Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 03

Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 03

“Vera Woods’s parents—please come to the school this week.”

The homeroom teacher called three times. No one picked up the first two. Mom picked up the third.

I knew this because that night, she called me into the living room. Her face was tight.

“Your teacher says you’re zoning out in class. Your grades dropped to the 40s?”

“Thirtyseventh,” I corrected.

“Thirtyseventh! You used to be top ten.”

Used to be.

Before I washed dishes for five people. Before I ran errands for Sherry. Before I took the blame for Zach’s thefts. Before I dragged myself to urgent care with a fever alone. My study time used to be whole. Now it was a rag—everyone grabbed a corner and tore.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Maybe I’ve just been off lately.”

“What do you mean ‘off’? Sherry practices four hours a day and keeps up her schoolwork. You don’t practice piano. You don’t have competitions. You just study—and this is what you get?”

Every time, she measured me against Sherry. Sherry had her own practice room, protected hours, a schedule wrapped in bubble wrap. My schedule had “study” listed after: wash dishes, mop floor, pick up Sherry, run Zach’s errands.

“You need to come to school this weekend. The teacher wants a meeting.”

Mom sighed. “Do I have to go?”

“You or Dad.”

“Dad’s working overtime.”

She rubbed her forehead. Then—”I’ll push Sherry’s piano lesson back. Saturday morning, I’ll go to your school.”

I blinked. She was coming?

A strange warmth rose in me, like rain in the desert.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She waved it off. “Get your grades up. Don’t embarrass us.”

Saturday morning. I waited at the school gate for two hours.

She didn’t show.

I called—noisy mall static in the background.

“Vera, Sherry’s piano teacher has a lastminute master class today. Rare chance. I’m taking her. Just tell your teacher we’ll reschedule.”

I stood at the gate, phone pressed to my ear. The sun was brutal. My shadow shrank to a knot at my feet.

“Okay.”

“Good—go study.”

The teacher looked down from his office window, pushed up his glasses. I climbed the stairs, knocked, walked in.

“Vera. Your parents?”

“They couldn’t make it.”

He looked at me for three full seconds. Disappointment. Exhaustion. Something else I couldn’t name—only later did I realize it was pity.

“Sit down.” He sighed. “I can tell something’s off. Is everything okay at home?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t push it alone.” He pulled out a form and slid it to me. “A national writing contest. First prize comes with a cash award. I’ve read your work. You should enter.”

I checked the deadline. Next week.

“Entry fee?”

“School covers it.”

I nodded, folded the paper, and put it in my pocket.

At home, shopping bags lined the coffee table. Sherry spinning in a new practice leotard in front of the mirror. Zach sprawled on the couch, phone blasting, feet on the table, socks aimed at the fruit bowl. Mom opening a shoe box: new ballet slippers.

“These feel softer. Try them.”

Sherry slipped them on, took two steps, tilted her head. “A little tight.”

“We’ll exchange them tomorrow. Vera, take her.”

“I have a writing submission due tomorrow.”

“Don’t you submit online? You can write on your phone on the way.”

“It’s fifteen hundred words. On my phone?”

Mom finally looked up—that light, dismissive glance, like I was a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Can’t you just cooperate? She needs these for next week’s competition.”

Always the competition. Her competition. Her dress. Her piano. Her lessons.

Everything I needed could be shoved into cracks—on my phone, on the bus, in the scraps of time people left behind.

“Fine.”

I went to my room. Wrote until 1:00 A.M. Revised four times.

Next morning, dark circles, I took Sherry to exchange the shoes. She tried on five pairs. Chose the first one in the next size up. Three hours.

On the subway back, she said, “Vera, your eyes are really red.”

“Didn’t sleep.”

“What were you writing? I heard your keyboard when I passed by.”

“A contest entry.”

She tilted her head. After a moment: “Vera, you’re really good at writing. I still remember that story you made up for me. About the moon.”

She was seven, scared of the dark. I’d made it up to put her to sleep. She still remembered.

“Good memory,” I said.

The train stopped. Doors opened. She walked ahead, then turned back.

“Vera. If you ever write something amazing—tell me, okay?”

I watched her back—the little princess everyone cupped in their palms. She wasn’t a bad person. She was the only one in that house who asked if I was okay. But she couldn’t change anything. Her kindness was a piece of candy—it melted fast. Once it was gone, the bitter aftertaste stayed.

That evening, I submitted the entry. Ten minutes before the deadline. Checked typos three times. Hit send.

In the living room, Mom was blowdrying Sherry’s hair, the drone of the dryer buzzing. Zach’s game sound blared.

No one knew what I’d just done.

No one cared.