THE DISCARDED LUNA‘S REVENGE

Chapter Three

LYRA’S POV

The walk back down the ridge felt twice as long as the trek up, the heavy cardboard box digging a deep, throbbing ache into my collarbone. As the smooth, dark macadam of the hillside slowly morphed back into the cracked, heat-buckled asphalt of the valley, the cool eucalyptus breeze vanished, replaced by the familiar, heavy scent of diesel exhaust.

I stopped at the bottom of our apartment stairwell, my breath rattling in my throat as I wiped a layer of gritty valley dust from my forehead. My hands were still holding a faint, residual tremor from the moment Gabriel Jakes’ shoe had pinned my scholarship papers to the floor. I closed my eyes, letting the image of those piercing, pale amber eyes burn behind my eyelids for a single second before I deliberately locked it away.

And learn to look at the floor when you walk through these doors, transfer, his voice echoed in my head.

"Not a chance," I whispered to the empty concrete stairwell. I squeezed the box tighter, forcing my shoulders back, and climbed the steps to our apartment. I couldn't let my parents see even a flicker of the humiliation I had faced today. They were already carrying too many weights of their own.

When I pushed the door open, the apartment was quiet, wrapped in the stifling, trapped heat of the late afternoon. The small window unit in the living room was humming a loud, rattling protest, doing little to combat the ninety-degree air. My mother was standing over the ironing board in the corner, a worn, faded green bedsheet spread across it as she carefully pressed the collars of my father’s work shirts.

She looked up instantly, her face softening as she saw the massive cardboard box in my arms. "Oh, thank goodness, you're back. I was starting to worry the administrative office had closed early on you. Sit down, sweetheart, let me get you some cold water."

"I'm fine, Mom, just a little sticky from the walk," I said, setting the heavy box down onto the laminate kitchen table with a loud, hollow thud. The bold black lettering Stipend Allocation - Level 4 stared up at us like a scarlet letter.

My father walked out of the small hallway, buttoning his gray logistics uniform shirt. He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes deeper than they had been this morning, but his eyes lit up when he saw the box. "Is that it? The uniform?"

"The whole kit," I said, forcing a bright, easy smile as I unlatched the cheap plastic packing tape. "Three sets of everything. The secretary said textbooks are already waiting in my assigned locker, so I won't have to lug those up the hill next week."

I pulled the lid open, and the scent of stiff, unwashed industrial wool and cheap polyester filled the small kitchen. I lifted the first navy blue pleated skirt, holding it up against my waist. It fell completely flat, completely unshaped, dropping past my shins like a heavy, shapeless blanket. The white button-down shirts were just as bad—stiff, oversized, and swimming with loose threads at the cuffs.

My mother stepped closer, reaching out to pinch the heavy wool between her fingers. Her brow furrowed, her eyes instantly cataloging the cheapness of the material compared to the tailored wool-blend blazers we had seen on the legacy students in the brochures. "They didn't hem any of it? They just gave you raw fabric measurements?"

"The administrative handout packages don't include tailoring," I replied smoothly, keeping my voice entirely neutral as I tossed the skirt back into the box. "The secretary said alterations are the responsibility of the student. Apparently, the wealthier families get their garments delivered straight from a boutique."

My father’s jaw tightened. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his worn leather wallet, his thumb tracing the single, crumpled twenty-dollar bill resting inside. "Lyra, there’s a dry cleaner down on four avenues. They have a seamstress. I can—"

"No, Dad, absolutely not," I interrupted firmly, reaching across the table to press his hand back down over his wallet. "We aren't spending twenty dollars on something we can do right here. Mom has the old Singer machine, and I know exactly how I want these to fit. We don't need a professional."

My father looked at me, a deep, painful wave of guilt flashing across his rugged features. "You shouldn't have to compromise on your first day, Lyra. A girl's uniform at a place like that... it matters. People look."

"Let them look," I said, my voice hardening slightly with a quiet intensity. "They can look all they want. It’s just fabric, Dad. My scores got me into those classrooms, not a label. I'm going to be so far ahead of them on the first trimester exams that they won't have time to notice the stitching on my hem."

My father stared at me for a long moment, a slow, proud smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. He reached up, gently patting my shoulder with his heavy palm. "That's my girl. Don't let them dim that spark, sweetheart. Not for a single second." He checked the plastic watch on his wrist and sighed. "I have to get to the depot. The night manager is tracking everyone's swipe-in times down to the second."

"Be safe, Dad," I said, watching him grab his lunch tin and slip out the front door, the heavy metal deadbolt clicking into place behind him.

Once the apartment was quiet again, my mother dragged her old, heavy iron sewing machine out from the bottom of the closet, setting it onto the kitchen table beside the box. She plugged it in, the old motor giving a low, mechanical purr that sounded like a living thing in the small room.

"Alright," my mother said, pulling the stiff navy blue blazer out of the cardboard box and examining the silver buttons. "Put the first set on. Let’s see what we’re actually working with."

I stepped into the cramped bathroom, stripping out of my faded denim jacket and jeans, and pulled the unhemmed uniform on. It felt awful against my skin. The white shirt was scratchy and stiff, the collar cutting into my neck, and the navy blue blazer swallowed my frame entirely, the shoulder pads dropping nearly two inches past my natural shoulders. I looked like a child wearing her father's clothes. I looked exactly like a charity case trying to play dress-up in a world she didn't belong to.

I walked back into the kitchen, keeping my arms pinned to my sides.

My mother swallowed hard, a tiny, sad breath escaping her lips before she quickly covered it with a bright, determined expression. "Okay. It’s... it has structure, at least. Come here. Stand on the chair so I can pin the hem."

I stepped up onto the old wooden kitchen chair, staring at the faded floral wallpaper of our kitchen as my mother dropped to her knees on the linoleum floor, her mouth full of silver straight pins. She began rolling the heavy wool of the skirt upward, measuring the distance from my knees.

"How was the campus, Lyra?" she asked around the pins, her voice muffled but filled with a mother's quiet curiosity. "Was it as beautiful as the pictures?"

"It’s big," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on a small tear in the wallpaper. "Like an old castle. Everything is made of grey stone and iron. The central courtyard has a massive marble fountain."

"Did you meet anyone? Any of the other students?"

The memory of the hallway flashed vividly in my mind. Janella's sharp, musical voice dripping with aristocratic malice. Benny’s soft, mocking chuckle as she pointed out the Level 4 label on my box. Gabriel's heavy leather shoe pinning my future to the floor, his pale amber eyes evaluating my fear.

"I ran into a few seniors near the registrar's office," I said quietly, my voice remaining completely steady, completely polite. "Just briefly. They were heading toward the senior lounge. They barely even noticed I was there."

My mother let out a sigh of relief, her fingers smoothing down the pinned hem of the skirt. "Good. I just want you to focus on your studies, Lyra. This school... it's a stepping stone. Once you graduate at the top of your class, you'll have the credentials to help us look back into your father's old case. We can finally hire a real investigator to look into those forged digital signatures from Chicago."

"I know, Mom," I said softly, looking down at her dark hair. "That's the only reason I'm going up that hill. I'm going to get my diploma, clear Dad's name, and get us out of the valley."

"He didn't do what they said he did, Lyra," my mother whispered, her voice tightening with a familiar, lingering ache. "He was set up. And the proof is out there somewhere, hidden in those old remote network ledgers. We just need the leverage to find it."

"I'll get us that leverage," I promised, a tiny, icy spark of resolve tightening in my chest.

"Alright," my mother said, pulling herself back together and picking up her fabric shears. "Let’s get this hem locked in first. Once the length is right, we’ll taper the sides of the blazer so it actually fits your frame. It won't look like an allocation box anymore."

"Thanks, Mom," I whispered, stepping back down onto the chair as she took the pinned skirt over to the table.

The mechanical roar of the sewing machine filled the small, humid room. I watched her foot work the pedal, the needle punching a clean, straight line through the heavy blue wool of the skirt. She finished the hem, snapped the thread with a practiced flick of her wrist, and shook it out. It was a perfect, crisp line.

"Perfect," she smiled, placing the skirt aside and reaching for the oversized, swimming blazer. "Now for the hard part. Let's take these shoulders and waist in so you don't look like you're wearing your father's coat."

She draped the heavy jacket over the machine, carefully lining up the bulky side seams under the presser foot. Her foot pressed down on the pedal.

The motor gave a sudden, violent whir, followed by a loud, sickening CLACK.

The entire machine shuddered violently and seized. A faint, bitter smell of burning electrical smoke instantly drifted up from the motor housing. My mother gasped, quickly ripping her foot off the pedal as the small lightbulb on the machine flickered and died.

"Oh, no," she whispered, her hands flying to the handwheel. She tried to turn it manually, but it was completely jammed, frozen solid. The heavy needle was bent at a grotesque angle, snapped in half and buried deep inside the bobbin case.

"Mom?" I stepped closer, my heart sinking as I looked at the old Singer.

She gently pulled the blazer free, but the side seam hadn't even been touched. She spent the next ten minutes working a screwdriver, trying to loosen the gears, but the ancient motor had finally given up the ghost. It was fried.

Slowly, she set the screwdriver down, her shoulders slumping as she looked up at me, her eyes filled with a sudden, helpless wave of apology. "Lyra... I'm so sorry. The internal gear is stripped. It’s completely shot."

I looked from the dead machine to the blazer resting on the table. The sleeves were still unnaturally long, the shoulders boxy and hanging two inches past my own, the waist completely unshaped.

"It's okay," I said, trying to keep my voice light to ease the heavy guilt on her face. "You got the skirt hemmed. That's the most important part."

"But the jacket..." My mother reached out, her fingers tracing the stiff, oversized lapel. "You’re going to look... it’s so big on you, sweetheart. The orientation walkthrough is in two days, and school starts right after. We don't have the money to take this to a professional tailor before then."

I picked up the heavy, drowning blazer and pulled it back on over my shoulders. I looked into the dark kitchen window, staring at my reflection.

Without the tailoring, the uniform didn't look like a sharp suit of armor anymore. It looked exactly like what it was: a cheap, mass-produced Level 4 stipend allocation jacket meant to swallow up a scholarship girl from the valley. I looked smaller in it. I looked vulnerable.

"It doesn't matter, Mom," I said, my voice dripping with quiet, stubborn determination. "Let it be big. Let them think I'm small and drowning in this uniform. It just means they won't see me coming."