“Yeah, yes. Great to meet you, too.” He’s a total Luke guy: probably nineteen, jeans, hoodie. He’s Chinese, taller than Luke, and leaner. Hair a little long around his face, but not in a sloppy way. He pulls off the hoodie, revealing lean, muscular arms in a faded SF State T-shirt.
Kate is wide-eyed.
“What’re you majoring in?” Mom presses.
“Well, biology. I was premed. But—”
“That’s wonderful! I’m amazed I haven’t run into you in the science building.”
“Well, I’m—sort of—I’m taking a gap year.”
“Really. To do what?”
“Well…” He’s got really good posture for a guy Luke’s age. He moves his hair off his eyes.
Holy…Kate nudges me under the table.
Look at those eyes, she mouths, not at all discreetly. I nudge her back. So dark. Insanely long lashes.
I’m suddenly aware of how postclass sweaty I am. Jeans, threadbare class leotard, no bra. My hair is probably coming loose. Jesus. I reach behind me into my bag for a hoodie, pull it on, and zip it up.
“Mom,” Luke sighs. “Enough with the CSI.”
“All right, fiddle-dee-dee…But you like school, Owen?”
“I do.”
“And you’ll go back?”
“Of course.”
“Good for you.” Mom smiles. “We’ve begged Harper to apply….”
“You’ve begged,” Dad corrects from the sink.
Aaaand the humiliation begins. I become intently focused on the oatmeal in my bowl.
Mom shakes her head. “An education is something you’ll always have; it changes who you are even if you major in something you don’t end up working in. No one can ever take knowledge away from you. Critical thinking, a breadth of intellect and new ideas, challenging yourself—right, Owen?”
Owen turns his face across the table to mine, giving me the perfect opportunity to openly ogle his eyes. “I absolutely agree,” he says. Then: “Oh, Harper…like To Kill a—”
“Nope,” everyone else says in unison.
Kate extends her hand over the fruit bowl to Owen. “Hello,” she says, “I’m Kate. Harper’s friend.” He takes her hand and smiles.
Dad finally sits down, scraping peach slices off his plate and into my oatmeal.
“Dude,” I whisper. “Enough!”
“You need vitamins,” he nonwhispers back. “So, Owen, whereabouts do you live?”
“Funny you should mention that!” Luke says. I push the peaches down under the fifteen other fruits in my bowl. Owen is watching. He doesn’t look away. So I do, back down at my bowl.
“Owen lives in the Presidio,” Luke says. The Presidio is the forested hillside near the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, and it is dotted with gorgeously restored World War II barracks, now renting as homes. “Owen works at LucasArts,” Luke adds.
“Ohhh, Star Wars!” Mom says dreamily.
“Yes!” Luke beams. Mom and Dad are self-proclaimed “midichlorian-blooded Gen Xers.” They were born with lightsabers clutched in their baby fists. They named Luke after the Jedi. Luke Falcon. Not just for Robert Falcon Scott, but Falcon as in the Millennium Falcon. Seriously.
“You work on the movies, then?” Dad asks through a mouthful of crepe.
“No,” Owen says. “Games. Star Wars games.”
“Video games?” Mom says.
“Yes!” Luke is all antsy, smiling his face off. “Isn’t that cool?”
Kate leans on her elbows toward Owen. “Which games have you worked on?”
“Um. Republic Commando?”
“Oh,” she says. “So you do the art or the story?”
Kate has never played a video game in her entire life.
“Well, it’s all part of…I’m level design.”
“Wow…” She leans back in her chair. “That’s amazing.”
This conversation is amazing(ly ridiculous). Owen seems embarrassed, though good-naturedly playing along. He leans forward, not to Kate. Toward me.
“So, not To Kill a Mockingbird?”
I shake my head. Could I not have splashed some water on my face, worn a nicer leotard? And why do I even care? He smiles. At me.
Okay, and the smile (poster child for orthodontics) has got a seriously competitive edge with his eyes for most striking part about his unbelievably handsome—Oh my God, what is wrong with me? I need to get out of here.
“Owen works in the complex Lucas built at the Presidio.”
“Gorgeous,” Mom sighs. “Can you see the Golden Gate?”
“When the fog lifts,” Owen says. “The whole south side of the building is windows, and the commissary is all glass. We’re sitting, eating burritos, and the Palace of Fine Arts and the Golden Gate are right there….It really is beautiful.”
Kate looks like a drunken bird close to falling off a branch.
“Level design,” Mom hems. “That sounds very…involved?”
“Mom!” I say. “They haven’t announced their engagement—what’s with the third degree?”
Owen laughs, chokes on orange juice, and smiles gratefully at me, which nearly sends me out the door, and Luke whacks him on the back.
“Oh, honey, here…” Mom and Kate thrust napkins at the poor guy’s face.
“Thanks, sorry…,” he croaks, still smiling.
“So when you return to school, what kind of medicine are you working toward?”
Owen cuts his crepe very neatly with a knife and fork.
“Mom!” Luke whines.
“It’s just a question!”
“No, it’s okay,” Owen says politely to Mom. “I can’t honestly say what will happen in the future. But I know right now, I love making games.”
She nods.
“Okay,” Luke says. “So here’s the thing….”
“There’s a thing?”
“Yes,” he says, and exhales. “I got a job.”
Dad frowns. “You have a job.”
“Yes, I…got another one.”
“Two jobs?”
“I got a job with Owen. At LucasArts.”
Dad sticks his fork in a grapefruit. Leaves it there. “Really.”
“Yeah.”
“Doing what?”
“Games!” he says. “Making games! Star Wars games!”
Mom and Dad just sit there. I can hear their wheels turning: Video games = bad! But Star Wars = good! And…what about school? Tragedy!
Mom looks pale. “You’re leaving school?”
“No!” he says. “No, not at all. I’ll just be game testing! Part time.”
Mom nearly faints with relief.
“But so…,” Dad says, “you’re…leaving the bakery?”
“Well. I mean…”
“I can tell you that even part time he’ll be salaried,” Owen pipes up. “And he’s eligible for our health insurance, which is insanely good. If that makes a difference.”
What is this guy, some kind of parental maneuvering wizard?
“Kind of does,” Mom says.
“You know how to…test things?”
“Dad,” I sigh. “He’s spent fifteen years sitting around in his boxer shorts, playing Halo. I’m sure he can test the hell out of a game.”
Again, Owen laughs.
I suppress a smile.
Kate gazes at him.
Luke shrugs. “True.”
“Huh,” Dad says. “That’s…” He wipes his eyes with his napkin.
“Dad,” Luke says. “Are you crying?”
“No! I’m…No one sculpts fondant like you. I’m just thinking about how everyone’s going to miss your Yule logs, is all. Christmas.”
This is not a play for sympathy—the man is sincerely the mushiest, most full of often-embarrassment-inducing love any of us has ever met. Mom’s a close second.
Kate, Mom, Luke, and I, even Owen, all breathe a collective and honest “Awwww!” and I lose my mind for a second and smile at Owen, then pretend it was meant for Mom, and the
n I’m back to staring into my nearly empty oatmeal bowl.
Will this meal never end?
“I don’t start for a month,” Luke says. “I’ll be at the bakery all through New Year. I can’t even move in till, like, the middle of January.”
“Move in?” Mom says.
“Oh. I mean…” Luke shifts in his seat, messes with the grapes on his plate. “Owen shares a house with some other Lucas guys. In the Presidio—they walk to work! One of the roommates is moving out in a few weeks.”
Now Mom wads a napkin up on her face.
“You guys! I’m nineteen years old. I can’t live at home forever!”
“Nineteen isn’t old!” Mom sniffs.
The Nutcracker overture plinks from my phone. Thank God.
“That’s us!” I say. “Classes to teach, choreography to perfect!” I toss back the rest of my water while Kate grabs our bags and puts her plate and my bowl in the sink.
“You have to go?” Luke whimpers.
“Don’t be a baby,” I say close to his ear.
“Thanks for breakfast, Dad,” Kate says. She hugs him and Mom and holds the back door open for me while I refill our water bottles at the sink.
“Leave everything. I’ll do the dishes when I get back,” I tell Dad, who will rinse and stack everything even though it’s my turn.
“Bye, Kate,” Luke says, well-rehearsed casual.
“Later, Luke. Nice meeting you, Owen!” Kate calls, leaning also way too casually, but still gorgeously, in the doorway.
“You too.” Owen smiles.
“Oh, Harp, wait!” Dad says, jumping up and running to the freezer. “Here.” He tosses me a bag of ice. “Put that on your butt!”
I shove the ice in my bag, turn Kate, and steer her out the door.
“Nice to meet you, Harper!” Owen calls.
Humiliation: complete.
- - -
We drink water and walk through the fog, hips turned out, arms strong, necks stretched, long strides up and down the house- and tree-lined streets, to the steps of Simone’s West Portal Ballet. Our second home. I love this studio more than any place on Earth; floor-to-ceiling windows look out over West Portal Avenue and the houses and hills beyond. The floor is gorgeous, spring-loaded wood, and polished monthly. Barres line the side and window walls; an upright piano sits in the corner. Fog rolls past the windows and reflects in the opposite wall of mirrors, which Simone covers with sheets when she feels like we’re “gazing at ourselves too much.”
On the top step, I give Kate my bag and sit on the porch to stretch. “I’m waiting here….Want to watch my class?”
“Not today.” She yawns. “Think I’ll nap in the dressing room and dream about my husband.”
“Cool. And who would this be?”
“My breakfast boyfriend! I am in love. Luke needs to bring friends home more often. Wake me for class?” She lugs both our bags through the door.
“Hey!” I call.
“Yeah?”
“Addendum thirteen.”
She grins, her beautiful face lit up, and disappears into the studio.
We’re so close. I will drag her across the finish line if I have to. No matter how cute that guy is.
I try a few battements and pliés at the porch rail. The bruise is huge, hip still sore, but functioning.
At last, who I’m waiting for comes racing down the sidewalk, chased by her mother. A little dark-haired tornado in a pink leotard that used to be mine bounds up the steps.
“Harp!”
“Willster!” My Willa throws her six-year-old arms around my legs, grabs her elbows, and squeezes me tight, presses her face against my hip.
“I feel your bones,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, I feel yours, too.” And I tickle her elbows till she screams.
“Willa!” her mother, Hannah, pants. “Take your sweater!”
Hannah is mom’s teaching and research assistant. She also waits tables at the Beach Chalet, our favorite restaurant in Golden Gate Park, near the ruins of the Sutro Baths, right on Ocean Beach, which means tons of good takeout and also that Willa needs a lot of babysitting. Pointe shoe money for me.
“Harp!” Hannah calls up the steps. “Thank you! Late, late, late as always. Baby, give Mama a kiss. See you tonight!”
Willa blows her a kiss, and Hannah’s off to catch her Muni train.
“Whoosh!” Willa says.
“Whoosh,” I agree.
She hugs me again, pressing the bruise.
“Ack,” I say. “You got my big bruise.”
“Oh no, what happened?”
“Slipped at rehearsal. On the snow!”
“Ohhh, is it pretty?”
“You’ll love it. Wait till you see. Ready for class?”
“How do I look?” she asks, as she does every time.
“Like Margot Fonteyn. Let’s hit it.”
- - -
Simone gave the babies and little kids to me three years ago, entrusted me with introducing the music, the posture, the lessons of “Everybody needs to stop talking now and put your arms here. Got it? Hands above your head, not down your tights…” My teaching began as a favor to her, as her patience for the little kids had stretched to ribbons. But now it is a favor for me. Because ballet is expensive, prohibitively so. Teaching the baby classes makes my classes possible. Simone and I barter my tuition.
And last year, after months of watching Willa watch me teach Saturday class, one day the music started and I had my ducklings all set for warm-ups, and Simone walked Willa in wordlessly. She moved some kids out of the way, put Willa’s hand on the barre, and left. Willa was ecstatic. So was Hannah; she never could have afforded even one class, and Willa loves it so much.
I toss Willa’s bag in the dressing room beside Kate, already asleep on the sofa, and Willa and I shout hello to Simone up the stairwell that leads to her private residence. Willa admires herself in the mirrors, and I see that, despite washing my hair, I’ve still got snow in it. Snow and glitter are the herpes of the ballet world—we may never get rid of it. Willa plucks out the bigger pieces, and I give her a little preclass barre.
“Miss Harper!” my kindies scream at the tops of their tiny but powerful lungs as the herd comes galloping up the inside studio steps. They wrestle themselves free from their mothers and dads and nannies and grandmas and run to me, crash into my legs, and grab me around my knees, but I am prepared, holding on to the barre for dear life. Three years and still every single class begins this way. Only someone with a tiny black heart could resist, could not love this. Love them.
“All right!” I yell above the din, dragging them off my limbs. “We are ladies. Get to the barre, port de bras. Dépêchez-vous! Now!” And they scatter to their assigned places. The parents and grandparents and nannies smile and wave and take off for forty-five minutes of Starbucks or jogging or wrangling their other kids.
The little kids get only one performance dance each year, and it’s in The Nutcracker. They are angels, wearing white tutus and silver garland halos and real feather wings left over from 1972, when some friend of Simone’s donated them from his company’s costume stash. They were old then and they’re ancient now, but they are soft and real and lovely, even if yellowed and dripping feathers.
My kindies love the costumes and the candles and the tree, even though half of them are Jewish and one is Muslim, which I keep telling Simone is kind of a good reason to maybe look into doing a show not so blatantly…well, Christmasy. Like, we could do a solstice-themed concert of variations—Vivaldi’s “Winter,” stuff like that. Simone just laughs.
“The Nutcracker brings in half my yearly revenue. As soon as there’s a beloved, traditional Hanukkah ballet people clamor to buy tickets for, I’m all ears. Maccabees in tiaras, bloodshed on the snow…No thank you. Now, climb up into the attic for me and bring down my plastic reindeer!”
So I work my little angels. I urge them to strive for as much perfection as they can muster. To
day’s class is especially game. They put their all into it, arms strong, feet mostly pointed, determined little faces, and by the end, they are breathing hard. They bow and flop on the floor, flushed and worn out. The parents and nannies will be thrilled—a guaranteed early bedtime.
They hug and kiss me goodbye, and when they’re gone the stillness is delicious. I’m kind of pooped myself. Twenty minutes till rehearsal.
Seriously, have I mentioned that I cannot wait for graduation?
“Harper.” Simone is in the doorway.
“Did you see? They’re ready, right, Willa?” Willa nods. “Monday and Wednesday better bring it, because these are some ferocious Saturday angels.”
Simone frowns. “I don’t want them ferocious.”
“You know what I mean. They’re on it! We got through the whole thing twice without stopping.”
“I saw.”
“Aren’t they great?”
“Very nice. May I see you in my office?” She turns and walks.
My stomach flips.
“Are you in trouble?” Willa whispers.
“I don’t know,” I moan.
I duck into Simone’s tiny office beside the dressing room—a glorified closet, tutus of a million colors hanging from the rafters above her desk, candy-colored fruit ripening on low branches, sparkling sequins and glitter.
I decide to make a preemptive strike, and also I’m so nervous I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“I was concentrating,” I say. “It’s just the snow is really, really slippery, but I know that now and I won’t fall again, ever. I swear. Okay?”
She frowns. “What?”
“What what?”
“I was going to say your dance with the babies—it is a beautiful picture. They love you. That is why they try so hard.”
“Oh.”
“You get work out of them I never could. So now, when they are older, they will not drive me half so crazy as you and your snow friends.”
I nod.
“You were made for this,” she says. “Born to it. Tell me about summer. Have you given it more thought?”
I mess with the strap of my leotard.
“Because they need to know by the end of the year,” she says. “The twentieth. To be registered for spring.”
“Madame, I don’t—”
“Just think. Some more.”
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