At the 7-11, I buy chocolate syrup ice cream topping in a squeeze bottle along with a strawberry and butterscotch one.
“Ice cream party?” the teenage cashier asks me.
“Yup,” I mumble as I dig for my wallet.
“Hey, aren’t you that one guy from Dance Props? Shit, I didn’t know humans could jump so high. That one episode where you dove into the headspin? Holy shit. That was tight!” He fist-bumps me and I can barely muster a smile.
“S’pose you can eat whatever you want when you dance as much as you do,” he says, his tone lamentable.
I look up and take notice He’s kind of chubby and pimply. No swagger whatsoever. “You should come take my class. I’ll teach you some moves,’ I say, tossing my card on the counter.
“Really? I mean, I’ve never danced before,” he says, an excited smile breaking over his face.
“‘Bout time you start, then.” I reach out for a fist-bump, refusing the bag. I stuff the toppings into my backpack and, once outside, toss the whole thing in the back seat of the Maserati.
It takes me five minutes to get to Katerina’s building, and I park in the underground garage not far from Shareen’s spot. The woman is like clockwork and walks out of the elevator bay at seven on the dot. At seven-thirty, the ballerina witch herself comes out, dressed in spiky black heels and leather pants, wearing sunglasses like she’s some sort of rock star. I hate her. I hope she trips and breaks her leg.
Once she peels out of the garage, I grab my “ice-cream party” supplies and the elevator key card I lifted from Taye’s bag.
Katerina deserves worse, I tell myself. This bitch better not make Shareen clean it. But knowing Shareen, she’d have Katerina hire a crew because she wears the pants in this dysfunctional family.
The key works beautifully and the ride skyward goes off without a hitch. Before I know it, I’m walking into the cold, hard palace. An uninvited guest.
I Jackson Pollock her precious white sectional, long luxurious thick drapes, the pristine white Persian rugs, and glass end tables. It’s a lot of fun, and I can’t help but laugh out loud as I destroy the dungeon she’s kept her daughter trapped in with the very thing she fears most—frivolous fucking calories, for the hell of it.
Happy Birthday, You Fucking Bitch, I spell out on the floor, crawling on all fours to get it just right. I rise on my knees to survey my work when the elevator dings behind me and my heart leaps into my throat. Guess I’m about to go head-to-head with the she-devil herself.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Natayla
“What the fuck?” I demand as the elevator doors open into my parents’ apartment.
Dash turns, looking a little startled. Relief registers when he’s sees that it’s me and not Mother. He slams a squeeze bottle of strawberry jelly to his chest.
“Thank fuck, Sam. I thought you were the wicked witch.” His face lights up with delight, like he’s overjoyed and smug about what he’s done.
“She will fucking make it her life’s meaning to destroy you now, Dashiell Cunningham. Congratulations,” I tell him.
“Well, then, the playing field is even now cause I feel the same fucking way,” he tells me.
I toss my bag down. I want to be mad. I want to fly off the handle and scream like Mother would. But I don’t have it in me. I look at every dripping surface of her perfect living room, a space she’s cared for better than she has me, her own daughter. It’s dripping in colored sugar, which is actually kind of funny. I know there will be hell to pay for this, but with Dash on my side, Mother doesn’t seem as intimidating.
I march away from the sunken room to our open plan kitchen, retrieve a bucket of cleaning supplies from under the sink, and lug it over to where Dash still waits on his knees covered in goo.
“Better get to work before she gets home,” I say, tossing the cleaning supplies in his direction.
I know that scrubbing this mess is useless. Everything he’s touched will be stained for good—just like Mother warned me all those years ago.
And just like the stains Dashiell left on me, I cannot erase him from my heart no matter what I do.
“You’ve got strawberry syrup on your nose and your cheek,” I tell him, motioning to where it is.
Dashiell lifts the squirt bottle and squeezes, and before I can react, he’s doused me in bright red strawberries. I try to stop the crimson stream with my arm in front of my face, but Dash gets my chest, and his face gives nothing away—he’s as impassive as a brick wall.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Where’d Katerina go, and what time will she be home?” he asks me.