Chapter 1

My name is Elara Vance, but everyone calls me Eli. In my world, you learn two things fast: hunger is a constant, and everything has a price.

I sat in the loud, stinking cafeteria, my stomach twisting. I wasn't hungry for food. Not just for food. I was hungry for an escape.

Across the room, Ms. Patty, the cafeteria manager with a face like a clenched fist, was piling mashed potatoes onto Nate' s tray. Nate was a football player, a jock, a friend of the golden boy, Julian Croft. Athletes always got more. It was an unspoken rule. A system I couldn't beat head-on.

But I never fight head-on.

I watched another student, a skinny freshman, get a scoop of potatoes so small it was almost transparent. He looked at his tray, then at Nate's, and his shoulders slumped. He knew the rules too.

I felt a nudge. It was Mark, a kid from my algebra class. He looked panicked.

"Eli, you got it?" he whispered, his eyes darting around.

I didn't say anything. I just slid a folded piece of paper across the table. It was his algebra homework, perfectly done. Every equation solved. Every answer correct.

He looked at it, his face flooding with relief. Then he pushed his own lunch tray toward me. On it sat a pristine chocolate pudding cup. The one thing from the lunch line that was actually good.

I took the pudding. I didn't smile. It wasn't a friendly exchange. It was a transaction. His grade for my dessert. It was fair.

Later that day, I walked home. Home was a small, sagging house that smelled like stale beer and disappointment. The front door was open, as always.

Inside, my mother was on the couch, watching some daytime TV show. My father was in his chair, staring at the wall. They didn't look up when I came in.

"Cody scored a touchdown in practice," my mother said to the TV. "Coach says he's got real potential."

My younger brother, Cody, was their lottery ticket. A mediocre high school athlete they thought was going to the NFL. All their hope, all their money, what little of it there was, went to him.

"He needs new cleats," my father grunted from his chair. "The good ones are over a hundred bucks."

My mother' s eyes flickered to me for a second, a flat, calculating look. I knew what it meant. It meant I was a cost. A burden. A factory job waiting to happen.

I went to my room and closed the door. It didn't lock. Nothing in this house was secure. Under my loose floorboard was a small tin box. I pulled it out and opened it.

Inside was my escape fund. A collection of crumpled dollar bills and coins, earned from homework and other small hustles. It wasn't much, but it was mine. It was my future.

I added the dollar I' d gotten for another kid' s history summary. Every single cent was a step further away from this house. I counted it again. Seventy-eight dollars and fifty-two cents.

It wasn't enough. Not yet. But it would be. I would make sure of it.