Because It Is My Blood

by Gabrielle Zevin

  I walked to the door, unchained it, and pushed it wide open. “I’m ready,” I said.

  The officer was holding a pair of handcuffs. I knew how this went. I held out my wrists.

  * * *

  At Liberty, I wasn’t brought to the intake room as I had been the previous two times I’d been there. They didn’t even have me change into the Liberty jumpsuit. Instead, I was delivered to a Liberty guard, one I didn’t recognize, then led down a hallway.

  A hallway that led to several flights of stairs.

  I knew this route, and it could mean only one thing.

  The Cellar.

  I had been there once before and it had nearly killed me, or at least driven me crazy.

  I could already smell the excrement and the mold. Fear crept into my heart. I stopped short. “No,” I said. “No, no. I need to talk to my attorney.”

  “I have my orders,” the guard said without emotion.

  “I swear on the graves of my dead mother and father, I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  The guard pushed me and I fell to my knees. I could feel them scrape against the concrete. It was already so dark and the stench was terrible. I decided that if I didn’t stand up, then they couldn’t make me go down there.

  “Girl,” the guard said, “if you don’t stand up, I will knock you out and carry you myself.”

  I clasped my hands. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” I was begging now. “I can’t.” I grasped the guard’s leg. I was past having dignity.

  “Assistance!” the guard called. “Prisoner is noncompliant!”

  A second later, I felt a syringe go into the side of my neck. I did not pass out, but my mind went blank, and it felt as if my troubles were behind me. The guard tossed me over her shoulder like I weighed nothing and carried me down the three flights of stairs. I barely felt it when she placed me in the kennel. The cage door had only just closed when I finally did lose consciousness.

  When I awoke, every part of me hurt, and my school uniform was ominously damp.

  Outside my tiny cage, I could see a pair of crossed legs in expensive wool pants attached to a pair of feet in recently shined shoes. I wondered if I was hallucinating—I had never known there to be any lights in the Cellar. A flashlight beam moved toward me. “Anya Balanchine,” Charles Delacroix greeted me. “I’ve been waiting near ten minutes for you to wake up. I’m a very busy man, you know. Dismal place here. I’ll have to remember to have it shut down.”

  My throat was dry, probably from whatever drug they’d given me. “What time is it?” I rasped. “What day is it?”

  He pushed a thermos through the bars, and I drank greedily.

  “Two a.m.,” he told me. “Sunday.”

  I had been asleep almost twenty hours.

  “Are you the reason I’m here?” I asked.

  “You give me too much credit. How about my son? Or you yourself? Or the stars? Or your precious Jesus Christ? You’re a Catholic, are you not?”

  I did not reply.

  Charles Delacroix yawned.

  “Long hours?” I asked.

  “Very.”

  “Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule,” I said sarcastically.

  “All right, Anya, you and I have always been able to be candid with each other, so here it is,” Charles Delacroix began. He took a slate out of his pocket and turned it on. He turned it toward me. The photograph was of Win and me in the Trinity cafeteria. Win was holding my hand across the table. It had been taken Friday. How long had he held my hand? Less than two seconds before I had pulled away.

  “It isn’t what it looks like,” I said. “Win was shaking my hand. We’re trying to be … friends, I guess. It wasn’t even a moment.”

  “I do believe you, but unfortunately for both of us, this indiscretion was long enough for someone to get a picture,” Charles Delacroix said. “On Monday, a news story will run with this picture and the headline ‘Charles Delacroix’s Mob Connections: Who He Knows and What That Means to Voters.’ Needless to say, this is not ideal for me. Or for you.”

  Yes, I could see that.

  “That generous, anonymous donation to Trinity—”

  “I had nothing to do with it!”

  “Anya, I already know that. Haven’t you ever suspected who did make that donation, though?”

  I shook my head. My neck was sore where they had injected me. “The truth is, Mr. Delacroix, I didn’t care. I just wanted to go back to school. I tried to find another school, but none would have me with the weapons charges.”

  Charles Delacroix clucked sympathetically. “Our system does make it challenging for parolees to follow the straight and narrow.”

  “Who did make the donation?” I asked.

  “The donation was made by”—he paused for dramatic effect—“the Friends of Bertha Sinclair.”

  “Bertha Sinclair?” The name was familiar, and had my head not been pounding, I might even have been able to place it.

  “Oh, Anya, I’m terribly disappointed. Aren’t you following the campaign at all? Ms. Bertha Sinclair is the Independent Party candidate for district attorney. She might even beat me the way things are going.”

  “Good.”

  “It hurts me to hear you say that. Now you’re just being cruel,” Charles Delacroix said.

  “Which of us is the one in a kennel not even fit for a dog?”

  “But back to the Friends of Bertha Sinclair. Lovely Bertha’s campaign first started gaining some real momentum after that unfortunate bus accident. Glad to see you’re well, by the way. And do you happen to know from whence this momentum came?”

  I nodded slowly. It was as Mr. Kipling had said. “Because the news linked your name and mine and Win’s all over again. And our relationship makes you seem corrupt. And you are supposed to be Mr. Incorruptible.”

  “Bingo. You are the cleverest seventeen-year-old I know. And so those Friends of Bertha Sinclair, not being a stupid lot, came up with a plan that would throw you and my hapless boy together again. They were just waiting for pictures of the two of you. A kiss. A date. But you and Win didn’t deliver those so they took what they could get. A second of indiscretion when Win grabbed your hand across a lunch table.”

  My cheeks burned with the memory. I was grateful for the low light.

  “I am, frankly, amazed he resisted that long. Win is not known for his restraint. The boy is his mother—all heart, no sense. Alexa, his sister, she was the one like me. Brave and sensible. She was like you, too. Probably why the boy finds you so compelling, actually.”

  I said nothing.

  “So, to conclude. Every time the story of you and Win is reported, the media gets to imply I’m corrupt and the Sinclair people don’t have to say a darn thing.”

  “But it’s over now,” I protested. “The picture runs tomorrow. And that’s the end of it. You’ll take a small hit and then everyone will forget about it.”

  “No, Anya. It’s only the beginning. They will wait for you every day after school. They will try to get pictures of you in class. Your peers, because they are young and thoughtless, will find ways to provide them. Win won’t even have to be holding your hand for them to run this same story. He can be standing near you. He can be reported to be in the same building as you. This picture is a game changer, don’t you see?”

  “But Win has a girlfriend! Can’t you just tell them that?”

  “They’ll say that pictures don’t lie and that Alison Wheeler is a ringer.”

  “A ringer?”

  “A fake. A fraud. Someone my campaign has employed to make it look like you’re not with Win.”

  “But I’m not with Win!”

  “I believe you. And if the polls were better…” Charles Delacroix looked at me with tired eyes. “I’ve thought about what to do, and I could only come up with one thing that puts an end to this story.”

  “Throwing me back in here? But I didn’t violate our agreement! And you can’t lock someone up for datin
g your son. I’ll have Mr. Kipling go to the media, and you’ll look like a monster.”

  Charles Delacroix seemed not to have heard me. “But you have broken several laws since getting out of Liberty, haven’t you?”

  He turned his slate toward me. First, a picture of me bartering with chocolate in Union Square. Then, a picture of me drinking coffee at Fats’s. Finally, a picture of me getting out of Yuji Ono’s car. The photo was time-stamped, 12:25 a.m. Past curfew, in other words. All of these were minor infractions. Unfortunately, I was sitting across from the King of Enforcing Minor Infractions.

  “You’ve been having me followed!”

  “I needed insurance in case you didn’t honor our arrangement. You are, rightly or wrongly, considered a delinquent. And, as you well know, the light, three-month sentence you received only holds if you don’t continue in your delinquency. If I put you in Liberty for a year, say, it solves two of my problems. No one can say I showed you favoritism, and no more stories about you and Win.”

  “I can’t stay here for a year,” I whispered.

  “How about six months. The election will be completely over by then.”

  “I can’t.” I would not cry in front of Charles Delacroix. “I just can’t.”

  “In exchange, I can promise you that no one will bother with your little sister, if that’s your concern.”

  “Are you threatening me?” I asked.

  “Not threatening, bargaining. We’re bargaining here, Anya. Don’t forget, I do have legitimate reasons for returning you to Liberty. Chocolate possession. Caffeine consumption. Curfew infraction.”

  I felt like a trapped animal.

  I was a trapped animal.

  I wanted to talk to Mr. Kipling although, on some level, I knew he couldn’t protect me from this. I had been unlucky, yes, but I had also been incredibly foolish. “The election is over the second week of November. Why not let me out at Christmas? That’s three months.”

  Charles Delacroix considered my offer. “Let’s say four. The end of January has a nicer ring to it. It could have the appearance of impropriety if you’re out the month after the election.”

  I nodded. Charles Delacroix reached his hand through the bars, and after a moment, I shook it. My wrist felt incredibly sore, and I winced.

  Charles Delacroix rose. “I’m sorry about this. I’ll make sure you aren’t sent down here again. I only wanted to ensure we were able to speak to each other without being observed.”

  “Thank you,” I said weakly. But I knew he was lying. Sending me to the Cellar had been a very specific form of intimidation.

  He was about to leave when he turned and kneeled down so that we were face-to-face. “Anya,” he whispered, “why couldn’t you have just made both our lives easier and disappeared for a year? Visited your relatives in Russia? I know you have friends in Japan. A girl like you probably has friends in all the kingdoms of the world.”

  “New York is my home, and I wanted to finish high school,” I said lamely.

  “Your lawyer should never have let you go back to Trinity.”

  “Mr. Kipling didn’t want me to. Everything that happened, I caused myself. I should have been more vigilant.”

  “Not the bus accident,” Delacroix said. “That was just unlucky. For both of us, I mean.”

  “And especially for that girl who was killed.”

  “Yes, you are right, Anya. Especially for her. Her name was Elizabeth.” Charles Delacroix reached through the bars to touch my cheek. “This place is run atrociously. There are holes. If you happen to slip down one in a week or two, I doubt you would be missed.”

  “You’re trying to scare me.”

  “The opposite, Anya. I’m trying to help you.”

  I was beginning to see his meaning. “How would I ever come back?”

  He stood up, taking his thermos with him. “You have a friend who is going to be the new district attorney in New York. A friend who thinks that the prohibition laws are incredibly wrongheaded and have done nothing but ruin lives. A friend who remembers that you did save his son’s life. A friend who will be better able to help you once this blasted campaign is over.”

  “We are not friends, Mr. Delacroix.”

  Charles Delacroix shrugged. “At the moment, perhaps not. But when you have lived as long as I have, you become comfortable with the notion that last year’s enemy may be this year’s friend. The reverse is true, too. Good night, Anya Balanchine. Be well.”

  About fifteen minutes after Charles Delacroix had left, a guard arrived to lead me to the intake room. Even though it was nearly three in the morning, Mrs. Cobrawick and Dr. Henchen were waiting for me. “I am sorry to see you back here, Anya,” Mrs. Cobrawick said. “But I can’t say that I am surprised.”

  Mrs. Cobrawick looked at my file on her slate. “My, my, my. Multiple parole violations. You were a very busy girl. Caffeine consumption, curfew infraction, and chocolatiering.”

  I said nothing.

  “Won’t you ever learn to follow the straight and narrow?”

  Still, I said nothing. I was so very tired. I thought I might collapse.

  “We may as well get started. Anya, please remove your clothes for decontamination,” Mrs. Cobrawick ordered. She turned to Dr. Henchen and said, “I fear these cannot be salvaged. They are so covered in filth.”

  I bent down to take off my skirt. As I was bending, I felt a strange pain in my chest and then I fell to the floor, banging my head on the tiles. My abdominal muscles convulsed wildly and I threw up. Dr. Henchen ran to my side. “Her heart is racing and she’s turning blue. We need to get her to the clinic.”

  The next thing I knew, I was on a gurney being wheeled across Liberty Island to the medical area. I had never been there before but it was surprisingly clean and modern-looking compared to the rest of the place. A doctor cut off my Trinity uniform, and then they put sensors on my naked chest. I did not even bother to feel embarrassed. And then, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I passed out.

  * * *

  When I awoke the next morning, I tried to sit up, but my wrist was handcuffed to the bed rail.

  A doctor came into the room. “Good morning, Anya. How are you feeling?”

  I considered the question. “Sore. Exhausted. But overall, not that bad.”

  “Good, good. You had a heart episode last night.”

  “Like a heart attack?”

  “Almost, but much more minor. There isn’t anything wrong with your heart. You had an allergic reaction. It could have been something you ate, or it’s possible that someone slipped you something, though luckily it wasn’t in a quantity high enough to kill you. We won’t know any of this for sure until the toxicology reports come back. The cause could be as simple as stress. I imagine you have been under some stress lately.”

  I nodded.

  “But in case it is something more serious, you’ll need to stay here for at least the next several days, for monitoring.”

  “I was given a sedative early Saturday morning by the guards at Liberty. Could it have been that?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I doubt it—the timeline really wouldn’t make sense—though that’s good to know. So, rest up, Ms. Balanchine, and take it easy. You have several visitors in the hallway who are dying to see you. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to tell them they can come in now.”

  I sat up in bed as best I could and adjusted my hospital gown so that all my important bits were covered.

  Mr. Kipling, Simon Green, Scarlet, Imogen, and Natty came into the room. They had been told the official story—that I had broken the terms of my release with those petty crimes. As was to be expected, Natty cried a little and Scarlet cried a lot, and then I asked everyone except Mr. Kipling and Simon Green to leave. After I had relayed the highlights of my conversation with Charles Delacroix to them, Simon Green sighed, and Mr. Kipling stood up and banged his fist on the table.

  “That makes a lot more sense, though. I wondered why
they were bothering you about coffee and curfew,” Simon Green said. “So, what do you want to do, Anya?”

  “I think I should leave New York.” I decided this as I was saying it.

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Kipling asked.

  “I can’t stay at Liberty. Who knows how long it will suit Charles Delacroix to leave me here. He’s saying January now, but I don’t trust him anymore. Not to mention, I don’t know if I’ll survive it. Someone may have tried to poison me last night. I have to go. There is no other way.”

  Mr. Kipling nodded to Simon Green. “Then we will help you come up with a plan.”

  Simon Green lowered his voice. “In my opinion, our best chance for getting you out is while you’re still in the hospital. After that, you’ll be too entrenched at Liberty, and we’ll have less access to you.”

  “Basically, we’ll need to do two things. Determine the best way to get you out of here. And then figure out where you’re going to go,” Mr. Kipling said.

  “Japan?” Simon Green suggested.

  “No. Definitely not.” I didn’t want to lead the rest of my family straight to my brother.

  “The Balanchines have many friends all over the world. We will find something suitable,” Mr. Kipling said.

  I nodded. “I need to arrange for Natty and Imogen, of course.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Kipling said. “I promise that Simon Green or I will check on them every day that you are gone. But the truth is, I see no reason that things should change.”

  “But what if my relatives or the press become interested in Natty’s welfare once I’m gone?”

  Mr. Kipling considered this. “I could become Natty’s legal guardian if you’d like.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Yes. A long time ago, I worried it would complicate our business arrangement but I’ve been thinking about this possibility since Galina’s death, and I think it is the best way I can help you. I would have made the same offer last year but everything progressed so rapidly after Leo shot Yuri Balanchine. And then it didn’t seem as if there would be a need once you had resolved things with Charles Delacroix. But maybe this would be the best way to settle things once and for all.”