Page 110 of Feed Your Fiends

I peel my eyes away from the pair and notice all the boxes stacked up in the corner of the hallway. They’re all labelled in a slanting script with little accents over the tops of a few letters. Had he finally moved out of his mother’s home?

I catch a glimpse of Hale, who looks flustered, sad, but most of all tired.

The sound of clicking chunky heels scares me, and I tiptoe out of the hall and to the bar, where I slip beside Rie Rie, who’s just appeared. Or was she hiding and ignoring me the whole time to eavesdrop? Because when I watch what she’s doing, it’s clear she’s only pretending to dust the liquor bottles on the bottom shelf. She’s so busy listening that she doesn’t even notice that her feather duster isn’t making contact.

Immediately, she puts a finger to her lips.

“You understand that language?” I can’t help but whisper back despite her signal to shut up.

She shakes her head. “No, why?”

“Because—” and then I realise it’s useless to explain. Instead, I slice open the nearest box of alcohol to seem busy. A few near-empty bottles lining the shelves need to be replaced. I pull down a bourbon and pour me and Rie Rie the dregs into shot glasses. As soon as we shoot it back, the woman’s voice lifts to a crescendo before her heels stomp across the floor, straight past us like we don’t exist and then out the front doors.

“Damn, his mother is really hurt,” Rie Rie whispers.

I nearly drop the box cutter and my shot glass. “His mother?”

“Don’t open any more boxes,” Hale says above us, and this time, I do drop my shot glass. It rattles onto the bar top with three clacks before I catch it from falling. “They have to stay protected during the skylight repairs. Hand me that box cutter, will you?”

“I thought you said don’t open any more boxes,” I say even as I slide it over the bar top and watch as he examines the boxes in the hallway before sinking the blade into one.

“She really meant it,” he mutters, as I slowly follow Rie Rie around the counter. “I wanted to check that they weren’t empty like last time.”

Last time?

“She’s rejecting me before she thinks I can reject her first…” he trails, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and seemingly oblivious to the blade still in his grip. “It’s always been her biggest fear ever since I was a kid.”

I take the box cutter from him gingerly. “Why would your mother fear you rejecting her as a kid?”

“Because I can.”

That takes both me and Rie Rie aback.

“Justlookat me.”

We both do, though I doubt Rie can see past her hand. I take in his pale skin, baby-blue eyes, and chestnut gold hair. Then I remember his mother’s dark skin, a deeper bronze than Rie’s.

“I canpass. I can get a get-out-of-jail-free card. I don’t have to endure what she does when people just glance at her and see that she’s Romani.”

“You’re Romani?” I blurt, remembering the woman’s engraved bangles. I knew they had to be cultural.

He nods. “Do you know how my people are treated here in Èze? And all over the world for that matter?”

Actually, I had a pretty big clue. I’d seen the signs. Heard the slurs. Watched a documentary or two.

“Like shit?” Rie offers.

“Worse.” He shakes his head. “I think she’s scared that I’ll betray her at any moment and deny my heritage for the bluebloods' favour, even though I’ve told her a million times I’d never do that. It’s not being Romani I’m ashamed of. It’s Pierrot's!”

“But you said Pierrot’s is her identity too,” Rie says gently.

“And that’s the problem. No one takes her seriously as a businesswoman. No one respects her besides her workers, and so her work has become who she is. She insists it wouldn’t matter if Pierrot’s were a luxury handbag line like Aria’s mother owns or if she were a six-figure watchmaker like Etienne’s father. Or a prima ballerina like Gant’s mother. She doesn’t come from money, so her money, no matter how much it grows, is worthless to them. She’s worthless to them, and it’s like she’s stubbornly embodying this outcast they’ve pegged her as. She’s proud of it.”

“And she wants you to be proud of it, too?” I ask.

“I am proud of our culture, our language, and traditions. I’m proud of where she’s come from and the fact that she’s a millionaire now. That isn’t the problem. Pierrot’s is. I just don’t want to entangle my identity with…a fucking menagerie, okay? It won’t ever be acceptable to them.”

To them.

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