by Emilia Finn
Soph’s sessions have remained consistent to how they were before, except now she uploads more content, more often, and sometimes, she invites Lucy and her dance partner Rudy in.
The recital I attended with Jamie that time, Lucy’s dance partner had been her boyfriend, Mac, but everyone knows that she has an actual professional partner, a mocha-skinned gay man named Rudy. He’s a flirt, a sweetheart, he’s skilled on his feet, and in the time after that performance, I learned via these channels that Rudy’s alleged sprained ankle – the reason for his absence the night of the showcase – was fabricated. A big fat lie, all so Lucy could dance with her man on that stage.
As a woman, I find the sentiment grossly endearing and romantic.
As a dancer, I’d have cut some folks for stealing my partner away during such a stressful time.
But regardless, the Ellie Solomon Dance Academy now essentially provides free tutelage to dance students all across the globe. Five days a week, I spend time with Jamie’s sister. I perfect my steps, learn something new, push myself harder and harder, because no matter how hard I push, should a famous troupe ever approach me – as in, in my wildest fantasies – I still won’t be good enough. But I’ll be as good as I can possibly be under the circumstances.
I search for Soph’s channel today, smile at the little banner that says class is being recorded live, and, pressing a hand to my heart, I feel the power swirl in my chest at the knowledge that, in a small town far, far away from here, there she is, right at this very moment, standing in her leotard, and preparing to teach me something new and wonderful.
“Hey, dancers.”
Soph’s voice carries through my living room like music on the breeze, so I toss my remote aside, and stand from the couch with a heavy stomach. Bologna is disgustingly delicious, but there’s a reason dancers don’t consume it as a typical part of their diet.
“We’re gonna work on a cute little number today,” she crosses the shiny floors of her studio as she speaks. “Instead of fundamentals, I want to choreograph something kind of special with you. First, we’ll warm up.” She flicks her wrist and playfully grins. “Go for a run outside. Even if it’s raining. Out your front door. To the right. Say hi to the cute boys you pass, but tell him no, he cannot put a hand under your skirt. Not yet anyway.”
Despite being all alone in my living room, I snicker and glance toward my door.
It’s pouring outside. No way am I going out there.
“No?” she asks her students. “No run? I had no clue I was working with a bunch of lazies,” she jokes. “Alright. We’ll warm up together, then, huh? Let’s roll our neck.”
And so she begins.
“One, two, three, four.”
She works her audience through shoulders, spine, back, arms, hamstrings, achilles.
“If you have any injuries,” she continues, “a sore shoulder, perhaps?” She lifts a brow and, I swear, looks directly into my eyes. “It happens to many of us,” she says dismissively, “so I want you to bring your arm up like this.” She shows the world how to stretch her arm in a way that terrifies me.
My shoulder burns so that I can’t even eat a sandwich using that hand. I can’t stretch. I can’t hug my brother properly without the pain slicing through the muscle. But Sophia insists.
“Do it. Bring it up slowly, only go as far as your body allows. But get that arm up there. Mobility will help. Leaving an injury unused could possibly lead to it seizing up. Right, Lucy?” She smiles past the camera, only to step a few paces to her left to make room for Jamie’s sister to take her place onscreen. “My shoulder’s been a bit twinge-y lately, so I’m saying that if anyone out there on the internet is feeling something similar, moving it is probably a good idea. You’re our nurse,” she says to the woman beside her. “What do you say?”
Lucy lazily drops a gym bag by the wall and turns to the camera. “I say if anyone out there has an injury, it’s probably best not to listen to Sophia Solomon’s shitty medical advice. Go see your doctor and get specialized care.”
“Lucy!” Sophia mock chastises. “Language. There could be impressionable young children watching right now.”
“All of the children are in school. Anyone watching right now is probably an adult.” She looks into the camera. “If you’re an adult looking to make dance something more than what you do in your spare time, and you have an injury…” She shakes her head. “Soph is scary smart in most aspects of life. But she’s also the one who put a Band-Aid over a gunshot wound, so…”
“Lucy!” Soph throws her head back and laughs. “Discretion, please. Damn, girl, are you trying to get me in trouble? You’re over here talking about scary smart and gunshot wounds. And you don’t stop to think maybe we don’t want the world to know about that shit?”
“Language, Sophia.” Lucy rolls her eyes and begins stretching her feet. From flat, to half, to toes. Up and down she goes. “If anyone is hurt, go see your doctor. That’s all I’m gonna say about that.”
“Thanks, Urkel.” Soph rolls her eyes. “Forget about the shoulder thing, then, geez.”
“What are we doing today?” Lucy asks. Not a care in the world. Not a single thing weighing her down.
“We’re choreographing,” Soph excitedly announces. “Ellie Goulding is on.” She crosses to the stereo and flicks a switch until “Hanging On” starts and fills my living room with energy. Then she looks to the camera. “Follow me, keep up, and if you have suggestions for us,” she points toward the floor, “pop them in the comments section. We love when folks want to help us choreograph.” She turns to Lucy. “Remember that one chick? What was her name…?”
My stomach flips when Lucy’s eyes come to the camera and lock right onto mine.
“Cam,” she murmurs. “She was nice.”
“And she totally made your lift better,” Soph adds.
She speaks and moves, converses and choreographs like it’s not a big deal to do both at the same time.
“Let’s pirouette, and then spin it out.”
She works her way through steps that bring her foot high into the air, higher than her head. And beside her, Lucy follows like it’s totally effortless to learn something brand new while on live camera.
They step in perfect sync, they glide to their toes, and when the chorus comes on, they lead their viewers into spins. One. Two. Three. Around and around they go, and on each revolution, they eye the camera. On the tips of their toes, they spin and check, spin and check, until on the final, Soph switches the position of her foot. Instead of creating the V with her working leg, she lifts it straight up until it points to the ceiling.
I follow on instinct, thrust my leg high, and grunt out in pain when I realize the enthusiasm behind my move doesn’t match my ability.
Lucy copies perfectly; they maintain their position for several seconds, then with smiles, they bring their legs down again and back into position.
“Make sure your turnout is perfect.” Soph speaks directly to the camera, as though she knows I messed up. “Keep your hips square, your legs strong, your turnout perfect. Make sure your foundations are exact, otherwise everything else you do is a waste.”
She wanders behind Lucy, grabs her hips without warning, lifts, and throws her so she flies for a few feet with her legs spread wide and a smile growing on her face the longer she flies.
Lucy drops back to her toes, and spins away, only to stop with a rapidly lifting and falling chest.
“Those of you at home can’t do that alone,” Soph says a little breathlessly, “but I really wanted to add the jeté. It always feels so badass.” She turns to Lucy. “Suggestions?”
“Let’s go back to the start,” she pants. “Triple spin, but bring the développé in earlier. Leg up, arms open, neck elongated.”
“Aww, look at you being the teacher,” Soph jests. She looks into the camera, but pokes a thumb at her co-host. “Thinks she can take over. Did she forget the gunshot wound thing already?”
At five o’cloc
k on the dot, four whole hours of playful dance later, during which it almost felt like I was at the Ellie Solomon Academy, I switch my TV off and toss the remote to the couch so it slips between the cushions, and becomes the reason Will and I will fight later.
He’ll ask where it is. I’ll say I don’t know. We’ll argue around and around until one of us flips the couch, and then tomorrow, we’ll do it all again.
My calves sing from hours of dance. My hamstrings are pliable like a warm pretzel. I sit on the edge of the couch and start unraveling the silks from my ballet slippers, so pink ribbon listlessly falls to the floor. My chest still moves with exertion, and long strands of my hair hang in my eyes, sweaty and gross from working out in the humidity.
It strikes me as odd, how Sophia mentioned going for a run in the rain. Sore shoulders. Hell, she and Lucy even spoke about me for a moment during class.
The universe is trying to be a jerk.
Remember the life you could have had, Quinn. Remember the people that you barely know, but somehow miss, the way you miss your arm.
When I get my slippers off and am able to stretch my toes, I stand from the couch and pick up my things. Shoes, my bag, new Band-Aids. Old Band-Aids. I pile as much as I can into one arm, baby the other, and as I pass the mirror in the hall, I don’t look. Because although my injury is internal, it feels like there must be angry purple bruising on the outside. For it to hurt as much as it does, there must be something visible to the naked eye.
My phone rings as I move into my bedroom, so I drop my things on my bed, fish through the pile until I find the flashing device, then I smile and answer. “Will.”
“Hey, Bubbles. How’s your afternoon?”
“I’ve been dancing all day.” I sit back against the wall and settle in to chat. “Two bologna sandwiches and four hours of dancing. Today’s a good day.”
“Well, we’ll have to agree to disagree,” he chuckles. “Bologna and dance aren’t really my thing, so…”
“Loser. Listen, Mrs. Parnell called up and asked if I’d mind teaching a session at her house tonight. You’re gonna be at work, and I’ll be home before you, so it’s not really a big deal. I just wanted to let you know where I’d be.”
“Mrs. Parnell?” he asks of the completely made-up woman I’ve used in the past. “At her house?”
“Yeah. Her daughter is having a sweet sixteen sleepover thing.”
“What’s her name?”
I sit taller and frown. “Whose?”
“The birthday girl, silly.”
“Oh!” I force a laugh, and exhale. “Um… Lana.” Lies! “I guess Mrs. Parnell figured dance would be fun, since Lana’s been in my evening classes for a year. It seems her daughter wanted to share that with her friends.”
“You’re getting paid, right?”
“Duh.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t work for free, rookie.”
“Alright. Well…” It’s like I can hear his shrug. “Cool. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be home around two, so I expect you to be asleep by then.”
“I’ll be asleep, for sure. How’s work?”
“Stinky,” he chuckles. “Oh! But get this—”
“Oh god.” I send my eyes skyward. “What?”
He snorts. “So, I was talking to this guy Phil, who’s been working out here for an easy two decades. He keeps to himself, quiet guy, doesn’t wanna make waves. He just wants his paycheck and to go home, right?”
“Right…” I bring my hand up and study my short nails. I probably should have taken care of those before tonight. “So what did Quiet-Phil have to tell you, Loud-Will?”
“He was on the same shift Nate Hardy was on the night the dude was murdered.”
“Went missing,” I correct. “Go on.”
“Well, Phil was saying Nate was a little on edge that night. Not mad or freaked out or anything. Just… jittery. Rushed. Ready to go home.”
“Okay. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed. Literally. Tell your story faster, because I can’t handle the suspense.”
“You’re full of sass today, you know that?”
“Will! Tell the damn story.”
He chuckles. “Phil said he’d worked a shift with Nate a couple times. Like, not dozens. Just a handful.”
“A couple is two.”
“Shut up. He said a handful. This last shift, Nate was jittery and weird. Few hours later, the dude’s dead.”
“Missing.”
“Right. Phil was naturally kinda shaken up about it. The police even questioned him, since he was one of the last people to see Nate. Phil does his civic duty, tells the cops what he knows, and that’s the end of it. He goes home and lives his life.”
“Meanwhile, you’re being accused of murder,” I drawl. “Is Phil our secret witness? Because if he is, I’m gonna come down there and wring his scrawny fucking neck. It was probably him, ya know? Fucking Phil! I’ve never met a decent Phil in my life.”
“Calm down,” he laughs. “No, Phil isn’t the witness. But he told me he forgot to tell the cops this thing that Nate had told him two shifts before.”
“What?” I sit up taller and clutch my phone so tight that I worry it might snap. “What’s the thing?”
“So, two mutual shifts before, which translates to about a week or so earlier, Nate said they were celebrating, because his girl is pregnant.”
“Oh no!”
“Right. And Nate, being a typical guy, is joking and saying how his girl is a dancer, and soon she won’t be able to give him those lap dances anymore.”
“Pig.” I let my torso deflate until I sit lower. “I feel less inclined to help find this allegedly dead man now. As if she can’t still shake her ass just because she’s pregnant. Women do it all the damn time. In fact—” I would poke a finger into the air if my shoulder wasn’t an aching mess, “some might say the pregnancy could loosen her hips more, and make her able to roll them more fluidly.”
“Thanks for that education,” Will drawls. “Anywho. Phil figured that Nate was jittery about becoming a dad. Or maybe he said something douchey about her weight. None of it registered in his head, since he’s a quiet guy. He kinda felt like Nate was a douche too, because of that comment about her no longer giving the lap dances, so Phil did what Phil does – he went back to work and minded his own business. When the cops came by, he was kinda shocked, and the jitters completely bolted from his mind. It wasn’t until tonight, when I mentioned I had a little sister at home – he asked about my family, I said how you like to dance – that the other chick came up. Phil was working it through his mind, and I guess with distance, he was able to see a bigger picture. Was Nate nervous because his girl was knocked up, or was he nervous because he knew bad shit was going down?”
“Those are good questions,” I murmur. “If he knew bad things were going down, then he knew his murderer.”
“Kidnapper,” Will juts in. “Or, you know, abductor or something. I don’t know the word for that.”
“Right. Where’s his girl now?”
“Dead,” my brother whispers. “Died a month before she was set to give birth, according to Phil.”
“Shut the hell up! She is not dead.”
Will makes a sound of defiance in the back of his throat. “I’m just saying what I heard. I haven’t confirmed yet, though, so it could be a crock of shit. It’s not like I have a way to check, short of walking through the cemetery and searching for her name.”
“Well… what’s her name?”
“Carmel something. Dunno.”
“Will! Ask for her whole damn name. It’s probably important.”
“I think you underestimate how difficult it was for me to get information from this guy,” he huffs. “You’re getting a three-hour conversation in three minutes. Give me a break, Bubbles.”
“So his girl is pregnant. He’s nervous, but Phil said they were celebrating. That was the word he used?”
“Yup. He said celebrating.”
“Right, so, nervous but
excited. Reasonable reaction. He’s floating around work, talking out his ass about lap dances.”
“It’s a guy thing,” Will murmurs. “I’d put money on the fact he was kidding. He’s riding his high, knocked his girl up, feels like a king. The lap dance comment was probably just a joke.”
“Right. Happy, nervous, excited. He even gets Quiet-Phil to chat for a second, which, according to you, is a big deal. A week later, he’s still excited, but maybe jittery now too. And Phil said he was in a rush to get home.”
“Right. But it wasn’t like a lazy-guy doesn’t-wanna-work rush, according to Phil. It was anxious and edgy.”
“So something’s got the guy spooked. He’s worried. Could be the murderer already had words with him. Threatened him.”
“Abductor. So… maybe our villain works at the docks?”
I sit back on my bed and rest against the wall. I have to hang up soon, I have shit to do, but still. Despite the seriousness behind this entire mystery, the intrigue is enough to keep me on the phone.
“If he’s not employed there, then maybe he knows someone who is. Or maybe he owns it,” I suggest. My brows pull together. “Who owns the dockyard?”
“Dunno.” Will sighs. “I’m paid in cash, my name never passes through their computers. That was the deal we made.”
“But surely you’ve seen signage out there. What name is on the buildings? The boats? Ugh! Why can’t we be on a first-name basis with the FBI or something?”
“I think we are,” he jokes. “Except they’re not our friends.”
“Shut up.” I bring my hand up and rub my eyes. I’m tired, starving, and would sell a foot if I was allowed to stay home tonight and sleep. I rub the pads of my fingers against my eyelids and yawn. Then I open my eyes and nod. “Okay. That’s everything Phil told you?”
“Yup. Took me all damn day to get that out of him.”
“And we’re sure Phil isn’t our bad guy? Because if he was, that would be convenient for us.”
Will snickers under his breath. “I mean, I didn’t ask the guy straight to his face if he did it. But in return, he didn’t ask me where I allegedly hid Nate’s body.”