Chapter Three: Pancakes.

Clarisse spent the whole time awake.

She fought the sheets for hours—twisting, kicking, yanking the covers up to her chin and then hurling them off again.

The ceiling blurred. The pillow went hot, then cold, then hot again. At three a.m. she gave up and pressed both palms against her stomach, feeling the hollow ache there, the familiar gnawing emptiness she'd cultivated like a secret garden.

Her wrist throbbed with memory. Devane's thumb had traced a circle there, slow and deliberate, and the ghost of it still burned. Clarisse pressed her own thumb over the spot, trying to recreate the pressure.

But It wasn't the same.

Yes you do, Devane had said. Yes you do.

Clarisse had replayed it so many times the words had worn grooves in her brain.

By seven a.m., she smelled pancakes.

The scent crawled under her door like an intruder—sweet batter, sizzling butter, warm syrup. Her stomach clenched with dread.

She swung her legs off the bed and her feet hit the cold floor with a slap. She didn't bother with slippers, left her hair in a messy bun and just pulled a cardigan over her sleep shirt and walked downstairs like a prisoner to the gallows.

°°°°°

The kitchen hit her like a wall of noise and heat.

Richard stood at the stove, spatula in hand, apron dusted with flour. He was humming off-key, something from the eighties, swaying his hips as he flipped a pancake that splattered batter across the counter. Aunt Helena perched on a barstool, sipping orange juice, scrolling through her phone, her silk robe pooling around her like a queen's train.

And Devane—

Devane was slouched in the breakfast nook, both legs stretched out across the cushions, bare feet crossed at the ankles. Her hoodie was black. Her jeans were ripped. Her coffee mug was clutched in both hands like a lifeline. The hood was up, the brim shadowing everything but the sharp point of her chin.

Clarisse's heart kicked. A hard, stupid thump against her ribs.

She waited for Devane to look up. To meet her eyes. To give her something—a nod, a smirk, a flicker of acknowledgment. They'd shared a bathroom floor at two in the morning.

Devane took a sip of coffee. And continued looking in her phone.

"Clarisse! Good morning!" Richard waved his spatula like a conductor's baton. "Grab a plate. Pancakes are almost ready."

"Thank you." Clarisse's voice came out thin. She cleared her throat. "Smells good."

Devane's thumb scrolled across her phone screen. Her face was stone.

Okay, Clarisse thought. Okay, maybe she didn't hear me. Maybe she's tired. Maybe—

"Devane, sit up properly," Richard said over his shoulder. "We have guests."

"I'm not a guest." Devane's voice was flat. Bored. "I live here."

"Clarisse is family now. Act like it."

Devane didn't act like it. She pulled her phone closer to her face and let her legs sprawl wider. The posture was a dare.

Clarisse's jaw tightened. She crossed to the island and poured herself a glass of water. Her hand trembled—just slightly—and water sloshed over the rim. Cold droplets hit her bare toes. She wiped them on the back of her calf and said nothing.

"Sit, sit!" Aunt Helena patted the stool next to her. "Richard, don't burn them this time."

"I never burn them. I char them. It's a technique."

"It's a fire hazard."

Clarisse sat. The stool was too high; her feet dangled. She felt five years old, small and invisible.

A plate appeared in front of her. Two pancakes, golden-brown, steaming. A pat of butter melting into a yellow pool. Syrup drizzled in a perfect spiral. Richard had put effort into this. He'd plated it like a restaurant. He was beaming down at her, waiting for approval.

"There you go. Extra syrup. Helena says you've got a sweet tooth."

Clarisse's stomach lurched. "Thank you."

She picked up her fork. The metal was cold and heavy. She pressed the tines into the pancake and watched syrup bleed onto the plate.

Across the table, Devane yawned.

A performance of boredom. She stretched her arms over her head, hoodie riding up just enough to flash a strip of tanned stomach, the edge of white bandages. The bandages Clarisse had applied. The bandages Clarisse had smoothed down with careful, trembling fingers.

Devane caught her staring.

Their eyes met. For one breath. Two.

Clarisse's chest seized. There. There you are. Say something. Acknowledge me. Anything.

Devane's gaze slid off her like water off oil. She reached for her coffee, took a long sip, and turned her attention back to her phone. Her thumb moved. Scrolling and Swiping. She might as well have been alone in the room.

The message was clear.

You're nothing. Last night was nothing. You imagined it.

Clarisse set her fork down with a clatter.

"I'm not very hungry," she said.

"What? Nonsense." Aunt Helena leaned over and nudged the plate closer. "You barely ate at the wedding. You need energy. Finals are coming up."

"I know. I just—my stomach's a little off. New house nerves, I guess."

"At least try a few bites. For Richard. He's been slaving over that stove."

Clarisse looked at the pancakes. Two hundred calories each. Four hundred total. Plus butter. Plus syrup. The number climbed and climbed, a ticking counter in her brain, and her stomach twisted into a hard, sick knot.

She picked up her fork again. Cut a piece. Small. Tiny. Manageable. Raised it to her lips.

Devane laughed.

Not a real laugh. A short, sharp exhale through her nose, paired with a shake of her head. She was looking at her phone. Something funny on the screen, apparently. A meme or a text.

Clarisse didn't matter enough to be the source of amusement.

But the timing was perfect. Cruel and deliberate.

Clarisse's fork froze mid-air.

The pancake piece trembled on the tines. Syrup dripped onto the tablecloth. A single amber bead staining the white linen.

"Devane," Richard warned.

"What?" Devane didn't look up.

"Put the phone away. We're having breakfast."

"I'm not eating."

"Then sit there and be pleasant."

"I'm always pleasant." she didn't as much as raise her head up.

Aunt Helena forced a laugh. Too bright and brittle. "So, Clarisse, tell us more about the finals. What piece will you be performing?"

Clarisse lowered her fork. The pancake had gone cold. Her appetite—what little of it existed—had curled up and died.

"The Dying Swan," she said quietly.

"Oh, how lovely! Saint-Saëns, isn't it? So dramatic."

"Yes."

"I'd love to see you practice sometime. Maybe you could show us after breakfast?"

"No." The word came out too fast. Clarisse softened it with a smile that hurt her face. "I mean—I'm not warmed up. Maybe another time."

Devane's phone buzzed. She answered it.

"Yeah." A pause. "Now?" Another pause. "Fine. Stay there."

She stood up, coffee abandoned, phone pressed to her ear. Her bare feet slapped the tile as she crossed the kitchen. She grabbed a set of keys from the hook by the garage door. Shrugged into a leather jacket that had been draped over a chair. The motion was fluid, practiced, unthinking.

"Devane, where are you going?" Richard asked.

"Out."

"It's seven in the morning."

"And now it's seven-oh-one. Time flies."

"Devane—"

"Don't wait up."

She was already gone. The door to the garage slammed behind her. A moment later, the motorcycle roared to life—a furious, guttural scream that rattled the windows and vibrated through Clarisse's ribcage. Gravel spat. The engine faded.

Silence.

Aunt Helena sighed. "That girl."

"She's going through something," Richard said quietly. He was staring at the door, his shoulders slumped, the spatula dangling forgotten in his hand. "She won't talk to me about it. She won't talk to anyone."

Clarisse stared at her plate. The pancakes were cold now. The syrup had hardened into amber glass. She picked up her fork and pressed the tines into the pancake, over and over, stabbing small holes. She didn't eat a single bite.

She talked to me, she thought. Last night, she talked to me.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe Devane regretted it. Maybe vulnerability was a mistake she didn't make twice.

Clarisse excused herself before anyone could ask her to eat again.

°°°°°°

She spent the morning in the guest room with the door locked.

Unpacking helped. Folding helped. She arranged her leotards by color—black, pale pink, dove grey. She lined up her pointe shoes on the closet floor, toes pointed toward the wall like soldiers awaiting orders. She counted everything. Twelve leotards. Six pairs of tights. Three pairs of pointe shoes, two worn soft, one still stiff and new.

Control was a ritual. Rituals kept the voice quiet.

But every time she heard a door open downstairs, her hands stopped. Every time the floorboards creaked, her head lifted. She was listening. Waiting. Hating herself for it.

At noon, she stood in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door.

She was wearing leggings and a tank top. Her arms were bare. Her collarbone jutted. Her hip bones pressed against the fabric like handles. She turned sideways. Sucked in her stomach. Pressed her palm flat against the hollow space below her ribs.

Not enough, the voice whispered. Still not enough.

She pressed harder. As if she could push the fat away. As if she could compress herself into nothing.

The motorcycle returned at dusk.

Clarisse heard it from her room—the growl of the engine, the crunch of gravel, the garage door rumbling open and shut. Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy and slow.

Then it Paused outside her door.

Clarisse froze.

Her hand was halfway to a hanger. Her breath stopped in her throat. She stared at the door, at the strip of light beneath it, at the shadow of two feet planted on the other side.

Silence.

Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.

Say something, she willed. Knock. Do something.

The shadow shifted. The footsteps continued down the hall. A door opened then closed.

Clarisse hurled the hanger at the wall.

It bounced off the drywall with a pathetic clatter and landed on the carpet. She stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched, the voice in her head howling with triumph.

See? Nothing. You're nothing. Even the gang leader doesn't want you.

She picked up the hanger. Hung up the leotard. Smoothed the wrinkles.

She didn't eat dinner either. Aunt Helena brought a plate—salmon, asparagus, wild rice—and left it outside the door. Clarisse waited until the hallway was silent, then she scraped half of it into the trash. The rest she shredded with her fork, spreading it thin across the plate so it looked eaten.

Three bites of asparagus. Six of rice. She counted every one.

At midnight, she was still awake.

The house had settled. The vents hummed. The walls creaked. Clarisse lay on top of the covers, still dressed, staring at the ceiling she'd already memorized. Her stomach gnawed at itself. Her wrist tingled with the ghost of a touch she was starting to think she'd imagined.

She heard footsteps again.

Light. Careful. Bare feet on hardwood. They stopped outside her door.

Clarisse sat up so fast her head spun. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stared at the door, at the crack of light, at the shadow. Her mouth opened—to say what, she didn't know.

The shadow moved.

Something slid under the door. A slip of paper. White. Folded once.

Then the footsteps retreated. The door at the end of the hall clicked shut.

Clarisse scrambled off the bed. Her hands were shaking as she snatched the paper off the floor. She unfolded it.

Four words. Sharp handwriting. Black ink.

Couldn't sleep either. —D

Clarisse pressed the note to her chest. Folded it again. Slipped it under her pillow.

She didn't sleep.

But for the first time in hours, the voice in her head was quiet.