by H. M. Ward
There’s a scent in this room too, something fresh and free. It’s somewhere between lilacs and rain showers. It’s a happy scent, something from childhood that I can’t quite put my finger on. The ceiling is like a canvas, painted by a master. It’s not a copy of the Sistine Chapel or something that existed long ago, but rather, it’s something new, but timeless. The pale blues and whites sweep across the ceiling making it resemble the sky. If you look at it for any length of time, you can see nymphs and beautiful faces peering down. The way the painting was done makes them muted, but it’s as if they’re there, watching down on you—and it doesn’t matter if you notice or not—they’re still there.
I tie my hair up into a loose bun on the top of my head, before grabbing my slippers from the bag. I lace up the ribbons of my pointe shoes around my ankles and stretch my muscles, bringing them to life.
I dance to the silent music playing in my head. I perform piqué turns over and over across the room, the world blurring around me. My lines are perfect, and everything is held in position, as it should be. Brisk grand allegros are counterbalanced by slow flowing adagios; all executed while keeping the utmost control over every muscle in my body. I’m holding myself in one piece instead of letting the fragments fall to the ground, finding inner and outer strength in my dancing.
Time becomes obsolete. I’m breathing hard, covered in sweat, my nightshirt clinging to my body like a second skin; it feels wonderful. I feel alive and ready to take on the world.
A rush of life courses through me as I dance in the center of the vast room. The shadows surround me, but they make no difference. If I hold focus, if I control the dance, then nothing can touch me here. Not Constance. Not Dad. No one.
I push my body to the edge. My muscles scream and my feet need attention, but the pain makes me feel alive. I know the burn of muscles and the sharp agony of pointe. I cause it, I control it, and I can stop it.
I’m breathing jaggedly now, and rush across the room with my arms out, bending forward, ready to go into another routine when I notice sapphire eyes watching me from the shadows. I stop abruptly and stifle a scream by pressing my fingers to my lips.
FROM MANGLED TOES TO BEARING ONE'S SOUL
November 2nd, 3:44am
Pete is sitting in a dark corner of the ballroom, straddling a chair, his front pressed against the backrest, one hand on his cheek. He makes no apologies. He simply says, “I love watching you dance. I can almost hear the music playing in my mind.”
“Holy shit, Pete! How long have you been sitting there?”
“Long enough.” He’s utterly calm and it’s completely aggravating.
“I'm not here to be your private peep show.” I turn without another word and sit on the floor to pull off my shoes. The knot on the ankle is tight so it takes me a moment. I hear Pete get up from his chair and pad toward me.
He picks up my bag, and places it next to me before sitting on the floor beside me. The air is charged like something weird is going to happen. I can’t take more weird.
Pete runs his hand through his hair and stares at the wooden floor. “I’ve been here a while. I’m sorry I scared you, but I didn’t want to interrupt and cause you to stop.”
“Well, you should have. This was for me, I didn’t want anyone to see.” I undo the second knot on my other ankle and remove my second shoe. My eyes focus on my fingers, nervously wrapping and unwrapping the ribbon around them. Pete rests his hand on mine, gently stopping my fidgeting.
“I know.” Pete presses his lips together and folds his hands in his lap before glancing over at me out of the corner of his eye. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, but I can’t be sorry for watching you dance. You wouldn’t have danced like that if you’d known I was here. It would have been muted, censored even. The way you dance when you think no one is watching is pure. It’s like watching a poem coming to life. That wasn’t only your body moving to music. You were baring your soul.”
I cut him off, “Which is private.”
“Some confessions can’t stay private – they’re too pure, too perfect.”
I want to laugh but something tells me not to. “That was far from perfection, and unless you’re studying to be my partner, you need to tell me what you’re doing here. And don’t make light of this and blow it off. You watching stole something honest from me. You owe me the same level of intimacy in return.”
Pete doesn’t laugh or blow it off. Instead, he remains next me and watches his hands. After a moment he takes a deep breath, nods in agreement, and parts his lips. “You’re right. I owe you that.”
I watch the side of his face out of the corner of my eye. My stomach flip flops in the moments of silence as I wonder what he’s going to say. He could shatter this with a wry look or a joke, but he doesn’t. The space is charged like there’s lightning in the air, but it’s all coming from him.
I reach for a little towel in my bag and pat my face. That’s when he starts speaking again.
“It reminded me of me.” He’s tense but trying to hide it. He keeps the curve of his spine, but his eyes dart around the room as if he wants to run. Pete wrings his hands as he explains. “And I owe you more than a sentence since I saw something you didn’t really want to share.”
I glance at him. “No, I didn’t—but I’m listening. Make us even Ferro. Tell me something that’s connected to you on such a deep level, something you can share or show me, something you hide from the world.”
He nods slowly and I can tell how hard it is for him to do this, but he does. He doesn’t protest or tease me. “I don’t know if this is enough, but it’s not something I talk about. Ever. The books you found in my room—the poems. They’re not just rhythmic words on paper. Poetry is a baring of the soul. It’s making yourself vulnerable to the world with every word, every pang of pain, every tear of remorse. I see what I feel when you dance. I’ve been looking for a connection, wondering if they’re similar—dancing and poetry. And I’m not certain, but both are beautifully strung together—forged by feeling, emotion, and technique—to form the perfect balance.”
His words strip away my anger until I feel naked beside him. The way he speaks, with such conviction tempered with uncertainty—but a sincere desire to know—floors me. The words tumble out of my mouth because I can’t hide my shock. “There’s more? How can there be more?”
Did I just say that out loud? Eyes wide, I glance away from him quickly not wanting to fathom the expressions on his face. I’m in my damp nightshirt and panties, nothing else. I tuck my legs underneath me, trying to hide from him. But I feel naked regardless and what I just said made it worse.
Add in the fact that he saw me dancing and not some pre-arranged choreography that was meant to please an audience. He saw me pour every bottled up emotion I have onto the floor. The frantic desperation, the slow ticking of time, the melancholic sadness, the hopeful joy of something better yet to come. It’s like he said, to the untrained eye, it’s just movement, but Pete gets it, somehow.
“More? More, what?” His tone is so soft, so careful. Pete reaches for my hand and presses it lightly on top of mine. “Gina, tell me.”
My stomach is swirling too fast. This is not supposed to happen. I can’t think when he touches me. I slip my hand away from under his and look up into his intense sapphire eyes. “I can’t. It’s nothing.” Fake smile, I find it and plaster it on my face before looking at him.
Pete’s gaze sweeps over me before resting on my bare feet. They’re mangled and less than pretty. “You know, there’s no trace of anything like that in my life.” He tips his head toward my feet.
I suddenly want to hide them and my face flushes with embarrassment. They’re calloused, cracked, bleeding, and bandaged. They’ve been broken and repaired so many times that they don’t look feminine any more. I try to laugh it off. “You mean a big ugly mess?” I smile at him.
For the first time in a long time, Pete meets my gaze and shakes his head. He swallows hard and confesses, “There
’s nothing ugly about your feet. They show passion, dedication, endurance, promise and hope. They are a testament to the type of person you are—you don’t give up and you’re willing to endure whatever it takes to get what you want, come Hell or high water.” The corners of his lips rise for a moment and then fall. “I have nothing like that, and never will.”
IT'S A DATE, DUDE
November 2nd, 3:59am
His blue eyes study my face, and I wish he wasn’t going to turn back into pumpkin Pete at daylight. I like this side of him, the way he’s confident and vulnerable at the same time. He’s honest with me and with himself. It’s rare and I had no idea how deep these waters ran within him. That’s why I blurted out there’s more. I thought I knew the depths of him, but every time I think I’ve found the bottom, he goes deeper.
“I’m not so sure about that.”
He looks up at me, hopeful and hesitant. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m guessing you have books full of poems you wrote. You probably wrote them at all hours, through all things. I doubt the pages are pristine and perfectly white. They probably are smudged, written in emotional turmoil, and maybe some are stained with tears. Maybe." I smile at him carefully, quickly. “Writers tend to hide their hearts, don’t they?”
He nods. “I suppose so.”
The corner of my mouth pulls up.
“It seems dancers do the same thing—hide their hearts.”
“Will you show me one day? One of your poems?” I try to catch his eye. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t have asked, but the other part is jumping up and down like an 8-year-old on a trampoline.
Pete shakes his head and looks down to the floor, breaking all eye contact with me. His fingers toy with the frayed ends of satin at the tips of my shoes. "I never said I write poetry."
"Yes, you did. You said that—”
"No." His rebuttal is short and sharp, so unlike his earlier confessions. I should stop. I'm pushing his buttons, but I'm tired of this chasm between us.
"Why?” I demand, annoyed with him.
“Why what?”
“Why do you pretend to be someone you’re not? Why do you deny that you write? So what if people know?”
“I have my reasons.” His walls jut up, and form turrets this time. I know I've lost the sentimental poet. For a brief moment, I had a friend in this empty, hollow house, but I'm back to being alone.
I rub my arms over my nightshirt, to ward off the sudden chill in the air. “I’m sorry I asked. You shared a personal moment with me, so I thought...”
He grins. “Yeah, personal for you maybe.”
“You know what? Never mind." Hurt, I pick up my shoes and tie them together neatly. Once a fucking Ferro, always a fucking Ferro. Rules don't apply to them, or rather, they live by their own set of rules and, no matter who you are, there's no getting around it. It's only then that I notice Pete is still fully clothed, even though it’s the middle of the night. "Why are you up at this hour, anyway?” I immediately regret asking. I don’t want to know what he’s been up to and, with his arrogant mask on, he’ll be all too willing to describe his adventures in great, explicit detail. I toss my shoes into my dance bag and zip it up.
“Are you kidding?" Pete looks at me skeptically, then, when he sees my confused expression, continues in a gentle tone. "Gina, your room is across the hall from mine; I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since you’ve arrived. Do you scream like that every night?”
Oh. My. God. My heart drops into my feet and I can’t move. I can’t breathe. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I understand. It’s okay.” Pete is quiet for a moment and he can tell I’m ready to bolt.
The thing is, I can’t share that. Nightmares are so real and so terrifying. If he laughs and says it’s nothing, I couldn’t hold myself together anymore.
As if on cue, Pete says, “You don’t trust me. I haven’t given you reason to, it’s just that—if I can do something…” He watches me standing there and gets up so he’s in front of me. Pete catches my eye. “I will. You sound terrified and I can’t help but feel it’s my fault.”
Damn it! I want to cry. I want to scream, throw my arms around his neck, and cry—but I do nothing. I just stand there and stare blankly. I refuse to speak because my voice will betray me. It’s so late and I’m so tired. I can’t do this anymore tonight. “I need to go to bed.” I offer a weak smile and start to turn away.
Pete reaches for my arm, brushes his fingers against my elbow, but doesn’t hold on. His hand drops back to his side, like he shouldn’t touch me. “You don’t have any weekend classes, do you?”
I look down at his hand and then back into his eyes. “No, I don’t.”
“All right then, I have an idea.” Giving me a cocky grin, he bends down and lifts me up by the waist like I weigh no more than a feather. I yelp and squirm. His hold on my waist tickles. If I laugh, I'll wake up the entire mansion.
He sets me on my feet and looks down at me with a smug look of superior Ferro-ness. “Get to bed, Miss Granz, and try to get some sleep. Come and find me in the morning. I’m taking you out on a date.”
“Me? On a date with THE Pete Ferro? That’s kind of lowering my standards. I have a classy, wholesome image to maintain, you know, and associating with you might give people the wrong impression.”
“I may have to duct tape that sassy mouth of yours shut one day. The way I see it, smartass, you’re the one lowering my standards. I'm hot, and you're-” I put a finger to his lips, silencing him.
"If you value anything south of your belt, I suggest you not finish that sentence. I may be small, but I have pointy knees, and I'm not afraid to use them."
Pete removes my finger from his lips, kissing it lightly. "Temper, temper, Miss Granz. You didn't let me finish. I was going to say, one cool chick."
We stand toe-to-toe, Pete looking down at me with mischief in his eyes, one eyebrow raised, waiting to see how I'll reply. He's giving me emotional whiplash, but I like his playful side.
“Listen, I appreciate your generosity, but you don’t have to do this. I don’t want your pity, and you have better things--er--hotter chicks to do. I'm actually tired of feeling like a thorn in your sexy side, so unless this is part of your mother’s plan to give us more cuddly couple exposure in the public eye--”
He smirks. “You think I have a sexy side?”
I shake my head, smiling and gently beat him with my ballet slippers. Pete grabs my wrists on the second swing. “She’ll probably have us followed by the media but no, this is not her idea, and I don't pity you. I’m actually kind of scared of you sometimes, especially when you're holding shoes.”
“Really?” We laugh for a moment and I forget everything that’s been bothering me. Pete is smiling fondly, revealing a dimple in his cheek. The dusting of stubble is heavier than usual and I have to resist the urge to touch his face and feel it under my palms.
“Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning for our first date.”
Pete walks into the hallway and turns the corner, heading toward his wing and our rooms. I steal a glance at one of the ornate floor-to-ceiling mirrors. For the first time since I've moved in, there’s a smile on my face.
MY SORDID LOVE AFFAIR WITH A SLICE OF PIZZA
November 2nd, 12:02pm
Pete must read Esquire magazine, because damn—he looks completely edible in his black tight tee and perfectly worn jeans. That dark hair is casually combed, begging to be touched. The dusting of stubble on his chin is gone which makes me want to touch his face and slide my fingers over his smooth skin. When I get close to him, his scent hits me hard and I feel intoxicated. It’s the perfect casual-not-trying combo to get laid. Maybe Pete writes articles for that magazine.
Add in his choice of transportation and I could seriously swoon. We got here on his motorcycle. I love the rush that comes with the speed and wind in my face. Pete took the corners hard, leaning the bike further than I thought possible. I cl
ung to his firm body, plastering myself against him and went with it. My heart raced the entire time and I couldn’t stop laughing. Pete heard everything through the headset and I don’t care. I’m not ashamed of letting other people see my emotions, not anymore. For the longest time I thought people would use them against me. Now my mantra has changed and can be summarized in two little words:
Fuck it.
Pete grabs my hand and pulls me across the street in the center, rushing across before another wave of vehicles plows us down. Horns blare around us as the city bakes in the afternoon sun. The light reflects off the glass windows and forms patches of shadow and light on the concrete. Steam billows up from a subway vent as he speeds down the sidewalk.
My guard is dropped. He’s done nothing to make it return after last night. It’s weird. This is the Pete that I thought existed, but I never thought I’d see him in daylight. It’s like watching Dracula dancing in the sun in Times Square—it’s weird and totally unimaginable—whether it’s the real vampire or an actor prancing around in a cape. It’s the kind of thing you have to see to totally understand. And here I am, seeing and believing. I was right. The other version of Pete is an echo compared to the man standing next me.
When my feet are planted firmly on the opposite curb, I laugh. “You lunatic.”
Pete gives me that trademark look—that lopsided grin and glittering blue eyes—and teases, “I would have thought you’d like playing Frogger for real.”
I choke on my laugh and it comes out like a snort. “Frogger! How old are you?”
Pete gets a bashful look on his face and glances at me out of the corner of his eye. He motions for me to follow him. “Sean was into vintage crap at one point. We had an Atari, Coleco, and the first version of Pong.”
“Oh! Pong!” My voice is light, teasing.