Chapter 3

April

I'm exhausted from the long walk home. Even though I'm supposedly going to make him an unimaginable fortune tonight, Uncle Harris won't spring for a ride. I know it's partly my punishment for not haggling for a larger percentage; but every message board I've read about The Black Door's auctions says that's what the participants get. No one ever complained about their share, either, but Uncle Harris is as greedy as he is mean.

There are a bunch of stolen cellphones I'm supposed to go through to see which ones can be resold after I wipe them, and I can hardly concentrate, earning myself a severe round of insults since he still can't hit me for fear of the mark showing tonight. I have to pretend everything is perfectly fine and normal when Amelia gets home from school. Uncle Harris isn't as rough on her, but he's been itching to smack someone for so long that I fear she'll get a slap for no reason just because he can't currently hit me. My overly cheery greeting as I polish a scratch out of a silver phone case is a warning that Amelia understands instantly and she hurries to our room to do her homework.

People have always mentioned that I'm pretty, not that it's ever made my life any better, but it's my little sister who is the truly beautiful one. Even at her young age, I can see our uncle's disgusting cohorts eyeing her up after I've given them dirty looks for trying to hit on me. Uncle Harris always shuts them down with harsh warnings because he had this plan even before discovering the Black Door nightclub and their black-market auctions.

I can handle it for myself, but I'll kill or die to keep it from happening to Amelia.

When it's time to get ready, I have to pause several times to keep from getting sick as I put on the lacy pink and white lingerie Uncle Harris bought for the auction. It's completely sheer and the thought of him picking it out, knowing exactly what it was for, keeps threatening to bring up the few bites of apple I could force down when we got home.

I pull on a sweater and a skirt and push out of the bathroom with a smile on my face that feels like it's being drawn up by rusty hooks. I don't want Amelia to ever know what I'm about to do. As far as I know, I've kept it a secret, but when I breezily tell her I'll see her tomorrow, she bursts into tears and grabs onto my waist. She may not know what, but she knows something's wrong.

"Where are you going?" she demands, digging her ratty old sneakers into the faded carpet.

We've never had sleepovers. We're not allowed to have friends over, either. Walking to the grocery store without our uncle hovering nearby isn't even allowed and if we get to go somewhere like school or on an errand, if we're not back on time, he's on us like a hawk. I can't find a lie that she'll believe. "I'll be back tomorrow," I say, prying her hands away. "Stay in here and stay quiet," I tell her. "Don't bug Uncle Harris."

She snorts. "As if." Now she's pouting, a typical twelve-year-old, mad at me for leaving her. That's better than fearful tears, so I hurry out before Uncle Harris even shouts for me that it's time to go.

Since I put on the sky-high heels, he bought to go along with the lingerie; he hails a cab with a scowl, muttering that I could have worn my sneakers until we got there. I'm too tired to argue and don't want to press my luck. As soon as we're in the back of the taxi, the only thing keeping me awake is an ice-cold dread about what's about to happen. I almost wished we had walked to keep it at bay a little longer, but all too soon we're at the club.

Ms. Calloway told us to use the back entrance, and Uncle Harris grabs my wrist when I freeze on the sidewalk by some trees in fancy pots.

He drags me around the corner into the squeaky-clean alley and reason leaves me. "Please," I beg, reaching for the corner of the building, one of the flimsy trees, anything to stop him from pulling me closer to my fate. "I don't want to do this. Please, Uncle Harris."

I almost hear the crack of his palm hitting my cheek before I feel the sting. My head whips sideways and the pain stuns me into giving up the fight before he really loses it and I get another and another.

His glare is fierce and full of rage. "Shut the hell up and act right." When his hand juts forward again, I cover my cheeks and remind him that they'll notice the marks. His arm shakes, but he stops. A terrible smile takes over his face. "Then Amelia will get what's coming to you unless you get your ass in there. You owe me, April."

Once again I don't know how we owe him anything and I wish he'd put us in the dreaded foster care system even though we'd probably be separated. I wish our father had never died so young, or that we'd ever had a mother. But none of my wishes come true and all I can do is keep Amelia from getting hurt. So, I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath, and go through the door with a smile on my face.

I avoid making eye contact with the people mulling about all the way to the dressing room where Uncle Harris is told he can't enter. He's also not invited to the auction, which is a huge relief because God knows what kind of scene he'd make. With a final warning glare, he heads toward the back door.

"Good luck, hon," he calls out in the voice that can fool everyone. "See you tomorrow."

If the other girls think it's weird my uncle dropped me off at the auction where I'm selling my virginity, they don't mention it. I wish I could be as excited and calm as they are, with the four of them talking about what they're going to do with their winnings. Ms. Calloway comes in and makes me get out of my street clothes, quickly approving the barely there lingerie.

"You're sure about this?" she asks once again as she scrutinizes me from head to toe.

As I follow her eyes, I notice a fading, yellow bruise on my ribs and move my elbow before she sees it. I could probably confess everything to her because she seems like a decent person. Maybe she'd believe me and cancel my contract. But then what would become of Amelia? At the first whiff of trouble, he'd take her and run, cutting his losses with me, but biding his time until he could do the same thing to her.

"Of course," I tell Ms. Calloway, zoning out to the sounds of music from the front of the club.

"You ready?" one of the other girls asks, squeezing my hand and bringing me out of my trance. "You're up next."

I force my excited smile and nod, but there aren't many thoughts in my head and I can barely feel the pressure of her fingers on my hand. The music pumping from the speakers out front seems a million miles away and the announcer's voice is muffled and distorted.

Under the bright lights on the stage, it's difficult to make out individual faces and the shouted bids all blend into one loud voice that's eager to consume me.

Breathe. I have to breathe as well as smile. And I have to act sexy, desirable. Worth the huge sums that are getting yelled left and right. I shake my hair behind my shoulders and take a few steps across the stage, trying not to faint.