I keep my phone by my side, and at around midnight it vibrates with a text. Forgot to tell you. Your hearing is tomorrow morning at 9:00.
I text her back. Thanks, Mom. I really do need you.
She never responds and the rest of the night is filled only with my own tossing and turning.
I wake early because the last thing I need is to get caught squatting at a dance studio. I dress, wash up, and manage to shove my suitcase into my locker. Then I scuttle out and go to a coffee shop, where I inhale caffeine and kill time before I need to be in court.
My hearing goes okay. It’s almost an out-of-body experience, walking into the courtroom and standing before the judge. Am I simply observing a good girl who has lost her way, watching as her assigned attorney manages to swing a three-hundred dollar fine? That will be the bail money that Julie already coughed up.
But this girl, this unrecognizable version of me, will still have a smudge on her permanent record. Plus, I have to pay Julie back as soon as possible. When I get to Clarkson School of Design she’s the first person I see. She’s standing in a tight circle of girls, laughing while cigarette smoke settles above their heads in a toxic, protective cloud.
“Hey,” I call, more out of habit than friendship. Julie gives me an uninspired wave back. And as I walk past them and through the door, their laughter rings out. There’s a hitch in my chest and I’m sure that the joke is on me.
A long time ago I decided to be one of the few, uncool ballerinas who doesn’t subsist on diet coke, cigarettes, and the occasional sniff of cocaine. I guess it’s just one more way that Julie and I are different. I trudge up the dimly lit stairwells, and enter the bustle and noise of the workroom, with its purple walls, long dark tables, and harried designers.
Robin looks hung-over, like there ought to be a cold compress on her head and a hot mug of coffee in her hand. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m having a rough couple of days.” She holds up the dress. It’s dark blue but the fabric is so sheer and delicate, it’s nearly see-through. It’s printed with large white flowers and randomly placed red circles, and the design is simple: long and straight, with a conservative scoop neck and large, flowing, bell sleeves.
“This is lovely,” I say.
“They’re going to say it’s too simple.” She bites her chapped lip and shakes her head. “I wanted to drape the back so that it hung really low, but there wasn’t time.”
“Should I try it on?” I start to undress, having long gotten over my modesty at changing clothes in the workroom.
“Wait!” Robin notices something on one of the sleeves, but I don’t see the problem. “I need to fix this. I’ll be right back.” She rushes off to the sewing machines, and I’m left, holding my shirt over my bare chest. Then Julie comes up.
“How are you?” She asks.
“My mom found out I got arrested and she kicked me out.”
“And are you going to jail?”
“Nope.”
I shift my weight, wishing for Robin to hurry back. Julie places her cold fingers on my bare shoulder and I shiver. “Look, Zelda. You should know, Yuri and I got back together last night. And you can’t be mad because I had dibs.”
“I don’t care about Yuri.” But I’m reminded of what I said to my dad just hours ago, about cheats and liars. I suppose I’m both. I lift my chin and look her in the eye. “You two deserve each other.”
She flinches like I hit her. “When did you become such a bitch?”
Thankfully, Robin reappears with my dress, and she’s oblivious to our conflict.
“Here.” She hands me the dress and I put it on.
Julie stands back, leering. “Did you want it to be so baggy?”
Robin focuses her scalding eyes on Julie. “Who are you?”
“I’m Julie – Nadia’s model.”
“Then go find Nadia!” Robin turns back to examine the dress. Julie takes her sweet time sauntering away. Once she’s gone, Robin whispers under breath. “. . . has a lot of nerve. . ..saved her design. . . and now I’m being sabotaged. . .her model criticizes me?”
It’s true that the dress doesn’t fit quite right, but if I mention it Robin’s head might explode. “Robin, is there anything I can do to help?”
“You are helping. Just stand still.”
She works her magic quickly, so the dress looks pretty decent by the time the runway show starts. I actually really like it, but I can never predict what the judges are going to think. So I’m not sure if Nadia, Julie’s designer, is on the bottom or the top. The dress is cute, if not a little short, but maybe they like that.
When the runway show is over, Robin stalks away, angry about Hilaire’s criticism of her design. I decide to get going, but on my way out I realize I’ve forgotten my phone. Cursing to myself, I head back. I bound up the stairs, taking two at a time, rushing because I know they’ll need to use the workroom soon, so the kicked out designer can be filmed cleaning out his or her space.
The lights are all off but there’s somebody in here. I see the closing of a tablet, some scurrying, and then the figure ends up at the workstation I was headed towards.
“Robin?” Isn’t she supposed to be downstairs, getting filmed with the other designers while they speculate on who will be eliminated?
She’s nervous and out of breath. “Hey. What are you doing up here?”
I turn on the lights. “I think I left my phone on your table.” When I pick it up and swipe, I see that only Yuri has been trying to get a hold of me. “My head hurts,” I say, more to myself than to Robin.
“Tell me about it,” Robin utters.
I can’t look at Yuri’s texts right now. They’re probably just condescending apologies for his picking Julie over me. Maybe I’ll just delete them all. I don’t need one more destructive force in my life. I have enough of that with my parents.
“Zelda,” Robin uses her lower register and I’m diverted from my thoughts. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure. What is it?”
She looks around, over her shoulder, at the vacant room. “Come on, not here.” She grabs my arm and drags me to the dining room, where trays of pasta and wilted salad have been picked through and sitting for hours. The residue smell of garlic and ranch dressing still lingers and I realize I’m ravenous. When was the last time I ate? I can’t even remember.
Robin points to a chair. “Sit,” she says, and she takes the seat across from me. “It’s a long story and I’ll try to go fast, but bear with me, okay?”
She launches in, telling me about her botched affair and her friendship with Clara, the notes and the Rotten Robin website. “But it hasn’t stopped,” and she provides more detail. Somebody pushed her on the treadmill; somebody dumped water on her dress; somebody is for sure trying to sabotage her.
“And I thought I saw her on the train,” Robin exclaims. “She’s supposed to be dead or missing, but I swear it was her and I swear she saw me too.”
“Who?” I ask, confused.
“Clara! Of course, Clara!” Robin wrinkles her forehead like she’s a million miles away.
“There you are!” We both turn, startled by the bark of Gabe the camera man’s voice. His face grows red and his volume grows too. “Everyone is looking for you! Nadia got kicked out and they need you downstairs, saying goodbye and looking sad, NOW!”
Robin shoots up and rushes out, barely remembering me before she goes. “Zelda, everything we talked about is confidential, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Zelda.” And she disappears into the dark hallway.
It hits me how tired I am. My limbs feel so heavy I don’t know how I’ll get up from this chair. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since before I was arrested and that feels like a lifetime ago. What I wouldn’t give for my flannel pajamas, my bed, and a steaming bowl of noodles. I could watch TV and try to solve my newest puzzle toy, until my head drops to my pillow and I drift off to a deep and dreamless slumber.
What if I just go home? I can refuse to take no for answer. If I yell and bang on the door and scream and cry, my mother will have to let me in, because otherwise, what would the neighbors think?
Once I’m outside, I button up my jacket and orientate myself towards the subway station. Then someone grabs me from behind. Thoughts of Robin’s sabotage story invade my head, and I scream.
“Relax! It is me.” Relax sounds like velax so I know instantly whose arms are holding me. I break away and he lets me go.
“What do you want?”
“Just to talk.” For the first time ever, I see Yuri use bad posture. His shoulders slump and he hangs his head. “I want you not to hate me, Zelda. I want for you to understand.”
“You caught me at a bad time.” I stomp away, towards the subway station, but Yuri follows and easily keeps up with me.
“Did you receive my texts?”
“I deleted them.”
“What is delete?”
“I erased them.” His face is still confused, so I sigh. “I did not read them before they were removed from my phone.” I fish for a token in my pocket and move through the subway’s turnstile, but Yuri just leaps over it. “You’re a thief for doing that,” I say. “They should arrest you, a million times over.”
“Zelda, I am not hoodlum, I promise.”
He knows hoodlum but not delete? Who is this guy?
I am walking fast enough that he has to make an effort to keep up, and as we’re dodging through a crowd of commuters, it’s difficult for him to talk. But he follows me all the way down the stairwell and onto the platform for my train, which pulls up right as we arrive. I jettison myself on, and again, Yuri follows. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” I say, as we both grasp the same bar. “But you’re not coming over to my apartment, and I’m going home.”
Yuri nods. “Then we talk here.”
The subway doors close and the train lurches forward. Many passengers adjust their footing as the floor beneath us tilts and sways, but Yuri and I have such good balance that we are unfazed. He’s like a statue, with a moving, talking head, which he lowers toward my ear. I don’t have much choice but to listen.
“Julie told the police to have us caught,” he says. “I am sure.”
I squint, grasping the bar and keeping my gaze on my shoes. “What are you talking about?”
“I see her, after I get down. She was waiting and is surprised that I am alone. But she laughs and says, ‘I underesticate you.’”
“Do you mean ‘underestimate’?’
He nods and I try to internalize this new information but it’s hard because the pieces don’t quite fit. “Are you saying that Julie followed us the other night, told the police where we were, and then waited down below while we tried to escape?”
“Yes,” Yuri answers simply. “And I did not know how to find you after, and Julie is walking with me and yelling, using angry words. I should not be with you and she will have me sent back to Russia.” He uses his free hand to run his fingers through his hair. “I am sorry I leave you behind. So, so sorry.”
I sort of want to accept the apology, just so I can leave it in its wrapping and re-gift it later. “How did Julie possibly follow us? We would have seen her on the train to Brooklyn.”
“Julie looked at my phone.” He takes it out and scrolls to a text that he shows to me. “I know other roofers and we share address of good places. Julie sees and knows where to find us.”
An idea startles me. “Are you the reason she got that scratch on her face?”
Yuri meets my eyes. “Yes. It was accident. We were walking and she was yelling, and we are still on construction site, and she uses both fists to hit me. I step away, quickly, and she loses balance and brushes against sharp beam.”
I close my eyes, trying to put everything together. So Julie had been aware of what’s been going on between Yuri and me from the beginning, but she took the time to cover her face with makeup and feign ignorance on the night she bailed me out of jail. Why? What’s her endgame? Has she just been crazy this whole time, and I refused to see?
And there’s still a flaw to Yuri’s story. “Why did you get back together with her?”
Yuri blinks rapidly, like he needs me to repeat the question and I know now that Julie was lying. The train pulls to a stop. “Never mind,” I say, “this is my stop.”
He follows me onto the platform. There is a lot of noise; a street musician belting out a bluesy song, people bustling around us, and the subtle roar of trains coming and going. But none of it compares to the rushing in my head. I don’t know my best friend anymore; maybe I never knew her at all.
“Thanks for the information,” I yell to Yuri. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
Some emotion dances across Yuri’s face but I’m too exhausted to try and read it. “I walk you home.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”
He reaches out, but he lets his arm fall to his side before his hand touches me. “Is getting dark. I walk you home.”
“Really? You’re going to get all protective now, after everything?” I can tell he doesn’t completely understand and I shake my head. “If you walk me home, I’m not inviting you in.”
He nods and I feel we have another silent pact. We move from the noisy platform up to the much quieter street, and Yuri keeps pace with me as I navigate the Upper East Side sidewalks, towards home. My neighborhood, with its pristine streets made from old money, has to feel worlds away from his Brooklyn apartment and galaxies away from where he’s actually from, in Russia. I realize how little I know about his true home and I want to ask him, but doing so would mean I forgive him and that we’re friends.
“This is me,” I say, pointing to my building.
He laughs. “No, you are not apartment building.”
“That was a joke. I just meant—”
“Yes, I know. I joke too.” His smile is lopsided and self-deprecating. “There is only one Zelda, and she is beautiful girl, standing in front of me.” When he meets my eyes I feel an unwelcome tide of heat. Flustered, I search my bag for my keys, wanting nothing more than the safety of my bedroom, and heavenly, blissful sleep. Yuri’s fingers graze my shoulder. “Good night. I hope you hear trumpets in your dreams.” He takes my hand and presses his lips against my knuckles.
“Good night, Yuri.”
I turn to go inside and Yuri slowly backs away, but neither of us gets very far. “I’m sorry,” the doorman says, “I’ve been instructed not to let you through.”
“What?” Panic pounds inside my head.
The doorman’s face turns bright red. “I really am sorry, but your mother said that under no condition am I to let you through, and I should report you for trespassing if you try. She said. . .” he clears his throat self-consciously, “she said that you need to take this seriously, because another trespassing charge will be very, very bad for you.”
Yuri comes back and stands next to me. “Is there problem?”
I shake my head violently and swallow back my dismay. “Never mind.” I bolt down the sidewalk toward some unknown destination but Yuri catches up with me instantly.
“Zelda,” he says, “tell me what is wrong.”
I can’t keep the tears from coming. They pour down and I hiccup and sob. “My mother kicked me out. I have nowhere to go and I am so, so tired.”
I don’t resist when Yuri takes me into his arms. My face is smashed against his shoulder and he rubs my back while he makes soothing noises. “Is okay,” he says. “You stay with me.”
“I can’t.”
He pulls away, keeps both hands on my shoulders, and gives me a soulful gaze. “I sleep on floor. You sleep in my bed and get rest. Then you will feel better, and tomorrow we figure out new plan. Yes?”
I don’t think I can take another night of hardly sleeping on the couch of Ballet Institute East.
“Maybe just for one night,” I concede.
We go back and g
et my suitcase from my locker at Ballet Institute East and then Yuri takes me back to his cramped apartment in Brooklyn. He makes me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I use his shower, and then we watch television while his roommates come in and out. They mostly go out, which is great because by ten o’clock we have the place to ourselves. Yuri shows me to his mattress.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” I tell him. “There’s plenty of room for both of us.”
“You are sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
So we sleep side by side, and in the middle of the night I wake to find his arm draped over my stomach. I fall back asleep, warmer and safer on a mattress on a floor in Brooklyn, than I was in a bed in the Upper East Side.
Chapter 61
I get the sleep I longed for but the peace that came with it evaporates the moment I turn on my phone. There’s a text from Julie.
I was a bitch. Can I make it up 2U? Plz TMB.
I can count on one finger the amount of times Julie has apologized to me over the course of our friendship. I don’t even know how to respond.
Yuri turns and makes noise, letting me know he’s awake. “You want we get breakfast?” he asks. “I am hungry for pancakes.”
In the dim morning light his face is lined with sleep, but still he looks simultaneously bright and dreamy. “Pancakes sound good,” I say.
He smiles and blinks at me, unabashedly peering into my eyes. His right index finger reaches out and traces my lower lip. The fleeting moment of physical contact sends a rush of warm shivers through my entire body, so I throw common sense to the wind, lean down, and kiss him.
His response is enthusiastic. Yuri wraps both of his strong arms around my waist, pulls me down onto my back, and lowers himself onto me. The dance our mouths do together is more intricate than the ones our bodies have already done to trumpet music. I pass my hands over the warm skin of his bare shoulders, and as we kiss and strain against each other, I feel him grow hard against me.
I’m so overwhelmed that it takes me a moment to remember two things: one: he has four roommates and absolutely no privacy, and two: I have no idea what I’m doing. What if I’m really bad at sex? This is definitely not the time to find out.
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