Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 04

Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 04

“First place.”

My homeroom teacher handed me the award notice, looking more excited than I was. “National competition. You’re the only firstplace winner in the province. Do you know what that means?”

I did. Six thousand dollars prize money. Early admission eligibility to three universities. If that studyabroad scholarship were still alive, this certificate would have been the perfect supplement.

But that scholarship was gone. Locked behind a door, along with my ID.

“Have you told your parents?”

“No.”

“Tell them today.” He patted my shoulder. “This is big. Be proud.”

I folded the notice into my backpack’s inner pocket. I rehearsed the conversation on my way home—not because I was nervous, but because I was preparing for every possible response. Best case: “Nice” and then back to talking about Sherry. Mid case: she forgot to ask which competition. Worst case: “What’s the point of an essay contest?”

When I walked in, the living room was loud. My aunt and cousin were over. Aunt Helen sat on the couch, daughter Lily squeezed beside her. Coffee table covered in nuts and fruit. Sherry was playing—a new piece, finished to applause.

“Sherry just keeps getting better! A future pianist for sure.” Helen’s eyes disappeared into her smile.

Mom demurred, but her mouth betrayed her. “No, no—just fooling around.”

Zach dragged a chair over to turn pages for Sherry. Dad was brewing tea in the kitchen, laughing.

I slipped in. Helen spotted me. “Vera! Come here. You’ve gotten thinner.”

“Hi, Helen.”

“Your mom says your grades slipped? What happened? You used to be so good.”

Mom had told Helen my grades had slipped. But she didn’t tell her why. Not about the errands, not about the theft blame, not about the fever. In front of relatives, my falling behind was just my own failing.

“Helen, actually—”

“Lily got into the business school at State this year! We treated the whole family.”

Helen swept the conversation back to her own daughter. “You work hard too, Vera. Don’t make your mom worry.”

I swallowed the award news. Lily gave me a smile—not a kind one. It was knowing. I know where you stand in this family. She leaned in and whispered, “Don’t take it too hard. Your mom’s bark is worse than her bite.” Then, loud enough for everyone: “Karen, Sherry’s dress is gorgeous. Where did you get it?”

She called Sherry “Sherry.” Called me “Little Vera.” One remembered by name; the other just a labeled tag.

At dinner, Helen kept tallying other people’s kids. “I heard the Harrisons’ son got into grad school. Where are you and Vera applying?”

Mom glanced at me, uncomfortable. “Hers… hasn’t been decided.”

“Hasn’t been decided? She’s a senior, right? Shouldn’t you be moving?”

“I—”

I tried again. Sherry shot her phone up first, screen blazing. “Mom! Look! The state competition finalists are up. I made it!”

Everyone swarmed the screen. Mom snatched it. Helen craned over. Dad came out of the kitchen. Zach let out a war whoop.

“State finals? Sherry, that’s incredible!”

“When is it? I’ll get you the best tuner.”

“My girl makes me so proud.”

The whole living room was filled with Sherry’s name. Sherry Woods. Sherry Woods. Sherry Woods. A stone dropped in water, ripples spreading outward. I stood at the very edge, quiet, not even a splash reaching me.

The award notice was still in my backpack. I decided not to pull it out. Not because it didn’t matter—but because on this table, it would never be seen. It would be drowned out. Or worse: “You can’t always compare yourself to your sister.”

When Helen’s family left, Lily bent over to put on her shoes at the door. Whether intentional or not, she said, “Helen, the two little ones are so talented. Vera should work hard too.”

The two little ones. Zach and Sherry. I wasn’t counted. Even in my relatives’ eyes, I was already categorized as not needing to be mentioned.

After they left, I cleared the coffee table. Mom organized Sherry’s sheet music, still murmuring about the state competition. Dad went to his study. Zach went upstairs.

Walnut shells scattered everywhere. One rolled to the floor. I bent to pick it up—and caught a corner of paper under the couch cushion. I pulled it out.

A family trip itinerary. Next month. Destination: Miami. Four plane tickets. Mark, Karen, Zach, Sherry. Four names, four tickets.

The week of my birthday.

They were going to Miami during my birthday week. They’d skipped the pretense of forgetting. They’d never planned to include me.

I tucked the itinerary back under the cushion. Went to my room. Didn’t turn on the light. Moonlight bled through the curtain, hit the zipper of my suitcase. I didn’t cry. Crying in this house was a luxury. Tears would fall, and nobody would catch them.

I opened my phone. Searched the three universities with early admission options. One was in Havenport—two thousand miles away. The farthest.

I opened the application page and filled it out, letter by letter. Name. ID. Contact. Home address.

My thumb hovered. Then I entered a new address—a place I’d never been, but was about to go.

Submit.

Green check. Application received.

At 4:00 A.M., the alarm buzzed. The whole house slept. I dressed, grabbed my suitcase, and passed through the living room. I glanced at the couch—the itinerary was still tucked under the cushion, that corner peeking out like a thorn in the dark.

I didn’t stop.

Opened the door gently. Closed it gently. The hall light flicked on, then off. At the building entrance, the sky was still dark. The cab was already waiting.

As we pulled out of the neighborhood, I looked back at the building. Sixth floor, second window from the right—curtains pulled tight. Inside it: four keys, four bowls, four names.

And one person never written into the itinerary.

The airport concourse was quiet—early flights drew few travelers. I sat on a metal chair, suitcase at my feet. The intercom announced flights.

My phone lit up. Family group chat. Mom had posted: “Sherry’s state competition piece is set—Chopin’s Nocturne.” Dad’s thumbsup. Zach’s “Go, Vera.” A stream of emojis from Sherry.

No one said, “Where’s Vera?”

No one noticed my door was open, my bed empty, my keys on the dresser.

Boarding call.

I stood up and walked the jet bridge. Through the window, the sky began to pale. The city’s lights winked out one by one. I found my seat, buckled in. The plane taxied, engines roared, pulling me away from that house inch by inch.

The last message popped on my phone: “Vera, mop the living room. Your aunt tracked in a lot of dirt yesterday.”

I read it. Smiled.

Power off.

Thirty thousand feet below, that house shrank to a speck.

And my world—just now beginning to grow.