Page 69 of The Unraveling

Isleep better that night, in that massive bed under the velvet duvet, than I have in months. But when I wake up, the first thing I remember is the mystery text.

Don’t trust him.

Who would send it? I can only assume it’s in regard to Alistair. Who else?

My first thought is Arabella, but it can’t be. If she didn’t think I should trust him, she would have just let me into the flat last night. I could hear her inside, I know she heard me. It would have been one thing if she was just passed out. But she was in there. She was laughing. You don’t do that and then turn around to send a text like that.

Cynthia?

No, that girl barely likes me.

And I honestly don’t know any of the other girls at the company well enough for them to send it. First of all, no one knows me yet, especially not well enough to care or to have my number. Although I’m sure someone could find a way to get it. Second of all, ballerinas only rarely look out for each other—I should have known Arabella wasn’t as nice as she seemed. Third, no one knows about Alistair being my donor yet. As far as I know. Though news travels fast in this world.

Does it travel fast enough to someone who might be trying to look out for me?

There’s also always the chance that it was someone fucking with me to get me to mess this donor situation up or just literally getting the wrong number.

All I can do, besides text back who is this, which I already did, is wait and see what happens. I can see if anyone acts different in class and rehearsal. I can keep an eye on Alistair and see if he’s sketchy.

It’s raining out, but the flat is only a ten-minute walk from the theater, so I walk. When I arrive, my face is chapped from the cold, and as much as I want to spend fifteen minutes in my cozy dressing room, around the radiator, before changing into my warm-ups and going into the cold hallway, I have to hurry. I want a spot at the barre before Arabella arrives. I know if she’s already there and I walk in, there will be that whole cafeteria feeling where you stand there with your tray and don’t know where to sit.

I do beat her to the studio, thankfully. I feel relieved, thinking that maybe she’ll go to the other class and I might get through the whole day without an awkward run-in.

No such luck. I forgot about the company meeting before class. Dammit.

I’ve just finished warming up my ankles with my TheraBand when I reach for my water bottle and look up to see Arabella walking over to me.

“Jocelyn,” she says.

“Arabella.” I let out an exhausted sigh, and then say, “Can we just sort out whatever is fucked up? I’ve done the whole mean-girl standoff thing before with my best friend and we should have just talked. Can you just tell me why you locked me out?”

This catches the attention of the girls around, but they all pretend they’re not listening. I know they are.

“Okay,” says Arabella. “I think it was fucked up for you to blow us off for some guy.”

I give her a look and then gesture at the hall. She follows me.

I turn and round on her once we’re alone.

“You left me!”

She looks irritated. “Only because you had clearly checked out of our time and into something with him.”

I want to ask her if she set up the meeting with Clementine, but by the light of day, the suggestion sounds crazy.

“I didn’t tell you to leave. He took me home after we talked about the ballet, and then you locked me out. And left my things outside. That was fucked up.”

She runs her tongue over her teeth, as if she’s just sharpened them, and says, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

I’m taken aback by the abruptness of contrition. “You’re…sorry?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Sorry.”

I don’t know what to say. I can’t keep hammering her, trying to convince her she’s wrong; she’s already copping to that.

“Um. Okay,” I say. “Thanks, then.”

“Do you still need a place to live?” she asks.

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