20

There are two jugs of Amber sitting in our basement, under a shelf full of paint cans. Mama has been using small amounts of Amber for experiments she’s been doing in her spare time, so one of the bottles is open. The other one is still sealed. My parents made it clear that the extra Amber is off-limits now that the rationing has increased. It’s for emergencies only.

This isn’t an emergency, but I need it.

If I swipe a bottle from the medicine cabinet, one of the ones Tata still refuses to take, my parents are bound to notice. But if I pour a few drops of the Amber from the open jug and smuggle them into my room, my parents might not catch on.

I cautiously move through the basement, glancing at the boarded-up window left over from the attack on our house. Tata says he hasn’t had a chance to fix it yet. I wonder if he’s putting off replacing the glass because he’s afraid someone will break it all over again with another angry rock.

I hear Tata outside in the yard with a weed whacker, and my stomach churns. Maybe I should go ask his permission. Maybe I don’t need to steal.

But what would I say? I need the Amber for a dance routine? I know my parents would never understand. Tata would probably use the situation as a chance to lecture me about “rules being there for a reason” and make me feel bad for wanting to be like everyone else.

There’s no other way. I have to take the Amber. If all goes well, I’ll only need it until the assembly. Then I can go back to half rations and no one will ever find out.

Quickly, before I lose my nerve, I pull out an old perfume bottle that Mama let me keep, and carefully pour some Amber into it. The liquid oozes like apricot jam, filling up the bottle at a painfully slow rate.

Tata turns off the weed whacker just as I screw on the bottle top. I shove the jug of Amber back under the shelf and hurry toward the basement stairs.

I pause for a second at the top, struggling to tuck the bottle into the pocket of my jeans. When it’s safely hidden away, I slowly open the door and sigh in relief when I see that the kitchen is empty. Hopefully, I can get to my room and hide the bottle under my bed before anyone notices.

Just then Tata opens the back door and shuffles inside. I manage to yank the basement door shut behind me and leap toward the refrigerator.

“I thought you were studying,” Tata says, unlacing his boots. “If you’re finished, the back steps could use sweeping.”

“I’m getting a snack.” Can he see the lump in my pocket? Can he tell that I’m hiding something?

“Fruit only,” he says. “We’ll be eating dinner in a half hour.”

I nod and pluck an apple off the counter with a shaking hand. Then I hurry off to my room, and am only able to breathe again when my door is shut firmly behind me.