Trash—that was the word that danced in Mrs. Sullivan’s eyes before she slammed shut the door to her apartment and all those locks clicked into place.
Selina was too sore to bother being pissed off by it. She’d heard worse.
She freed the last lock and entered the apartment, quickly shutting and locking the door. Lock after lock after lock, then the chain at the very top.
The apartment was dim, illuminated only by the golden glow of the streetlights in the courtyard outside the two windows of their living room/kitchen. She was pretty sure there were people in Gotham City whose bathrooms were bigger than the entirety of this space, but at least she kept it as clean as she could.
The tang of tomato sauce and the sweetness of bread lingered in the air. A peek in the fridge revealed that Maggie had indeed eaten the food Selina had bought for her after school. A lot of it.
Good.
Shutting the fridge, Selina opened the freezer and fished out a bag of peas stashed beside a stack of frozen dinners. She pushed it against her throbbing cheek as she counted those frozen dinners—just three. Their meals for the rest of the week, once the Italian ran out.
Pressing the frozen peas to her face, savoring the cool bite, Selina stashed the bullwhip under the sink, toed off her sneakers, and padded over the dingy green carpet of the living area to the hallway with the bathroom and single bedroom across from it. The tiny bathroom was dark, empty. But to her left, a warm glow leaked from the door left ajar.
The wad of cash in her back pocket was still not enough. Not between rent and food and Maggie’s tests and copays.
Her chest tight, she eased open the door with a shoulder, craning her head inside the bedroom. It was the only place of color in the apartment, painted buttercup yellow and plastered with Broadway posters Selina had been lucky enough to find when yet another East End school had been shut down and cleared out its theater department.
Those posters now watched over the girl in the bed, curled up under some cartoon kids’ comforter that was about two sizes too small and ten years too worn. So was everything in the room—including the glowworm night-light Maggie still insisted be left on.
Selina didn’t blame her. At thirteen, Maggie had dealt with enough shit to earn the right to do whatever she wanted. The labored, rasping breathing that filled the room was proof enough. Selina silently picked up one of the several inhalers beside Maggie’s bed and checked the gauge. More than enough left if another coughing fit hit her tonight. Not that Selina wouldn’t rush in here from her spot on the living room couch the moment she heard her sister’s hacking coughs.
After plugging in the humidifier, Selina crept back to the living space and slumped into a cracked vinyl chair at the small table in the middle of the kitchen.
Everything ached. Everything throbbed and burned and begged her to lie down.
Selina checked the clock. Two a.m. They had school in…five hours. Well, Maggie had school. Selina certainly couldn’t go with her face like this.
She fished the cash from her pocket and set it on the plastic table.
Hauling a small box in the center of the table toward her, Selina looted through it with the hand that hurt only a fraction less than the other. She’d have to be smart at the market—the EBT funds only stretched so far. Certainly not far enough to cover herself and a sister with severe cystic fibrosis. Selina had read up on food-as-medicine on a library computer while waiting for Maggie to finish her after-school theater class. Not a cure-all, but eating healthy could help. Anything was worth a try. If it bought them time. If it brought Maggie any relief.
Cystic fibrosis—Selina couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t known those words. What they meant: the incurable genetic disease that caused a buildup of mucus in several organs, but especially the lungs. The mucus clogged and blocked airways, where it trapped bacteria that at best led to infections. At worst: lung damage and respiratory failure.
And then there was the mucus that also built up in the pancreas, blocking the enzymes that helped break down food and absorb nutrients.
Selina had Googled it once: life expectancy for severe cystic fibrosis.
She’d closed the web browser and vomited into the library’s toilet for thirty minutes afterward.
Selina studied the cash on the table and swallowed. The kinds of healthy foods Maggie needed didn’t come cheap. The frozen microwave dinners were emergency meals. Garbage food. The fresh Italian meal Maggie had consumed tonight was a rare treat.
And perhaps an apology, for the fight Selina had left her sister in order to take part in.
“Your face.”
The rasping words had Selina’s head snapping up. “You should be asleep.”
Maggie’s curly brown hair was half wild, a pillow wrinkle running down her too-thin pale cheek. Only her green eyes—the single trait they shared, despite having two different fathers—were clear. Alert. “Don’t forget to ice your hands. You won’t be able to use them tomorrow if you don’t.”
Selina gave her sister a half smile, which only made her face hurt more, and obeyed, transferring the peas from her throbbing face to the split, swollen skin of her knuckles. At least the swelling had gone down since the fight finished an hour ago.
Maggie slowly crossed the room, and Selina tried not to wince at the labored breathing, the quiet clearing of her sister’s throat. The latest lung infection had taken its toll, and the color was gone from her usually pink cheeks. “You should go to the hospital,” Maggie breathed. “Or let me clean you up.”
Selina ignored both suggestions and asked, “How are you feeling?”
Maggie pulled the pile of cash toward her, eyes widening as she began counting wrinkled twenties. “Fine.”
“You do your homework?”
A wry, exasperated look. “Yes. And tomorrow’s.”
“Good girl.”
Maggie studied her, those green eyes too alert, too aware. “We’ve got the doctor tomorrow after school.”
“What about it?”
Maggie finished counting the money and neatly set the stack into the small box with the EBT card. “Mom won’t be there.”
Neither would Maggie’s father—whoever he was. Selina doubted even her mother knew. Selina’s own father…She only knew what her mother had said during one of her rambling monologues while high: that her mother had met him through a friend at a party. Nothing more. Not even a name.
Selina moved the frozen peas from her right hand to her left. “No, she won’t. But I will.”
Maggie scratched at an invisible fleck on the table. “Auditions for the spring play are soon.”