Summer Days, Starry Nights

by Vikki VanSickle

  Both figures reached the raft at the same time, tagged the side, and pushed off for the final leg of the race. I screamed until my voice grew thin and my throat felt ragged. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so excited.

  When Gwendolyn stood, fighting her way to the beach on foot, I couldn’t believe it. She was like a mirage come to life, the Little Mermaid rising from the sea. Behind her, Bo struggled to his feet, tripped and landed with a splash. Gwendolyn ran up the beach and straight into my arms, crushing her lovely clothes between us. For such a slight person, Gwendolyn was strong. When she pulled away I was almost as wet as she was.

  “Oh!” I cried. “Your clothing!”

  “It’ll dry,” she said with a shrug. “Shall we help your brother up?”

  Bo was lounging in the water, breathing heavily, grumpy as a wet cat.

  “Good race,” Gwendolyn said lightly. “Need a hand?”

  “Sure,” Bo said, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes.

  “Gwendolyn, wait—” I said, but not soon enough. Bo grabbed her outstretched hand and yanked her back into the water with him.

  “Bo!” I cried, horrified, but Gwendolyn was laughing.

  “What a poor sport you are,” she scolded, splashing him.

  “Nah, you won, fair and square,” Bo admitted. “Nice job, Gwen. I guess ballet isn’t the only thing you’re good at.”

  “It’s Gwendolyn,” I reminded him, but Gwen didn’t correct either of us. Instead, she smiled, a real smile, not one of the little polite smiles she’d been doling out since she arrived.

  Gwendolyn and her mother only stayed for the weekend. Bo never did hold up his end of the deal, and without Gwendolyn there I didn’t feel brave enough to insist that he did. But she was back now, for a whole summer. I would be her tour guide, her assistant and maybe — just maybe — her friend. My heart banged in my chest like it had the day of the race, full of excitement and possibility.

  Dance Lessons

  “And this is your studio!”

  I had spent the better part of the morning showing Gwen around, saving the mess hall for last. I gave her the abbreviated version of the tour since she had been here before, but if she remembered it, she didn’t let on, and neither did I.

  I watched from the entrance as Gwen walked around the space. Even without curtains, which Daddy had promised to hang before the summer was out, it was an impressive space. It looked like a real performance space to me: the kind of place you could imagine seeing a concert or a play by Shakespeare. Certainly it was just as impressive as the auditorium at school. All it was missing were seats. I wanted to blurt out, “I did this,” but Gwen was so calm and cool. I didn’t want to act like some kid, desperate for a gold star or a pat on the head.

  “This is where you’ll have your classes,” I explained. “The record player will sit up here, on the stage. You can jump around as much as you like, it shouldn’t skip. Scarlett and I tested it before you got here. Daddy will bring in chairs later, for performances.”

  Just the word performance sent a shiver of delight down my spine. I imagined the place packed with people, the stage flooded in coloured lights, and I wanted to project myself five weeks into the future. I couldn’t wait to see what sort of magic Gwen was going to bring to Sandy Shores.

  Gwen bounced lightly on the floorboards, testing them for I don’t know what. Then she spread her arms and brought them back together in a perfect circle, propelling herself across the floor like a top.

  “Not bad,” she said, coming to a stop.

  I had to resist the urge to clap. Gwen had moved on and was inspecting a wall as if nothing had happened. Like spinning across the room was normal, something she did without thinking, like crossing her arms or snapping her gum. I wondered if all dancers burst into spontaneous movement.

  “The floors will do. There’s good width in here, nice light. Great windows,” Gwen said. “We can open them and let a nice cross-breeze in when it gets too hot.”

  “The windows are my favourite part,” I admitted, which was true. They were long and tall and took up half the wall space, on both sides. They reminded me of the kind of windows they put in churches, except without the bible scenes made from coloured glass. Mimi said that on already dreary days all those windows just made everything greyer, but when it’s sunny the whole room glows. In early summer, when the leaves on the maples are as big as my hands, the light that filters through the trees and into the mess hall is the slightest bit green, like new peas.

  “It would be nice to have a barre here,” Gwen was saying, staring at a wall, holding out her hands as if she could will a bar into existence by just picturing it. At first I wondered what she would do with a bar, why the dancers would need drinks, and then I realized she was talking about the kind of bar meant for ballet. Gwen slid the toe of her left foot lightly along the ground, bringing it back against her other foot in time to a rhythm only she could feel. Even her unconscious movements were graceful. “But then again I doubt we’ll be doing much ballet.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Ballet is a lot of work. People don’t want to work on their vacation. And to tell you the truth, I’m kind of rusty.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. “Those spins were pretty good.”

  Gwen laughed. “No offense, but you don’t know what you’re looking for. I know a number of mean old biddies back home who would rap my knees for poor form.”

  I thought of Gwen’s gnarled feet and wondered what other ugly things happened behind the scenes in the world of ballet.

  “The truth is, I’ve been dancing less and less these days.”

  It was hard to imagine someone as graceful and talented as her not dancing.

  “How come?”

  “I’ve been doing a little singing.”

  “What kind of singing?”

  “This and that. Backup, mostly.”

  “But you still dance, right?”

  Gwen flashed me a smile that was all trouble. “Oh, I dance. Just not the kind of dancing your mother wants me to teach.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  I hesitated, only for a second. “Yes.”

  “I’ll show you. First, we need some music. Come with me.”

  Gwen hurried back to the lodge to gather her records. She took the steps two at a time. It was the fastest I’d seen her move since she got here.

  “You,” she said, wrinkling her nose at my clothes. “Find something else to wear. Something that moves.”

  I searched through my drawers, pushing aside piles of ill-folded clothes. What did that mean, something that moves? All I had were blouses, dresses, jeans and a couple of stiff skirts. I didn’t have time to puzzle it out. Gwen appeared a moment later, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder and an old milk crate full of albums resting on her hip.

  “Oh never mind, you can use something of mine. Let’s go.”

  We made our way back to the mess hall, Gwen racing ahead of me despite the heavy load of records in her arms. It was the kind of bright, clear day that sends people outside, no matter what chores are waiting for them at home. Not a soul was around; they were too busy soaking up the good weather at the beach. I had Gwen all to myself, and I felt sure she was going to give me my own private dance lesson. I could hardly believe my luck.

  Inside, Gwen dropped the crate by the stage and started flipping through the records. “Go set up the record player, would you? I’ll pick us out some tunes.”

  I scrambled up the stairs and dragged the record player from the wings, where it stood draped in an old blue tarp, waiting for a moment like this. Gwen was throwing open all the windows, which squeaked as they fell open, one by one. A light breeze stirred the little hairs at the back of my neck. It felt like the room was coming alive.

  “Reenie, check in my bag there. See if you can find something to wear.”

  Gwen’s bag was a jumble of coloured fabric. It looked like
the mess of clothing that falls out of the dryer before you sort it. I peeled away tights, scarves, skirts and leotards. They were all warm and smelled like cigarettes and too much laundry detergent. I decided on a pink wrap skirt that looked like it was made of fine netting. Suddenly shy, I snuck off to the privacy of the wings to change. I stepped out of my cut-offs, pulled on a pair of footless tights that ended just below my knees, exposing my thistle-whipped shins to the world, and tied the skirt on. It was so long I could wrap it three times around my waist, the skirt falling in three layers, like the petals of a flower.

  I emerged from the cool darkness of the wings, blinking in the sudden light. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, like snowflakes that never seemed to land. Gwen was sitting on the floor of the stage by the record player, one leg curled under and the other stretched out in front of her. Her whole body was curved over the leg. I could see the bumps of her spine like beads on a necklace, stretched across her back. I cleared my throat and she snapped up and glanced over her shoulder at me.

  “Why are you still wearing that old blouse?”

  I sputtered for an answer, not finding one good enough to say out loud.

  “Are you wearing an undershirt?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I mumbled.

  “Then just wear that.”

  Gwen switched legs and allowed herself to flop over again. I unbuttoned my blouse and lay it carefully on the stage. I was embarrassed by my undershirt, ribbed white cotton with tiny bows made of pink ribbon on the straps. It was something a little girl would wear. Paired with the pink skirt I felt like a kid playing dress-up, except that I was long past make-believe age.

  “Better,” Gwen said, getting to her feet. “You’re going to get hot and that blouse was too restrictive in the chest.”

  I blushed. I didn’t have much of a chest to speak of. Not compared to some girls my age, and certainly not compared to Gwen. She wasn’t as buxom as some girls, but no one would mistake her for under sixteen, that’s for sure.

  Gwen slipped a record from its sleeve and set it gently on the turntable. A guitar started up, followed by another, and then another, as if they were motorbikes, revving their engines before a big race.

  “I know this song,” I said.

  Gwen raised her eyebrows. “You do? I guess you’re not as sweet as I thought you were.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. “Everyone knows Johnny Skins,” I bluffed. “Isn’t he kind of famous?”

  Gwen laughed. “Don’t tell him that. His head is big enough as it is.”

  “You know him?” I said.

  Gwen spun away from me, her arms cutting through the dust motes like big pinwheels. “I know a lot of people,” she said, a smile playing on her lips.

  The guitars screamed and Johnny Skins launched into the chorus. I didn’t know the lyrics, but I found my body slipping into the rhythm of the song, head nodding, toe tapping, even my heart beating in time. I couldn’t help it, the song was infectious.

  Gwen was watching me carefully. “You’re getting into it, that’s good. Now relax your shoulders and your hips. No, relax — like before.”

  I tried to relax, but it was hard to do with someone watching me. In a few long strides, Gwen was beside me, pushing down on my shoulders with her hands.

  “There,” she said. Then she put her hands on my hips and shook them back and forth, shaking a giggle out of me in the process.

  “Sorry,” I apologized. “It just feels funny.”

  Gwen grinned. “But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Spread those legs!” Using her toe, Gwen kicked my legs apart. “Now I want you to imagine you’re sitting back in a big saddle. You’ve been on a horse before, right?”

  I nodded. Three, maybe four times, over at the Simpsons’ farm, but I wasn’t ready to ride off into the sunset or anything.

  “Of course you have, you’re a country girl, born and bred. Now picture yourself sitting back in that saddle, queen of the cowgirls. Shoulders back, hips relaxed, nice bend in the knee — good! You got it! Follow me.”

  I beamed, forgetting all about the bows on my undershirt and the state of my shins. Gwen sashayed across the room, swaying her hips one way and then the other, pausing every now and again to shake her shoulders or kick up her heels, crowing like a cowgirl. I followed, copying her bowlegged stance and cocky attitude as best I could.

  “You see,” Gwen called over her shoulder. “So much about dance is about feeling good in your body. This feels good, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. Gwen cupped her hand around her ear.

  “I can’t hear you!” she called.

  “It feels good!” I shouted over the music, laughing.

  Gwen shimmied her way back to the record player, lifted the needle and stuffed Johnny Skins back into his sleeve, muttering, “That’s enough of you, you big show-off.”

  The silence was sudden and deafening, as if Johnny and his motorcycle guitars had blotted out all other sound in the world.

  “Don’t stop; keep going,” Gwen called, her voice ringing in the silence. “I want you to keep that cowgirl feeling into this next song.”

  The needle dropped and the swelling of violins filled the room. I paused in my strutting, bringing my legs back together, wanting to waltz or pirouette or do something grand, but Gwen called, “No, no, don’t forget your inner cowgirl!”

  I stumbled, caught between the saddle and the ballroom. “But the music,” I protested.

  “What about it?” Gwen asked.

  “It’s so — formal.”

  “So stand tall, but remember that looseness in your joints.”

  It was tricky, but I managed it. Gwen was sweeping across the floor, arms wide and rounded, neck impossibly long and graceful. Once again, I followed her, doing my best to do what she did, when she did it. Eventually she came to a stop, dropping into a deep curtsey. I returned the gesture.

  “How do you feel?” Gwen asked.

  “Long,” I said. “And elegant.”

  Gwen laughed. “Well, that’s a start.”

  “What’s next?”

  Off came the violins, on went Dion and the Belmonts. Gwen hugged the album cover to her chest and kissed the image of Dion’s face noisily.

  “I just love this guy,” she said. “Listen to that saxophone. The saxophone might just be the sexiest instrument there is. Have you ever seen a saxophone before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. I want you to imagine that you are the saxophone.”

  Gwen ran her hands down my sides, saying, “Imagine there are keys on both sides of your torso. Your neck is the neck, your head is the mouthpiece and you’ve got this great big bell coming right out of your pelvis. That’s where all the sound comes from. Got it?”

  She started the song over again. I sat back in my imaginary cowgirl saddle and tapped my heels until I felt like I had swallowed the beat.

  “Remember you’re not playing the saxophone — I want you to become the saxophone.”

  Gwen was in her own little world, eyes closed, moving across the floor like she was made of waves, all rolling shoulders and hips. I closed my own eyes and imagined that I was the source of that cranky, husky sound, shuddering up and down the melody. When the music ended, I opened my eyes, surprised at how out of breath I felt.

  Gwen clapped. “There you go, Reenie, lesson number one; if it feels good, do it.”

  King of the Campfire

  Now that Gwen had emerged from her self-imposed seclusion, Mimi wanted to talk about her plans for the summer.

  “What sort of classes do you think you’ll teach?” she asked.

  Gwen shrugged. “Whatever you want me to teach,” she said.

  Mimi tried again. “That’s very accommodating of you, but you are the one teaching, after all. I want you to be comfortable here, teaching what you would like to teach.”

  Gwen’s eyes found mine over her glass of milk, just for a sp
lit second. I felt my cheeks heat up with our secret. “Anything?” she said lightly.

  I had to look away, stuffing my mouth full of cheesy broccoli.

  “Nothing too hard. I doubt you’ll have many advanced dancers,” Mimi admitted, “but I think you’ll find our guests very interested in all kinds of dance. Maybe some waltzes, or something fun, like the jive?”

  Bo smirked. “Maybe you can teach everyone the bunny hop,” he suggested.

  Mimi flushed. “That’s not what I meant, I want you to teach real dances. Bo, don’t be such a kidder. Gwen is a professional—”

  “Actually, I’m not exactly—” Gwen started, but Mimi cut her off sharply, her voice hard and full of disdain.

  “You’re the closest this place has ever seen and probably ever will see.”

  “What’s wrong with the bunny hop?” Daddy joked, trying to smooth things over. “That sounds like the kind of dance I can handle.”

  “The bunny hop is for babies, Daddy,” Scarlett said solemnly. “Even I know that.”

  We all went back to our plates, the Starrs plus one, filling the silence with the sounds of eating. Gwen spoke first.

  “I was thinking I could teach kids’ classes in the mornings, a few adult classes in the afternoons and then hold a dance on Friday nights.”

  “Wonderful!” Mimi said. “That’s exactly what I had in mind, too.”

  “We have campfire on Friday nights,” Bo pointed out.

  “We have campfire every night,” Mimi said. “One night less isn’t going to make a difference.”

  “But it’s the last night for some people. They are going to expect a campfire.”

  That’s when Daddy chimed in. “Why can’t we have both? The dance can go from eight to nine, campfire at nine fifteen.”

  Mimi beamed, reaching for Daddy’s hand. “Perfect. That’s why you’re the boss around here.”

  After dinner, Gwen followed Bo into the kitchen, carrying her plates. I was already at the sink, hastily scrubbing my own dishes so I could go out and catch a swim before the sun went down.