Back at the Start (02)

With perfect lines and loops, Calliope signs the small sheet of paper that is your hall pass and rips it neatly off the pad to hand it to you. "Collect yourself. Take your time, Jules. There's no need for you to hurry back until you're ready."

When you move closer, Belle's eyes narrow, her jaw tightening. She sniffs and wipes her face with her sleeve, smudging her makeup even more. "Yeah, I’m peachy," she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut. But there’s a waver in her tone, a crack that she tries to hide behind that defensive front.

She shifts against the dumpster, her shoulders pressing harder into the metal like she needs its solidity to keep herself from falling apart. Her phone stays gripped tightly in her hand, knuckles white, almost like she’s holding onto it for dear life. Her gaze flicks to the side, not quite meeting yours like she’s trying to find an escape route that doesn’t involve moving.

"I think they want school to suck, some drenny crucible for us to endure... so we won't complain when we're out," she adds, a little softer this time. "They take and they take."

Belle's defenses waver for a moment. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, surprised, like she wasn’t expecting you to care, to even ask. She hesitates, her mouth opening just slightly as if she’s about to say something, but then she shuts it again, chewing on her bottom lip.

She looks down at her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. You notice the way her grip loosens, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. There’s a pause, a long beat where you can almost see her weighing the risk of letting you in against the safety of staying closed off.

Finally, she lets out a shaky breath. "It’s… not exactly school dren," she mutters, but the edge in her voice is gone. She glances up at you again, eyes searching yours for something—judgment, maybe, or some sign that you’ll understand. Her fingers tap the side of the phone, restless. "I just… I had to do something hard," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "A couple weeks ago."

The tears well up and fall rapidly down her cheeks and she sniffs but doesn't wipe at her eyes or her nose this time. Finally, she lets out a shaky breath. Then, slowly, like she’s moving through water, she unlocks her phone and turns the phone screen toward you. There’s a photo of a tiny baby, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, eyes closed, with a little tuft of blonde hair sticking up at the top of his head. He’s so small, so fragile-looking. Your heart aches at the sight of him. He's beautiful.

Belle’s hand trembles as she holds out the phone. "I… I wasn’t ready. He deserved… he deserved better than what I could give," she says, her voice breaking a little. "There’s this couple, they’re… they have money, they can give him everything. But…" her words die off and she weeps softly for a few moments.

Her shoulders slump, and she looks down again, hiding her face behind her hair. Takes anoher breath to calm herself, to regain her warbly voice. "I don’t know why it feels so drenny, you know? Like, I did the right thing… didn’t I?" Her tone is pleading now, almost like she’s asking you to confirm it, to tell her she’s not a terrible person for feeling this way. For giving away her child.

Her fingers curl around the phone again, pulling it back toward her chest like she’s protecting it from something. She shakes her head, "No, it’s not… It wasn’t through an agency or anything. Just… some rich people my parents knew. It’s all… private, you know? No paperwork that says I can see him. Nothing like that."

She looks away, her eyes glazing over as she stares at some point on the ground, lost in her thoughts. "They said it was better this way. Less complicated, easier for everyone… for him. For them." Her voice cracks on the last word, and you see her swallow hard, like she’s trying to choke back the tears threatening to spill over again. "I don’t even know if… if they’ll ever tell him who I am. Or if they’ll just pretend I never existed." She sniffs, swiping angrily at her cheeks, like she’s mad at herself for crying in front of you.

Her shoulders hunch, and she draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as if she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. "I don’t know why I thought I could handle this," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I just… I just want to know if he’s okay, you know? If he’s happy. But I can’t… I can’t even have that."

For a moment, Belle just stares at you, like she didn’t quite hear what you said, or like she’s waiting for you to take it back. She blinks rapidly, trying to read your face, searching for some hidden motive, some trick. "Why would you…?" she starts, but the words catch in her throat. She looks at you, her brow furrowing, suspicion flashing in her eyes. "What’s in it for you, Jules? Why would you want to… to do that for me? I can just like cyber-stalk them on Facebook... like I already am."

Belle’s lips twitch into a small, wry smile. She lets out a soft snort, almost like a laugh, and you can see a spark of something lighter flicker in her eyes—amusement, maybe, or just relief at hearing something so unexpected. "A big softie, huh?" Belle says, shaking her head, but she’s not angry anymore. There’s some warmth in her tone now. She glances at you, and for the first time, she looks less like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and more like she’s letting herself consider that maybe you’re genuine, that maybe you really do just want to help.

"Okay," she says finally, her voice steadier, more resolved. "Okay… you want to help? I’ll let you help." She shifts, reaching into the back pocket of her jeans to pull out a crumpled piece of paper and a pen. She scribbles down an address, the ink smudging slightly as she presses the paper into your hand. "They live in this fancy place out in the burbs - fancy cars, fancy lawns, the whole deal. It’s in a gated community just outside Kansas City. Called Crossroads."

Belle looks at you, her expression softening for just a moment. "They named him James," she says quietly, almost like she’s afraid of saying it out loud. "Just… let me know if he’s okay, all right? That’s all I want to know."

Her eyes linger on you, and there’s a gratefulness there, mixed with a thousand unspoken things you know she can’t bring herself to say. For the first time, she doesn’t look so alone, and you realize that maybe this small act, this little bit of help, might be enough to give her a tiny piece of the comfort she’s been searching for. "Thanks, Jules," she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Really. I mean it."

Belle’s smile fades, and her eyes harden again, the brief moment of lightness replaced by something colder. She looks away, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. You watch as her jaw clenches, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve overstepped... if you’ve pushed too far.

"No," she says finally, her voice flat, almost rehearsed like she’s had to explain this more times than she’d like. "He doesn’t know. He doesn’t… he’s not in the picture. Never was." She shrugs, but it’s stiff like the motion doesn’t quite fit right. "I didn’t tell him. He’s got his own life. Wouldn’t have changed anything, anyway."