Sparrow

by Mary Cecilia Jackson

  I’m quiet. There’s nothing I can say that will be right, that will convey how much I still despise Tristan King, and how sorry I am that I beat him up.

  My mom pats my leg and smiles.

  “Look at your painting, honey. Maybe now that you’re older, you really will learn all the secrets of the universe.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Do that. You meeting Delaney later? Tell her hey for me.”

  “Will do.”

  “Bring her to dinner if you want. I sure do love you, Lucas.”

  “Of course you do, Mom. Everybody loves this guy.”

  * * *

  “You and Caleb crushed it the other night, Laney.”

  Delaney slides into the booth across from me, her braid swinging over her shoulder. She takes off her dark John Lennon sunglasses. No feathers today, no leather vest, just the ever-present boots, a T-shirt that says Don’t Make Me Whip Out My Fouettés, and the silver sheriff’s star.

  “We did not suck. That’s about the best I can say about the whole thing.”

  “Also, that T-shirt is seriously lame.”

  “Tell me about it. My grandmother came for the performance. She gave it to me this morning, and my mother made me wear it to make her happy. I know it’s heinous, trust me.”

  “Okay. I thought maybe you’d lost your fashion sense.”

  “Not a chance. This is completely coerced. Go on about how we didn’t suck.”

  “Y’all were really, really good. I was there, remember? Prancing around with a fake crossbow?”

  “Yeah, but you looked gorgeous in that black vest, and those boots were crazy-hot. Your prancing was perfect. Speaking of hot, did you even see how much I was sweating? Like, it was dripping off my chin!”

  “I did. We were all pretty ripe by the end, just like always. But all I know is that it felt amazing to be back on that stage. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had to dress like a swan princess and do stands, like those poor girls in the corps. I saw one of them crying backstage. Ouch.”

  Nora brings our lunch. We were so hungry we called ahead. We are definitely chowing down big-time today, since the gala is behind us and the June Showcase is more than two months away. Bacon cheeseburger with mushrooms, avocado, and a side of fried okra for me, huge pulled pork sandwich with slaw for Laney, and a massive plate of fries to share.

  Nora beams at Delaney.

  “Darling, you were such a beautiful Swan Queen. That costume was gorgeous, and you danced like a dream. I almost cried when you made your entrance.”

  Delaney blushes.

  “Thanks, Nora. You’re sweet to say.”

  “I speak the truth, love. But, Lucas, I couldn’t tell which hunting boy you were! There were so many of you!”

  “You mean you couldn’t see my manly thighs and chiseled jaw from the orchestra? Geez, Nora. Way to break my heart.”

  She laughs and gives my shoulders a squeeze. On her way back to the kitchen, she tells Stephanie, her new waitress, to bring us both chocolate peanut-butter shakes, on the house.

  Delaney squeezes half a bottle of ketchup onto the fries and pops one into her mouth. She closes her eyes and groans.

  “Oh my God, this is so good I’m going to lie down and die.”

  “I get so freaking tired of protein all the time. Carbs are life. And sugar. Sugar is also life.”

  “So, can I ask you something?” she says.

  “You know you can.”

  She waits while Stephanie carefully sets down our milkshakes, which are piled high with whipped cream and topped with three cherries each.

  “Thanks, Steph. These look … daunting.”

  Stephanie smiles. “Dare you to finish them,” she says.

  When she’s gone, Delaney says, “Anyway. You guys. You and Sparrow. When is she leaving for New York?”

  “The day after the showcase. That’s what you wanted to ask me?”

  “I’m working up to it.”

  “Laney. Just spit it out.”

  She takes a sip of her shake, sucking in her cheeks like a little kid. Nora’s shakes are so thick it’s like trying to drink ice cream.

  “I know you’re in love with her. I mean, you were. Crap. This is coming out all wrong. I just want to be sure your heart isn’t broken and you’re not going to crater or jump off a bridge or anything.”

  “I’m done cratering. I’m okay. Almost fine. I think.”

  She waits for me to say something stupid, to make a joke.

  “I mean, I still love her. I probably always will, one way or another. But it never would have worked. The timing was all wrong. Maybe someday she would have loved me back, who knows? What I do know is that it wasn’t fair for me to push it, to push her. That’s the last thing she needs. Another boyfriend. She has a lot of work to do, and I don’t want to be out there, waiting, hovering over her like a vulture. Also, I actually do have some self-respect. I don’t want to be that pathetic guy, moping and whining about a girl who doesn’t love him back.”

  “Are you being straight with me?”

  “I think so. Besides, I can still dance with her, at least until June. We’ll always have that. We were good together.”

  “Yes, you were. You are.”

  I drag some fries through the ketchup, making swirly patterns on the plate.

  “I’ll miss her, though. I hope maybe she’ll miss me. I also hope she doesn’t miss me. I hope she’s so busy and everything’s so new and different that Hollins Creek and everything that happened here seem light-years away.”

  She spoons some coleslaw onto my plate.

  “Let’s not talk about endings anymore,” she says. “It makes me too sad.”

  She looks at me and smiles, not her usual snarky Delaney smile, but a smile that goes all the way up to her eyes.

  “So tell me about the big surprise in June.”

  “Laney, come on. If I tell you, then it won’t be a surprise.”

  “Oh, come on, Lucas. It’s just me. I’ll know once we start rehearsals. Are you and Sparrow dancing together one last time? You can trust me. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Oh, right. It’ll be all over town in five minutes.”

  “No, it won’t! I’m good at keeping secrets! Not as good as Bird Girl, but nobody should be that good.”

  “I’m not telling you anything, except that the music will slay you hard-core. But I’ll give you a hint. Master and Commander.”

  “What, that boring movie with those old-timey boats? The one with all the cannons and storms and the little kid who gets his arm cut off?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about it?”

  “The music, Laney.”

  “There’s a lot of music, doofus. It’s called a soundtrack.”

  “Sorry, that’s all you get.”

  “Ugh, that movie. Never again, not even for you,” she says, shaking her head. “My dad made me watch it with him one night, and it made me seasick. I almost ralphed in my popcorn. You can have your little secret all to yourself.”

  She points to the sheriff’s star pinned to her shirt, then kicks me under the table with the pointy toe of her turquoise boot.

  “But Sheriff Delaney’s going to be all over you like a cheap suit, morning, noon, and night. I will not rest until you give it up, every stinking detail.”

  I reach across the ketchup-smeared plate and take her hand. She looks up, surprised.

  “Swan Queen. I’m counting on it.”

  Finale

  I’m shirtless in front of a lighted mirror, sponging on foundation, using bronzer to highlight my cheekbones, pencil to darken my brows, and black eyeliner above and below my eyes to make them look bigger.

  Out in the house, the audience is arriving. People are greeting one another, studying their programs, strolling down to the orchestra pit to watch the musicians tune.

  In here, we’re all praying that we don’t screw up.

  I run some gel through my ha
ir and spray almost a full can of hair spray on it, to make sure it doesn’t fly all over the place. Then massive quantities of deodorant, which will be useless after ten minutes in the lights. I inspect my face in the mirror and dab on some lip stain. I’m a super-exaggerated version of myself.

  The assistant stage manager knocks, opens the door a crack, and studiously avoids looking at us, a bunch of jittery half-naked dudes.

  “Lucas,” she says, checking her clipboard. “You’ve got less than an hour before your cue. Forty-five minutes. Sparrow’s already backstage. You might want to hustle.”

  “Okay, thanks, Harper.”

  She gives me a thumbs-up and walks away, talking into her headset.

  I slather on more deodorant, pull on my shirt, and make my way backstage to the costume rack. The dressers are waiting with needles and thread to reinforce hooks and seams and fix any last-minute disasters. My costume is so simple that I don’t need them tonight, but they check me over anyway. When they’re finished, I bend and stretch and jump up and down, to get my muscles warm and loose.

  The chaos backstage pumps me up. The sight of dancers flying offstage and bending double, panting and sweating, the others waiting nervously in the wings to go out, the smells of rosin and hair spray, the whispers of the stagehands, the music rising and receding like a tide.

  When I’m finished jumping, I walk over to the big table where the ballerinas mutilate their pointe shoes. Sparrow’s already there, sewing the knots in her ribbons to make sure they stay tight. She smiles when she sees me.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Hey. You ready to kill it tonight?”

  “For sure. I’m excited. Also nervous, like always. You?”

  “Same. More nervous, I think. You look great. Good call on the costumes.”

  She’s wearing a pale pink camisole and a floaty white skirt. I’m wearing black tights and a dark gray shirt. She’s got a thin jeweled headband over her short hair, but that’s the only thing that sparkles.

  “I wanted it to be just us, you know? No tutu. If this really is the last time we dance together, I want to remember all those times in the studio. Like it was that day we were rehearsing, remember? When Swan Lake finally clicked?”

  “Damn, that was a fine day. I asked Levkova if she’d let me wear my favorite shirt. You now, the gray one with the holes in it? She did not see the humor.”

  “It’s your trademark. I can’t believe that thing’s still in one piece.”

  “I’m giving it to you to take to New York.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I can’t let you go without something to remember me by.”

  “Right. Like I could ever forget you.”

  “This is way too serious just before we go out.”

  “You started it.”

  I try to smile, but it’s tough to do with my eyes going all blurry.

  She stands up and tests her shoes, bending each foot back and forth. I follow her to the rosin box, and we take our places in the wings, watching Charlotte and Ainsley doing châinés turns around the stage.

  Sparrow stands beside me, breathing slowly, centering herself. I know she’s nervous, so I rub slow circles down her back, like I always do before a performance. It’s the last time I’ll ever do this for her.

  “Birdy, there’s a lot I want to tell you before you go tomorrow, and I may not have the chance. Your dad will be all crabby, loading the car, and Sophie will be packing food like there’s nothing but a barren, starving wasteland between here and New York.”

  She smiles.

  “What happened to the lighten-up plan?”

  “I’m ignoring it. I just—I just want to make sure you know some stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  Suddenly all the things I was going to tell her fly right out of my head. All but one.

  “So, my grandmother told me something while I was with her last winter.”

  “You never told me about that whole thing. I guess I never asked. I’m sorry.”

  “God, Sparrow, you had so much to deal with then. I didn’t expect you to ask me about my grandmother.”

  “You sure you don’t want to wait until after?”

  “No, I need to say it now or I’ll chicken out. My grandmother told me that when you love somebody who’s battling demons, it doesn’t help if you stand in front of them, trying to shield them from the pain. She said that makes them powerless and you presumptuous.”

  “Your granny is pretty smart.”

  “She said it’s better if you stand beside them, holding their swords.”

  “Is that what you’re doing, Lucas? Holding my swords?”

  “Always. For as long as you’ll let me.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers. “For everything.”

  Charlotte and Ainsley and Caleb fly into the wings. We’re up next. She reaches out and squeezes my hand.

  “Merde.”

  “Merde.”

  * * *

  We dance, Sparrow and me, the way it’s been for three years, the way I wish it could be forever. The music washes over me and fills me up, so achingly beautiful that I feel the soaring violins, the weeping violas like they’re coming from inside me. I will see her face, I will breathe her honeysuckle hair, I will feel the softness of her skin, the strength of her muscles every time I hear this, the “Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis.”

  I try to remember everything, but like all turning points, it’s over way too fast.

  The speed of her footwork, the brilliance of her turns, the impossible boneless arms, the warmth of her breath on my face, the feel of her hands in mine.

  My turns are sharp and quick and perfect. My jumps are high and strong, with more ballon than ever, that illusion of effortlessness, of opening up and hovering in the air for a beat before I land.

  Near the end, a fish dive so beautiful, so perfect, that the audience gasps.

  Sparrow holds on to my hips with her legs, her face inches from the floor. I open my arms wide.

  I embrace it all, the pain of the last ten months, the rage, the helplessness, the hope.

  I know that this, right now, is goodbye for us, not tomorrow when I wave and watch her car disappear. I’ve loved her for so long I’m not sure I’ll know how to stop. She is the bravest person I’ve ever known. If this is the last time we do this together, if it’s the last time I touch her face or hold her in my arms or lift her high over the stage, it’s enough. Because it’s everything.

  I’ll keep a room inside my heart for Sparrow. It’s hers forever. No matter how wrinkled and old I get, no matter where we go or what we do, even if she forgets my name and I forget hers, even if Levkova’s eyes and the smell of rosin and the sound of the music all fade away into the dark, we will never, ever forget that we had this. It was ours.

  Goodbye, my Birdy Bird.

  I love you.

  The music soars.

  Author’s Note

  When I began Sparrow more than six years ago, I was struggling to finish another novel when a terrible news story went viral. A high-school girl had gotten drunk at a party and passed out. While she was unconscious, a group of boys took naked pictures of her and posted them on Facebook. I was so horrified by the cruelty of those boys that I felt sick for days. I couldn’t stop thinking about that girl. I dreamed about her. I wept for her. Just before sunrise one morning, I put aside the book I’d been working on and wrote the first line of the first draft of Sparrow: “I am not the kind of girl who tells.”

  During the course of those years, as I wrote and revised and Sparrow’s story evolved, I began to learn about dating abuse in teen relationships. I read about young women who had been physically hurt by a boyfriend or girlfriend who professed to love them. I learned about young men who had been abused by dating partners and were too ashamed to tell anyone. And I learned that teens who experience violence in their dating relationships are at higher risk for substance abuse and eating disorders and attempted suicide. Teen dating abus
e exists in big cities and small communities, regardless of gender, sexual orientation, race, or religion. Women and men—both teens and adults—who are in physically and emotionally violent relationships almost always live in a state of constant fear and anxiety, as though they are walking on eggshells every moment of every day. This breaks my heart.

  If you are in a violent relationship, you may feel isolated and alone. You may feel scared and invisible. You may feel that no one will believe you or care enough to try to help, that there is nowhere for you to turn. But there are people—many, many people—who will listen and care. I encourage you to confide in someone you trust—a close friend, a parent or other family member, a school counselor, a pastor, or a coach. Below you will find a list of resources you can reach out to right now, in safety and confidence, staffed by professionals and volunteers who will hear you and believe you and help you.

  I see you. And I care.

  Resources

  National Domestic Violence Hotline

  www.thehotline.org

  www.ndvh.org

  1.800.799.7233

  For information on dating abuse and how to recognize the signs:

  www.loveisrespect.org

  www.breakthecycle.org

  Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network (RAINN) Hot line: 1.800.656. HOPE (4673)

  www.rainn.org

  There are also state coalitions against domestic violence in each state. For a list, contact www.ncaav.org/state-coalitions.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my former agent, Lindsay Mealing, who loved Sparrow from the moment she pulled it from the slush pile. Thank you also to my current agent, Mandy Hubbard, who saw me through to publication.

  Thank you to my brilliant editor, Susan Chang, who encouraged me to dig deep, unearth the true bones of the book, and give them flesh.