor. They work young kids ragged for those scraps. No way I’m going to let that happen to Kelda.
You have school, Halle cuts in gently.You’re so smart, Kel. School is gonna give you the chance to get even smarter, to have more opportunities—
Kelda huffs. Her light hazel eyes flick up to me.No duster crosses the skyline and stays there.
It’s something I’ve said to Halle before, without realizing Kelda was listening. Somehow having her say it back to me—hearing those words coming from her round, wide-eyed face—hits me in the chest.
I sigh.You can’t listen to anything I say, smalls. I’m old and grumpy. Halle’s right. School could give you a chance to go a lot further than either of us. What about that thing your teacher was telling you about, that scholars program that’s supposed to help some duster kids go to skyliner schools?
Kelda shrugs narrow shoulders.It’s probably just words. Skyliners always like to talk about all the ways they’re helping people but then not actually do anything useful.
I can’t help the snort of agreement that comes out of my nose. Even Halle laughs. Because no matter what the Heraldic Ministers and preachers say, any duster worth their boots knows not to count on skyliner charity. That they care more about appearances than actualities. After all, if you’re a skyliner, it already means you’re a good person, blessed by the Heralds. And all those struggling down in the dust, we must deserve to be down here. If we just worked harder, went to chapel more, kept a more positive attitude, then we’d be blessed, too. We obviously just don’t want it enough.
