just fall | ✓

1.

When my dry eyes cracked open in the early morning sunlight, my first thought was it wasn't my fault.

That was in reference to the blood smeared across the backs of my hands and the crushed glass surrounding me.

Oh, and the bruises that had formed across my knuckles. But that was a minor detail.

I cringed as I pulled myself to my knees, glass poking through the soles of my worn boots and through my jeans, still stiff with cold. My vertebrae popped and my muscles tightened as I tried to sit up straight. I had a twist a few times to stretch out my sore muscles, and when my moved my neck, I found that a recently acquired wound had reopened, turning my once-white shirt from a rusty brown to crimson. I lifted my hand to put pressure on the wound, then examined the layer of grime that covered my skin and returned it to my side.

I realized that my mom wasn't anywhere near. I let out a loud huff and pushed myself to my feet, which I quickly discovered was a stupid idea when the asphalt began to sway beneath me. I realized almost too late that I was falling to the side and stumbled, clutching my head. A concussion, I guessed. Exactly what I needed.

I gritted my teeth and started to walk, stopping only once to retch in a trash can. I made my way to the bakery six streets over, stumbling through the wooden door. A few chips of yellow paint fell off as I opened it, and more tumbled to the floor as I shut the door, not exactly gentle. The bang echoed through my sore head.

I dropped myself into one of the iron chairs and held my head in my hands. I heard footsteps, followed by "Cassiana, what in the name of hell happened to you?"

I lifted my aching eyes to see Umber wiping her flour-coated hands off on a towel. "Hell if I know." I mumbled. "Any idea where my mom is?"

"In the back, making today's cakes." She glanced at an old watch on her wrist. "¡Dios mío! You'll be late if I don't clean you up! I'll get the first aid kit. You stay here." She hurried into the back, shouting at her husband in a rapid slur of Spanish and English.

My mom, dark hair hidden by a clean pink bandana, poked her head out of the door. She, unlike the Sixes that she worked for, wasn't quite as horrified by my condition as her employers. C'est la vie. Well, c'est ma vie. She raised a slender eyebrow. "Are you okay?"

"Been in better condition," I replied sourly. "What happened?"

She shut her eyes for a moment. "Can we talk after my shift?" After seeing my nod, she added, "You'll have to go see Tiffany after you get cleaned up. She has a replacement for your uniform."

I scowled but assured her that I would. What had happened?

☼

Work was hard, but the pay was good enough. After work, my mother and I ate semi-stale leftovers (the best Umber could give us) on a park bench and discussed the events of the previous day. I shuddered and tilted my head back to examine the sky. It was a clear night. I wondered if it was the same people that I had fought off two and a half years ago, the same people that had killed Umber's niece. I struggled against the hole in my memory, but there was nothing there. It was not an emptiness that I could easily accept.

☼

I took my lunch break the next day to get a cup of cold coffee from Umber's little bakery, the half-pot left over from the breakfast crowd. I sat alone at a table and sipped the bitter liquid, and was startled into awareness by a thick folder being dropped onto the table in front of me. My mother stood over me, hands on her hips, and set down a pen. "Marcus brought this over after you left. Said it's addressed to you."

I lifted the envelope and slowly examined it. My name was printed on the thick envelope in black ink. Tiffany and Marcus's address was under it. I ran my fingertips over the sharp edges, wondering who would have sent me mail. It was rare that the Twos received anything for my mother and I.

I carefully picked at the edge of the seal and ran my thumb under it, careful not to destroy the envelope. It was nice paper; who knew when paper like that could come in handy? I pulled a small stack of paper from inside of it and examined the contents. My stomach dropped.

I lifted my eyes to look at my mother. "Is this a joke?"

She took the topmost paper from my hands. Her face paled, but the color came back the more she read it. "I don't think so..."

I leaned close to my mother to avoid being heard. "We are Eights. Why would I receiving papers for The Selection?" The idea of myself in a dainty ball gown was laughable; the idea of a prince attempting to date me was just as ridiculous. I shook my head. "No way. No fu--"

"Language."

"Sorry," I shrugged. "I'm not doing it. It's ridiculous." I folded my arms over my chest.

A few people were shooting us glances. I could tell what they were thinking: what are an oil-smudged Seven and a flour-coated Six doing talking to each other like that? No one would suspect that our full-time careers were slightly more sinister than a mechanic and a baker.

Umber had been wiping down one of the tables not far away. She hurried over when she realized what we were talking about. "You have your papers?"

"They're real?"

She nodded excitedly. "A few of the girls that come for breakfast were discussing it this morning. Fives. Talented, sí, but you are so much more beautiful. And you can talk in more languages, ¿sí?"

I smiled. Umber had taught me Spanish, Tiffany had insisted on teaching me French, and years ago, my parents had spoken to me in only Italian in a successful attempt to have a bilingual child. "I don't see how that would help me."

"No? Being a princess is all about keeping a good relationship with other countries." She pulled a pen from her apron pocket and offered it to me. "Fill out the forms, cariña. What's the worst that could happen?"

With a glance at my mother—and at the dollar amount on the papers—I sighed and accepted the pen.