Chapter 4

The first thing I did after my rebirth was neutralize the immediate threat. I went back to the house when I knew Debra would be out. I packed a bag with my few belongings. Then I waited.

When she came home, I was ready. She started in on me the second she walked through the door.

"Where have you been? I was worried sick! You can't just walk out of a hospital, Jocelyn! Think of the scandal!"

I didn't say a word. I just picked up the heavy-duty can of extra-hold hairspray from her vanity table. The one she used to shellac her hair into place.

She saw the look in my eyes and her nagging trailed off. "Jocelyn? What are you doing?"

I moved fast. I didn't hit her hard, just a quick, sharp tap to the temple. Her eyes rolled back and she crumpled to the floor. I dragged her into her bedroom, locked the door from the outside, and pocketed the key.

Then I called the number the hip-hop instructor had given me.

Three hours later, I was in a warehouse in downtown L.A., auditioning for a spot in the "Rogue Wave" dance crew. They operated out of a famous creator house managed by a guy named Ethan Lester.

I didn't dance like a ballerina. I danced like a fighter. I poured all the rage, all the pain, all the betrayal into my movement. When I was done, the room was silent.

Ethan Lester, a sharp guy in his late twenties with intense eyes, just nodded slowly.

"You're in," he said. "Welcome to the house."

That was six months ago.

In that time, I became "Joss." I shed Jocelyn Fuller like a snake sheds its skin. I lived and breathed hip-hop. I battled, I collaborated, I posted videos. And I went viral. My raw, aggressive style was different from anything else online. The views climbed. Millions. Tens of millions.

Ethan became my manager. He was all business, but he was fair. He saw my talent, but more importantly, he saw my marketability.

"You're an enigma, Joss," he told me once. "You have the discipline of a classical dancer but the fire of a street brawler. People can't get enough."

I was making money. Real money. More than a ballet scholarship would have ever paid. I had a platform. I had an audience.

Today, Ethan called me into his office. He tossed a set of keys onto his desk.

"That last video, the one-take warehouse routine? It hit 50 million views across all platforms," he said, a rare smile on his face. "The sponsors are ecstatic. Consider this a bonus."

The keys were for a brand new, glossy black Mustang. My own car. I had earned it.

I walked out to the parking lot, the keys feeling heavy and real in my hand. I ran my fingers over the cool metal of the door. For the first time, I felt a flicker of real, unadulterated joy. I had done this. Me.

As I slid into the driver's seat, the smell of new leather filling my lungs, a commotion erupted at the gate of the creator house.

I looked up and my blood ran cold.

It was my mother, Debra. And she wasn't alone. With her was Wendy Chavez, Maria's adoptive mother. And behind them, a crowd. Local news crews with cameras, and a mob of angry-looking people holding signs. Online vigilantes, drawn by the scent of blood.

My mother pointed a trembling finger at me, her face a mask of righteous fury.

"There she is!" she shrieked, her voice carrying across the parking lot. "There's the thief! She used the money she stole from my poor, sick niece to buy that fancy car!"