by Jo Raven
And the modern ones. Bacchanale. The Rite of Spring. Phaedra’s Dream.
These pieces are more than dance. They are my escape into another world. Others get there by dreaming, reading, taking drugs.
I dance. Can’t imagine myself doing anything else. Never had to imagine anything else. Pliés, jetés, arabesques. Movement, music, joy.
God, I feel like such a failure. It’s not the first time I was told that my body wouldn’t allow me to be a professional dancer, but I thought with hard work I could get over my ‘handicaps.’ Training seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Dedication should count, right? Driving yourself to the brink of collapse. Getting better, more flexible, increasing endurance, improving rhythm.
But I can’t change my tendons, or my screwed-up ankle.
If only I hadn’t broken it two years ago. If I’d started training when I was five instead of nine. If I had a different body.
I put down my bowl of organic cereal and zero fat yoghurt. What am I doing? Who cares now if I gain weight? If I don’t do my stretches every day?
It’s over, Manon. Accept it. Get over it.
But just the thought of emptying my locker at the dance school and walking through its halls for a last time makes my heart ache.
Not sure I can do it.
I push away my untouched breakfast and go shower and get dressed. The girls from the dance school are nice, but we aren’t that close. I wish I had a bestie to talk about this, or just to do girly things—go shopping, eat ice cream, have a marathon of Sons of Anarchy and stuff our faces with chocolate until we get a bellyache.
Cassie.
But she’s not my bestie anymore. I’m so upset with her. I don’t think I can trust her. And yet she’s the closest I have to a bestie. I spent my last year of high school in France, with my mom, and the friends I made back in Detroit before that not only aren’t here in Madison—I’ve also mostly lost touch with them.
I mean, sure, we chat sometimes on Facebook, I see their pics on Instagram, and they keep asking me when I’ll go visit. With all the training, I never had the time to even think about traveling.
Now… Now maybe I should. Maybe they have ideas as to what a failed ballet dancer can do with her life.
I stand under the spray in the shower, and the water rolling down my cheeks feels like tears.
***
The problem with being friends with a traitor by the name of Cassie is that people who were friendly before are now avoiding you like the plague.
Like now.
I’m walking down the street, staring at storefronts, trying to take my mind off the present, when I run into some of the guys from the tattoo shop where Jesse works.
The one with the Mohawk is Zane. I remember him because that hairdo sure is impressive, but it takes me a moment to remember who the others are.
Micah is the tall, blond one, friend of Jesse’s and Seth’s, and he’s currently scowling at me like I’ve kicked his puppies. The tall dark-haired guy next to him isn’t looking happy to see me, either.
I stop to watch them pass, not sure what to do with myself. Not talking to them feels weird, but from their expressions I really don’t think they’d appreciate me chatting them up.
So I start when I realize they’ve stopped, too, just a few feet away.
“Hi,” I say, mortified.
“You Cassie’s friend?” the tall, dark-haired one asks. “Maud or something?”
“Manon,” I whisper, and oh God, my voice is barely audible.
Micah huffs and turns to—unlock the door of a shop?
DAMAGE CONTROL says the sign above. The tattoo shop where they’re all working. Didn’t realize it was here. I must have passed outside many times.
“Wanna come inside?” Zane asks, pausing at the store entrance. His dark eyes watch me intently. “Did you come by to see someone?”
“I was just passing by,” I whisper. “Seth… Seth works here, right?”
Zane’s almond-shaped eyes narrow. “Well, he’s one of our apprentices, though he hasn’t been around much these past few months.”
“Why not?”
“Accidents.” He turns to face me fully, and God, the guy’s huge, taller and wider than Seth. “First, he was beaten up by Ev’s psycho ex. Know Ev? Micah’s girl.” He nods at the shop. “And then by a guy who had a beef with Jesse. Seth’s been down on his luck lately, and it’s not like most of his life has been any better.”
That’s sad. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, because your friends don’t seem to like me much? Because of what Cassie did, I suppose.”
“You’re not Cassie. Or do you think what she did was okay?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s okay at all.”
“Then we’re fine.” He runs his hands over the shaved sides of his head. Silver hoops glint in one eyebrow. “As to why I told you about Seth…” He suddenly grins, a boyish, bright smile that catches me by surprise. “I like the way you said his name. I think you like him. And I think…” He leans closer, and I take a step back. “I think he could use some liking right now.”
He winks and turns away, opens the door and vanishes inside the shop.
Leaving me to stare after him, totally confused. Is this Zane’s way of telling me Seth could use a friend?
Because I could sure use one myself right now. It’s as if he read my thoughts from a minute ago.
And why not be friends?
I bite my lip, looking without really seeing the tattoo designs taped to the inside of the glass—snakes and skulls, hearts and roses.
Truth is, I’ve been worried about Seth, at home alone with his knee giving him trouble. Not eating. Nobody to prepare a compress for him. I’ve hesitated, unsure whether he’d want to see me again.
The person who ran him over and who’s best friends with Cassie.
But he’s the kindest person I’ve met in recent times. The way he didn’t openly blame me for hurting him, didn’t make me feel bad—not worse than I was already feeling. Then the way he smiled at me, held me close as I told him about my shitty day and my crushed dreams…
Least I can do is make sure he’s okay.
***
Too late I realize I didn’t ask Zane for Seth’s phone number or address. How am I going to find him now?
Stupid, Manon.
I’ve been too scatterbrained since I found out I was out of the dance program. All my focus had been on making the cut, and my thoughts are spinning out of orbit.
Cassie is the one who’s friends with Seth’s gang. She’s best friends with Ev, Micah’s girl.
Or was best friends with Ev. No idea how things stand now.
I drag my finger over the screen of my cell to find Cassie’s number and then hesitate. Should I ask her? Our brief talk yesterday didn’t end so well.
Do I want to hear what she has to say? Can there be an acceptable excuse for her selfish behavior? I’m not even sure I know her anymore.
But she’s still my friend. The possibility of patching up our friendship would mean a lot to me—and crap, I need her help with this. If I’m going to check on Seth, I need to do it soon, before I lose my nerve and say screw it.
She answers on the second ring. “Manon?”
“Hey.” I struggle for something to say.
“I’m so glad you called.” She sounds sad.
It makes me sad, too. “I thought about what you said. Maybe talking wouldn’t be a bad idea, after all. Let you explain about what happened. Seems only fair.”
“Thank you.” Her voice is lighter now. “Go for a drink with me? Tonight?”
I sink down on my sofa and images of Seth lying there assault me. “Sure. I need a favor, though.”
“Shoot.”
“You know you sometimes played pool with Shane and the guys? Before…” I sigh. “Before the incident with Jesse.”
A beat of sil
ence. “Yeah.”
“Do you happen to have Shane’s number? Or any of the guys?”
“Maybe… Why? Oh, this is about Seth, isn’t it?”
Crap. “Look, Seth and I are just friends. Or trying to be.”
“So you don’t have the hots for pretty Seth?”
Is he pretty? I frown as my mind flashes those dark eyes back at me, the wide mouth, the square jaw, and that strong body… “No, I don’t. I’m dating Fred, did you forget?”
“No, I just think sometimes Fred forgets it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She clears her throat. “Nada. Not trying to be a bitch, okay? I don’t often think things through before I talk.”
“Or act,” I say, because I’m getting pissed all over again.
“Or that,” she says in a small voice. “Listen, I’ll find his number for you, okay? It won’t be easy with everyone hating my guts right now, but I’ll find it. Consider it a reconciliation gift.”
***
My cell rings sometime in the afternoon as I half-doze watching Arrow on TV, but it’s not Cassie’s number flashing on the screen.
It’s Fred’s.
Heart thumping hard, I hit connect. “Yeah?”
“Hi, Madeline.” No idea why he insists on calling me by my full name like that. “How is it going?”
“I’m…” Not okay. Definitely not. “Fine. I’m glad you called.”
“Sorry I had to cancel yesterday. I really thought we’d get the evening free, but with the concert coming up, I guess it’s understandable that Brandon wanted to practice. He’s so nervous about this. Reminds me of my first year.”
“Yeah.” God, I shouldn’t be jealous that this Brandon took precedence over my troubles, but that’d be selfish. And it was nice of Fred to help the guy out. “How about coffee?”
“When?”
“Today. Now.” I’m smiling at the thought of seeing him. “What do you say?”
“Sure. Where?”
“There’s a new coffee shop down my street, if you don’t mind hoofing it over here. They have great espresso.”
“Espresso, huh?” He’s smiling now, too, I can hear it. He loves espresso. “Deal. Be there in an hour.”
I put down the cell, hop off the sofa and do a little dance of joy. I haven’t seen Fred in more than a week, and I’ve missed his crazy stories from the music academy and the dorms.
I flounce around the apartment, turn on some music and throw clothes out of my closet until I settle on cowboy boots and a white mini dress. I gather my hair up in a messy bun and stick two chopsticks in it.
Voilà.
A dash of mascara and lip-gloss and I’m ready. Amy Winehouse is playing on the stereo, and I swing to the slow rhythm of “Rehab” as I gather my stuff and grab my purse and a denim jacket.
As I grab an umbrella from behind the door, I think of the rain and Seth. Hopefully Cassie will manage to get me his number today. I wonder if he’ll be glad to hear from me, how he’ll sound.
And… maybe I should focus more on my meeting with Fred, instead of Seth? Gah. What’s wrong with me? I’ve been waiting for days to see Fred, and I should be overjoyed.
Which I am. Definitely.
I hurry outside, feeling unaccountably angry with myself. Thinking of Seth isn’t a bad thing, is it? I only want to check on him.
Then why do I feel guilty?
The day is cool, and I shrug on my jacket as I think about this one. Tricky. I mean, I’m not attracted to Seth, like I am to Fred.
Of course I’m not. No doubt about that. I’ve been crushing on Fred for so long it’d be ridiculous. And I don’t want Seth.
So that’s settled.
Good. Cleared things up in my mind. Maybe that’s what I needed—some tidying up after the mess left by the news that I have to rethink my future.
Telling myself to stop overthinking, I stomp to the coffee shop to wait for Fred.
***
Fred arrives ten minutes later, and he waves at me from the door. I wave back, then fiddle with my mug until he orders and comes to join me with his espresso.
“Looking pretty,” he says and grins the grin that has melted hearts all over campus. His blue eyes twinkle behind the lenses of his glasses. “You should do your hair up more often. It suits you.”
Vowing to permanently glue my hair up in a bun, I take a sip from my coffee to hide my blush. “Thank you.”
“How have you been? Training day and night, like always?”
My smile falls. “About that…” I put down my coffee as sadness swamps me. “I’m out, Fred.”
“What do you mean?” He’s still smiling, still uncomprehending.
“The director talked to me yesterday. Said the external committee decided I should stop. Stop going to dance school.”
“Oh, Madeline.” His big blue eyes fill with concern. He reaches over the table to take my hand. His firm fingers callused from playing the cello, and warm. “I’m so sorry. Did something happen leading to this? Didn’t see it coming.”
“Neither did I.” I sniffle. God, I hate this. “Remember a few months ago, when I fell during a rehearsal and sprained my ankle?”
“Yes. But that sort of thing happens all the time, right? You said so.”
“It does. But that was the ankle I broke two years ago. I missed the show because of it. I thought nothing of it, but it seems it’s been on the committee’s mind.”
“Maybe they’re afraid you could break it again. Bad publicity for the school.”
“Yeah. But they also said it’s a bad idea for me. In any case… they should have said something earlier.”
“Would you have taken that time back?”
I think about it. “No. I wouldn’t. I loved training and dancing.”
“There you go, then. Dancing is what you love.” He smiles, and I smile back. He lets go of my hand and reaches for his coffee. “You should talk to them some more. Maybe there’s a way around this.”
“They seemed set on their decision,” I tell him. “Not sure how I could convince them.”
“I’ll think about it. We’ll figure it out.”
I love that he said “we.” Is it bad I love it so much?
“How about you? How was your week?”
“Good. The usual, you know. Lots of classes and practice.” He pulls out his cell, checks something. Frowns. “Are you coming to the party this Saturday night?”
“Party?”
“Yeah, didn’t I tell you about it? A new shop opening, or something like that. A friend of Brandon’s knows the owners and told him to bring more people. There’ll be a punk rock band playing. Deathmoth. Heard of it?”
“It rings a bell.” I think.
“So are you coming?”
“Could be interesting,” I concede. “Though you know my taste in music.”
“Classical. Ballet dancer through and through.” He grins.
I wince. “And jazz. I’ll go,” I decide, because hey, Fred will be there. What more excuse do I need?
“Awesome.” He types something quickly on his cell and puts it down. His blond hair is standing up like the spines of a porcupine. He looks adorable. “Hey, have you seen the video of our rehearsal on YouTube? You know Gerry, our pianist? He totally lost it after the third try, and started playing whatever.”
He pulls his chair close to mine, and we bend our heads together, giggling as we watch the video. It feels comfortable, familiar, nice. He smells of apples and aftershave, kinda sweet. His mouth is so close to mine as he tells me about the fit their teacher pitched when she saw the video online, and his shoulders shake with laughter.
Will he kiss me? Will he let me kiss him?
I think he will, right after he says he has to go and turns to smile at me. I tip my head up, waiting, my heart racing.
“Oh, Madeline, you’re the sweetest girl,” he says and kisses my cheek. “Gotta run. We’ll talk, okay?”
“Okay,”
I mumble as I watch him grab his jacket and lope away, cell phone clutched in his hand.
Why won’t he kiss me? Does my inexperience show so much? Do I look like a wide-eyed girl with a crush, a girl nobody will touch with a ten-mile-long pole? Does he think I’m so innocent and naïve I need to be protected somehow from anything sexual?
Sometimes I wish I was world savvy like Cassie…
Need to fix that. Fix my image. But where to start if the guy I like won’t even let me try?
Chapter Five
Seth
Some days take a sudden turn for the worse.
And some days are bad right off the bat. Like today.
I made it back from Manon’s place in one piece. So far so good, right? Took a cab, even had enough cash on me to pay. Made it up the two flights of stairs and dragged myself into the living room where I proceeded to drop in a sweaty heap on the couch and moan pathetically at the pain in my knee, the ache in my head and the burn of all the scrapes on my elbows and hands.
Still good. Nothing too bad.
But that doesn’t last, because I suddenly remember I have a physiotherapy appointment this morning.
Had. Ten minutes ago.
I struggle back to my feet and limp into the kitchen, cursing all the way, to grab a glass of water before I haul my sorry ass back down and…
How do I pay the cab? Fuck. I don’t have any more cash, which means I need to pass by an ATM first.
If there’s any money left in my account.
I grab a glass, fill it with water from the tap and take a long swallow.
Need to see if I can reschedule the appointment, I’ll never make it in time. I pull out my cell from my back pocket to call the hospital, but before I even pull up the number, it starts ringing.
“Christ.” I barely manage not to drop the damn thing and juggle the glass until it’s safely set on the counter. I don’t recognize the number. I prop my walking stick and lean back against the sink as I connect the call. “Yeah, who is it?”
“Mr. Seth Tucker?”
“That’d be me. Who the hell are you?”
So I’m a surly bastard this morning. So sue me. Manon’s magical painkillers have long worn off, and I’ve got nothing to take off the edge. Maybe at the hospital I can get something off the nurses.