The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  I consider this. Maybe I can deal with Dave if I don’t have to pretend to be in love with him. “I think I can work with that.”

  “But I still want you to get to know Dave,” Baba Nadia says, and I groan.

  “Fine… I’ll call him tomorrow.” I wrinkle my nose. “Happy?”

  “Satisfied,” Baba Nadia corrects me.

  I snort, and she flashes me a smile and a wink before she leans over to straighten the old photographs on the little table beside her armchair. First, the picture of my mother, Lara. Her gray eyes mirror my own, though her hair is honey to my dark chestnut. Then my grandpa Robert, straight and proud and proper. Then the grim-faced man who scared me once upon a time but whose name I share. Aleksandr—Sasha, my grandmother’s first husband.

  They’re all dead, and to me they’re just faces. But to my grandmother they were—are—real. Painfully so. I can see her love for them in the gentle way she tidies the frames and the tiny catch in her breath as her gaze moves from one to the next.

  My own gaze is tense as it passes over my mother’s features, so like my own. I barely remember her, and the memories I do have are overshadowed by a vague uneasiness mingled with sharp stabs of longing. It’s always made me uncomfortable to think about her…so I don’t, usually.

  “I’m going to bed,” I say abruptly and hand my attempt at the next week’s schedule to Emily. “Here, I don’t think there are any holes, but I’ll try again tomorrow if there are. Goodnight.”

  “'Night, kid,” Emily says, and reaches over to squeeze my foot. “Sleep tight, and don’t worry. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

  I smile wearily, trying not to wince as I get to my feet. “Thanks. I’ll try.”

  “Have a shower. You’ll feel better, you’ll see.” Baba Nadia leans down to caress my cheak. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  “Are you ever going to stop tucking me in at night?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

  “Someday I won’t be able to,” she says. “So I will take care of you while I can.”

  * * *

  Baba Nadia is right, as she so often is. The hot water washes away my frustration and leaves me so tired that I think I might actually fall asleep tonight.

  I spend a few minutes stretching, scribble out a few perfunctory sentences that might pass as homework, and then crawl into bed with a sigh, too exhausted to move. But though my eyes drift closed, I don’t sleep. The light is still on, for one thing, and I don’t have the energy to do anything about it. And Baba Nadia hasn’t come to say goodnight yet.

  She doesn’t keep me waiting long. The door creaks open, and a puff of light perfume tickles my nose. I open my eyes as Baba Nadia sits beside me at the edge of my bed. She brushes back my hair, her hand cool on my cheek.

  “How are you feeling, Sashka?”

  The familiar pet name comforts me, as does her presence. Though I might pretend to be embarrassed, I secretly cherish our bedtime routine. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

  “Better,” I mumble.

  “I’m glad, kotik. I have something for you.”

  Her smile deepens the lines around her eyes, but nothing can hide the sparkle there. My eyes fall on the box in her hands. I shoot upright, my exhaustion forgotten.

  “What is it?”

  “I suppose you could call it a token of faith,” she says, and opens the box.

  Inside, a finely wrought silver crown studded with pearls and moonstones glitters against a bed of blue velvet. My breath catches, and I reach automatically for my necklace. My fingers close on empty air—the necklace is hanging on a peg next to the bedpost—but my hand stays at my throat. It’s Odette’s crown, the one Baba Nadia wore sixty years ago. The one my mother would have—should have—worn but never got the chance. Will I wear it? I tear my eyes from the crown and look at Baba Nadia for permission. When she nods, I carefully lift the crown from the box.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I murmur. “And so delicate.”

  Baba Nadia’s smile is wry. “It’s heavier than it looks. But you’re strong enough to carry it, Sasha. Never doubt it.”

  A lump rises in my throat. I blink against the pressure building behind my eyes and focus on a glistening pearl until the pressure eases.

  “Spasibo,” I whisper. “Thank you, Babulya.”

  She pulls the crown from my unresisting fingers and settles is back in its box. With a brisk pat and a smile, she shuts the box and sets it aside.

  “Time for sleep now, kotik.”

  I lie down and snuggle into the covers with a contented sigh. She starts to hum, then to sing, and I hum along with her.

  “Bayu bayushki bayu

  Nye lozhisya na krayu

  Pridyot serenkiy volchok,

  On ukhvatit za bochok

  I utashchit vo lesok

  Pod rakitovy Kustok.”

  Like all lullabies, it’s pretty morbid if you stop to think about it: Baby, baby rock-a-bye, on the edge you mustn’t lie, or the little gray wolf will come and bite you on the side. He’ll tug you off into the wood, underneath the willow root.

  It never scared me, though, because I knew even as a child that Baba Nadia would never let a wolf or anything else take me from my bed. The wolf took her baby, she told me once, but she’ll never let it get me. Never.

  Baba Nadia’s kiss, when it comes, feels distant and faint. Like she’s far away—or I am. Panic flutters in my chest. I reach for her, struggling against the fatigue dragging me under.

  Baba Nadia was wrong. I’m not strong enough. I fall back into a well of mist and shadows.

  And I sleep.

  a la Seconde

  That weekend, I meet Dave at a little diner a few blocks away and find him lounging in a secluded booth with his arms draped over the back. He whistles appreciatively as I drop into the seat opposite him.

  “You look great,” he says, nodding to my low-riding jeans. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you in anything but dance gear.”

  I frown. We’re here to have a serious talk about our partnership, not to flirt. Does he think this is a date?

  Dave runs a hand through his carroty hair, smiling languidly. Bozhe. He does think this is a date. My nostrils flare. The urge to reach across the table and smack that self-satisfied smirk off his face is nearly irresistible. I take a deep breath and force my fingers to unclench themselves. But I let go of my water glass and sit on my hands, just in case.

  Dave clears his throat. “I was surprised to get your call.”

  “Baba Nadia thinks we need to get to know each other,” I mutter.

  Dave grins, his gaze drifting down to my chest. “I like the sound of that.”

  My jaw clenches so hard I think it might crack under the strain. I level an icy stare at Dave. His shoulders hunch a little, and he sinks lower in his seat. The cracked vinyl of the diner booth creaks in protest.

  “What?” he says defensively. “Why did you ask me here if my company is that offensive to you?”

  “So glad you asked.” I give him one more wintry stink eye, then force my tone into something more conciliatory. “Look, we suck together. Everyone knows it. But no one else can dance Siegfried, and I’m not going to let this performance suffer because we can’t get our act together. We need to trust each other. My grandmother thinks getting to know each other will help, so I promised I’d try. But if you’re going to be a creep about it—”

  “No.” Dave’s expression turns serious. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. I get stupid when I’m nervous.”

  Now I smirk. “And I make you nervous?”

  “You’re Sasha Nikolayeva,” he says. “Of course you make me nervous. But the idea of fucking this up makes me want to puke. So if you promise not to eviscerate me with your eyes, I promise not to be a creep.”

  “Thank you.” The tension in my shoulders eases just the slightest bit. “So…you go to St. Bart’s, right?”

  Dave makes a face. “St. Fart’s, more like.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Charm
ing.”

  “But fitting.”

  “It’s really that bad?”

  “Worse.” Dave looks away with a scowl. “It’s nothing but a cattle yard for jocks and meat heads. If they ever found out about—all this—life wouldn’t be worth living.”

  I blink. “No one there knows you’re dancing Siegfried?”

  “They don’t know I dance at all. As far as any of my so-called friends know, I drive up here three times a week to meet with an SAT tutor,” Dave says with a humorless laugh.

  I sit back, silent. How can he—how can anyone—live like that, hiding his talent as if it’s something to be ashamed of? Because he is talented, even if he’s not Simon. And even if he does sickle his feet sometimes.

  “I learned my lesson,” he adds. “I’m not making that mistake again.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I started at St. Bart’s as a sophomore.” He bites his lip, then says, “Do you remember Chelsea Dunn?”

  “I think so.” I tap my finger against my glass, trying to place a name with the face. “She graduated a few years ago, right? She went to Julliard.”

  And killed her career, I always thought. She could be a principal by now if she’d signed with a company when she had the chance.

  “That’s her. I went to Mooreston High with her.” He scowls. “And her little brother. She gave me a ride home one day and asked me how my solo for the winter showcase was coming along. We started talking about the Academy and her college auditions and everything… Her brother had this shit-eating grin on his face the whole time but didn’t say a word. The next day he and a bunch of juniors found me in the bathroom. They pinned me down and wrote all over my face in permanent marker—you know, ‘fag,’ ‘fairy,’ shit like that—and then kicked the crap out of me. Bruised three of my ribs.”

  “That’s why you were out that year.” I shake my head, remembering how I sneered at what I thought was his lack of commitment. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He shrugs and fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie, then looks me in the eye. “I just—I want you to know that I take this seriously. I don’t want to screw things up for either of us.”

  “I appreciate that. Really, I do.” I offer a tentative smile. “Maybe my grandmother was onto something.”

  “She’s a smart lady,” Dave agrees, and we lapse into silence.

  It’s a relief when the waitress arrives with a burger and fries for Dave and a cup of chicken noodle soup for me. I dip my spoon and pull it out, trying not to wrinkle my nose at the thin skin of congealed soup that dangles off the end. Dave nudges me under the table with his foot.

  “So what about you?”

  “Hm?” I pull my eyes off the soup-snot and raise my eyebrows. “What about me?”

  “I told you my deep, dark secret,” he says lightly. “What’s yours?”

  I look away, fiddling with my necklace and wondering what to say. It’s not that I don’t have anything to share—it’s that I have too much. But it can’t have been easy for him to tell me what he did, and I feel obscurely indebted to him. I slip the swan pendant onto my pinky and hold it up, considering. My heart squeezes as I remember—as if I could ever forget—that my mother was supposed to wear my necklace. And my crown.

  “Well,” I say slowly. “You know my real name is Aleksandra.”

  He blinks. “I didn’t, actually. Is Sasha your middle name, then?”

  “No, it’s just Russian. A nickname for Aleksandra.” My necklace seems to grow cold between my fingers. “I was named for my grandmother’s first husband, Aleksandr Nikolaev.”

  “As in Nikolaev Academy?”

  “Exactly,” I say. “My grandmother never changed her name. She always says it’s because she’d already made a name for herself as Nadia Nikolayeva, but I don’t know…both her babies are named after him—me and the Academy.”

  “That’s your big secret?” Dave asks, amused. “What, did your grandfather throw a fit over it?”

  I smile faintly. “No, Grandpa Robert had already died by the time I was born. I never met him. But I always wondered why my mother would name me after someone she’d never met instead of Roberta or Bobbie or something, for her own father. And why she’d give me my grandmother’s last name instead of her own—she was Lara Chantry, not Nikolayeva. Sometimes I thought she was ashamed of me, and sometimes I thought—I hoped—she wanted the Nikolaev name to bring me luck. Or opportunity. Something. It wasn’t until later that I realized she didn’t name me at all. My grandmother did.”

  “Is that a Russian tradition or something?” Dave asks, looking confused.

  “No.” I take a deep breath and steel myself against the words pushing against my teeth. “I was born in a psychiatric hospital. My mother didn’t want anything to do with me. Everyone kept telling her I was her baby, but she didn’t understand… She died when I was four.”

  Dave stares at me, seemingly at a loss for words. Well, he wanted deep and dark. I stare back, unblinking.

  “Baba Nadia always said she was sick—that it was a medical problem, not psychiatric,” I continue. “But I don’t know. A year before I was born, she was one of the top students at the American Ballet Academy. I’ve seen videos of her dancing. She was…amazing. It was Swan Lake, you know. She was going to be Odette. But then she tore her Achilles tendon.”

  I nod at Dave’s wince of sympathy. “Her career was over. It wouldn’t be that surprising if she just went mad,” I finish. “I wouldn’t blame her if she did.”

  That last bit is the only lie I’ve told him. The awful truth is that I do blame her, and I always have.

  “What do you mean by sick?” Dave shifts, making the booth creak again. “What—you know what, never mind. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s okay.” It actually feels kind of good to talk about it. I wasn’t expecting that. “I don’t know much. She stopped sleeping and eating, and she started believing things that weren’t true. And then my grandfather had a heart attack and died. It must have sent Lara—my mother—over the edge. She disappeared for weeks and came back completely cracked…and pregnant.”

  “She stopped sleeping,” Dave repeats slowly.

  His eyes rove over my face, and I go cold. I don’t need a mirror to know what he sees: pale, papery skin and dark shadows under my eyes.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Nightmares, I think.”

  I haven’t told anyone about the nightmares, not even Emily. Not even Baba Nadia. But they come every night now, and not just once. All night I drift in and out of consciousness, slipping from one scene to the next. I’m slipping now, even as Dave calls my name. A memory crawls over my shoulders and settles into my chest. A memory—a dream. From last night? The night before? It doesn’t matter. The dream is under my skin now, burrowing deep like a thorn.

  * * *

  I slump against the woman standing next to me, trying to take some weight off my swollen feet. Her elbow is poking me in the diaphragm, and another woman is puffing warm, stale breath over my face. Both have the worst body odor I’ve ever encountered.

  But I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but the deep ache in my belly and the excruciating pain in my legs and back.

  Not for the first time, I think I would gladly cut off one of my toes for the chance to sit down. But there’s no room. There are so many bodies packed into this rolling cage that we are physically unable to do anything but stand upright. I’ve long since lost any sense of modesty or shame, though I haven’t a stitch of clothing and I’ve fouled myself more than once. I’m not the only one who has.

  I close my eyes and let the throbbing in my temples lull me into a state somewhere between sleeping and waking that feels like someplace else. It’s dark and unsettling and it makes me feel sick, but it’s better than where I was.

  * * *

  “Sasha? Are you okay?”

  I jerk at Dave’s hesitant touch on my hand. My neck prickles with heat, shame chasing away th
e shock of his fingers against my skin. I push my soup away, and it shivers like Jell-O against the sides of the cup. This was a mistake, the whole thing—I’m such an idiot. I should never have said anything. And to him, of all people.

  “I should go.” I stand abruptly and fish a few bills out of my wallet. “I’ll see you later.”

  Dave stands too. “Sasha, wait—”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  I lurch out of the booth and nearly bowl over a passing waitress. I mutter an apology, so desperate to leave that I’m not even embarrassed.

  “At least let me drive you home,” Dave pleads. “Come on, it’s late—”

  I should answer him, maybe say something reassuring. I don’t. My back is already turned, shielding me from his questions—and his pity. I don’t need it. I don’t need him. I just need to go home.

  * * *

  I walk slowly, not because I want to but because I can’t go any faster. My legs tremble so badly I’m afraid I might fall, but my shame and regret urge me on, stinging against my neck and back like a whip. What possessed me to say those things? To say anything?

  If the goal was to instill any semblance of trust between us, I failed. Miserably. He probably thinks I’m unstable now—or worse, fragile. It’s going to make working together even harder. And what if he tells someone?

  My breath comes faster. If anyone thought I wasn’t—well—they might make me see a doctor. And doctors will go for whatever diagnosis makes them feel better. They twist your words, the circumstances, anything to shove you into a neat little box for their files. What if they put me in a hospital—shut me away until I give up living, like my mother?

  I pause for a moment and close my eyes, willing the air to flow smoothly in and out of my lungs. I’ll have to work harder, that’s all. I’ll even try again with Dave if all else fails. Everything will be fine.

  I start walking again, a little more steadily this time. But my heart keeps pounding.

  A shriek of sirens splits the air. I flinch and cringe away as the ambulance thunders past. Two police cars follow, and a firetruck after that.

  My nose wrinkles in irritation. Why do they call out the firetruck every time an ambulance is called? Does every victim of a medical emergency spontaneously combust?