Fated

get out of here before it gets any worse.
    Glancing toward the mirror to see Lita roll her eyes, shake her head, and say, “Jacy … really …”
    “What? It’s true. I totally did!” pink lips/Jacy says.
    “Whatever.” Lita sighs. “It’s just—do you have to agree with everything I say?” She snaps her bag shut, hikes it high onto her shoulder, and makes to leave.
    But I need to leave first. I’ve seen more than enough of the inner workings of their clique, and now I need to get out while I can.
    I crawl toward the door. Unwilling to use my wings, knowing it’ll attract too much notice, I begin scaling the crumpled paper towel that holds the door open, which, from my new, low-to-the-ground perspective, may as well be Everest.
    Having just made it to the summit, when Jacy falls in place behind Lita, causing Lita to heave a great sigh, boost the door open, and say, “Please—after you, ” in the most sarcastic voice she can manage. And all it takes is the reshuffling of feet just behind me, along with the careless kick of Jacy’s red pointy shoes spiking my back end, to force me off the paper towel mountain and send me flying out of the bathroom and into the club.
    My body grazing the pant legs of more unsuspecting clubgoers than I can count. Veering wildly out of control but trying not to panic, since panic will only result in a lost connection—until I land with the kind of heavy, unexpected thud that reverberates throughout me.
    I’m stunned. Watching as an army of shoes stomp all around, and knowing I can’t just sit here like the universally hated target I am, I start moving. Making slow, cautious progress until the band takes a break and the journey becomes increasingly perilous when the same crowd that swarmed the stage, now suddenly leaves the stage in search of the bathrooms, a drink, and each other.
    Heels slam down all around me until I can’t decide which is scarier—the spiky tip of a stiletto or the heavy, rubber tread of a boot?
    In a desperate fit to survive, I wind up the wings on my back and propel myself from shoe to shoe, pant leg to skirt hem, until I’m in the clear. Then I make for the wall, clinging to the shadows, until I’m free of the busier part of the club and into that weird hall of corridors, where I make for the office I visited last time I was here.
    I pause by the door, watching as Cade perches on the edge of a desk, flipping a baseball bat against the palm of his hand. The sound of wood slapping, dull and continuous, as another man, a man who’s clearly older and most likely related, talks to him about something that, though I can’t quite make it out, has clearly captured Cade’s interest.
    I sneak closer, straining to hear, but before I can glean much of anything, Marliz appears. The sight of her causing Cade to abandon the bat and slip out, as Marliz approaches the desk. Her face slack, eyes resigned, loosening her apron strings as the man tilts his chair away from his desk, and growls, “Close the door.”
    I steel myself against the force of the slamming door, watching as Cade makes his way down the hall, pausing briefly to light a cigarette despite the fact that he fails to smoke it past the initial drag. He just waves it around—the tip sparking, flaring, as a blizzard of ashes drift to the ground. Unknowingly leading me down a series of halls so confusing I take note of all manner of landmarks so I can find my way back.
    There’s a gum wrapper on the ground, just before the door with the chipped paint near the bottom, that looks like the shape of a heart. A real heart—the kind with aortas, and ventricles, and arteries—as opposed to the Hallmark kind.
    There’s a squashed cigarette butt in the corner where the wall is warped and bubbled in a way that could be the result of water damage.
    But while I’m off to a good start, it’s not long before there are so many doors, so many hallways, so many little bits of debris to keep track of, I completely lose count. So I tell myself it’s not my concern what becomes of this cockroach when I’m finished with him. From the looks of things, I’ve done him a huge favor by leading him to an area where the carpet is crusted with a wide assortment of his most favored treats. Bits of hair, flakes of dried skin, an unlimited supply of unidentifiable small greasy things that just the mere thought of prompts his instincts to kick in. Making him hungry enough to try to turn around so he can go hunt some