That was it—I was going to say something that would make it obvious how much I liked her, and the seesaw would come crashing down. I could feel words coming up my chest and I didn’t know how to stop them, or if I wanted to.
Something wet and sudsy dripped from the ceiling into my eyes. I let go of Ari to wipe it away, and that’s when the shouting started. When my eyes were clear, I could see Ari staring up toward the dark gym ceiling, laughing. Big soapy drips plopped from the ceiling vents. Around us, girls tried to shield their updos, and guys slipped in their formal shoes.
“I love it, but I don’t get it,” Ari said. “Where’s Markos?”
I grabbed her hand and we slip-n-slided to the doors to the gym. People were mostly streaming out to the parking lot, so we turned the other direction, heading deeper into the dark school. At a fork in the hallway we paused until we heard voices.
Down the hall to the right, Markos had his back against a locker, his arms crossed over his chest. A cop stood in front of him.
“. . . lucky it was me and not someone else assigned to the school. This is so unbelievably stupid, Markos,” the cop was saying, and I knew before we got close enough to see that it was Markos’s oldest brother, Brian. I hurried the last thirty feet to them, Ari close at my heels. Brian turned to us. “Win, get back to the dance.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Markos put bubble machines in the heating vents.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Markos said.
“Really? So if I check inventory at the store there won’t be a bunch of supplies missing?”
“Good luck with that.” Markos’s family’s hardware store was notoriously disorganized; Markos probably banked on that fact. Brian knew it, too, and his frown deepened.
“I should take you in, Markos. Might teach you a lesson.”
“Come on, Brian! What about all the pranks you and Dev and Cal did?”
Brian glared. “That’s different. You flooded the gym.”
“Flooded? It’s only a few bubbles.”
“They’re not bubbles after they go through the heating vent, dumbass. They’re just soap.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.”
“And you’re such a fuckup. That’s thousands of dollars of damage and no one can even tell what it’s supposed to be. You can’t even plan a simple prank right.”
Markos flinched. I stepped toward him out of instinct—no one was allowed to hurt my best friend—but before I could reach him, Ari ducked in between Markos and his brother. “It wasn’t Markos,” she said. “He’s been with us all night.”
Brian rolled his eyes. “I found him out here, not in with you.”
“He just left, I swear. There’s no way he’d have time to set all this up,” she insisted. “And it doesn’t make sense, Brian—I mean Officer Waters. You guys always did your pranks senior year, right? So why would Markos do one now?”
Brian took a second to absorb this piece of logic, then turned to Markos. “Is this true?” Markos didn’t look any of us in the eye, but he nodded. “What were you doing out here, then?”
Markos cleared his throat and looked up and down the hall. For the briefest second, when he caught my eye, he winked. “Meeting a girl. You probably scared her away. Thanks a lot, by the way.”
Brian made a disgusted noise and turned to Ari. “So you’re going to vouch for him.”
Ari planted her feet and looked at him levelly. “Markos didn’t do it, Officer.”
Brian turned to me. So did Markos and Ari. It was my turn to decide what to do.
But for me and Markos, it’s never really a decision. I always have his back and he has mine. “Ari’s telling the truth.”
Brian stared at us for a moment, then pivoted on his heel and stomped down the hall.
When he was out of sight, Markos grinned. “That was fun.”
Ari punched him in the shoulder. “You idiot. I just lied to a cop.”
“He wanted to believe you. That way I’m not such a failure.” Markos saluted and stood up from leaning on the locker, straightening his suit jacket. “Have a fantastic rest of your evening, lovebirds.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Oh, I never lie to my family.”
From behind us I heard a giggle—Serena Simonsen waved from the doorway of a dark classroom, and Markos waved back. Ari rolled her eyes, and as Markos passed me, he put a hand on my shoulder and leaned in. “She’s all right. You can keep her around,” he muttered into my ear, as if it was his decision (or even mine) whether or not Ari stayed with me.
I grabbed his arm before he could walk away. “She might not agree.” She might not really want me. Average me. Imposter me.
“Are you kidding me? She’s all in. Get your head out of your ass and look at her.”
Ari and I watched Markos and Serena disappear into an empty classroom, then we walked back the way we came. As we walked I did what Markos said and I looked at her. Not the idea of her. Not the Ari who wore toe shoes and floated onstage. Not the one whose parents died when she was little. The girl in front of me. Leaning toward me. Looking right back at me.
As soon as we stepped back into the gym, our arms were around each other. Soapy water still sputtered from the vents in the ceiling. Ari’s dress was so slippery and the floor so slick I had to hold her as tight as I wanted to or I’d lose her and we’d fall. My hands met at the small of her back. She held me just as tight—her hands linked at the back of my neck, twisted in my hair, her cheek pressed close against my collarbone—and I could feel her heart beating through the fabric of my secondhand suit.
Anyone upset by their ruined clothes and hair had long since left, but a fair number of us had stayed. Someone had cut the lights, probably afraid of electrocution, so it was dark in the gym except for the glow of people’s cell phones flashing off the sparkle of dresses. It smelled like a laundromat, and since the DJ had long since given up, we could hear people laughing and splashing and attempting to dance to a small portable speaker someone had plugged into their phone. It was only a matter of time before Brian or some other authority figure came by and kicked us out, so we seized the moment.
Ari relaxed into me. All effort left her. We melted together.
“You saved Markos’s ass,” I said to her.
“Brian’s too harsh on him.”
“I didn’t even think you liked him. Markos, I mean.”
She sighed deeper into my arms. Her hair was wet and flattened, half her makeup had run down her face and was now being rubbed onto me, and her dress had gone shapeless and bedraggled. But she was the most beautiful I’d ever seen her when she raised her head just enough to whisper in my ear.
“Not as much as I like you.”
Her soapy skin so close to mine. Her arms holding me and holding me up. She shook slightly, maybe a shiver. She wasn’t stone and marble; she wasn’t perfect and remote. She was here, in front of me. Choosing me.
“I love you,” I said.
She looked at me, eyes bright. She wasn’t surprised, I noted with relief. “I love you, too.”
We swayed back and forth. Dancing. In the dark and wet, the two of us together.
It’s my favorite memory of Ari out of a thousand memories. It’s the one I keep on hand, the talisman. That was the girl I loved.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Everyone kept telling me how much I loved Win. Aunt Jess, Diana. Even myself: there was the note I found under my pillow. Sometimes I thought I would start feeling it. As if one day I’d wake up and be sad again. As if grief was a virus and my vaccine was only temporary.
The note. At least I’d thought to write the note.
I woke up Friday morning—the first Friday in June, just after school let out—with my wrist pounding, partially the old side effect and partially because I’
d slept with my arm under my pillow, a piece of paper clutched in my hand. I read the note again and again. It had been torn out of a bound journal and had a ragged edge. I recognized the handwriting—mine—and if I focused very hard I could remember writing the words. But it was a strange type of memory, more like watching a movie than recalling something from the inside. I could remember moving my pen across the page, but I couldn’t remember what I was thinking as I was doing it.
You had a boyfriend. Win Tillman. You loved him. For over a year. He died. It’s too hard. If this spell works, you won’t remember him.
Win. Win Tillman. Win, Win, Win . . .
I could not put a face to the name.
I remembered, in that same movie-watching way, going to the hekamist’s house behind the school and paying for a spell from the money I’d found in my closet. I could see myself doing it. I looked so sad. But again, the memory wasn’t something I’d experienced. The only thing that felt true and real was the moment when she’d told me about her daughter, and I’d thought of my mom. That exchange bloomed into three dimensions.
I couldn’t remember anyone named Win. As far as I could recall, I’d never had a boyfriend at all. I’d made out with my pas de deux partner at the Summer Institute last year, but that was perfunctory, nothing serious.
I must’ve been so sad. I remembered wanting to cry and feeling like I might break in two. But I didn’t remember why.
I wasn’t sad anymore. Just confused.
So I called Diana. She answered right away, her voice strangely low and serious. “How are you doing?”
“Um. Fine.”
“You want me to come over?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Funeral’s tomorrow.”
“Oh? Oh yeah. Of course.”
“Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“I . . . uh . . .”
Diana didn’t seem to mind that I couldn’t find any words. “Every day I wake up and I still can’t believe he’s gone. I just . . . I can’t believe it. I mean, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. In fact, let’s not. I’m sorry I brought it up. But I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring it. Because I’m thinking about it. God. I can’t even . . . I can’t believe it.”
I looked at the note and then out the window, flexing my wrist absently. I obviously hadn’t told Diana about the spell. Should I? The note didn’t say. The way my head felt—full of starts and stops, black holes and fuzzy edges—I couldn’t seem to make a decision. Diana and I did everything together, told each other everything. Didn’t we?
Outside, the sun was bright and the grass green. A beautiful day. I had ballet class in half an hour, and I wanted to go. At least in class, I wouldn’t have to talk.
I could tell Diana what I’d done later.
“Neither can I,” I said.
“Kay’s been calling nonstop. Wants to bake you casseroles.”
“Nice of her.”
“Yeah. If I want to come over, she’ll probably have to drive.” Diana’s car had been breaking down a lot, which meant begging a ride from Kay.
“Maybe don’t come over.”
“God, Ari. I don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
“You don’t have to do anything. I mean you can do what you want.”
“I want to go to class,” I said.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You should take it easy for a while. Not push yourself.”
“Ballet is all I really want right now.”
It was Friday. The last time I remembered dancing was over a week ago. I could recall the combination we were working on, the music, every step. I remembered how my body felt. I felt like . . . one muscle. My arm and my ankle and my hip and my eyelid—all one, strung together taut and ready.
Everything would be okay if I could only get to dance.
I said goodbye to Diana and threw on my dance clothes as fast as I could. Something felt strange right away. Nothing I could point my finger at, but an allover oddness. I figured I was sore, but nothing actually hurt, apart from the pain in my wrist.
A feeling unfurled in my stomach. Something worse than nervousness, but maybe not quite panic. Not yet. I held my sore wrist close to my chest as if to protect it.
Aunt Jess seemed startled when I stumbled down the stairs, twisting my hair into a bun.
“You’re going?” she said.
Her eyes were red. I touched the skin around my eyes: puffy, tender. I’d been crying, too.
She wore the same work pants and plaid button-down short-sleeved shirt as always, but for the first time, she looked old to me. She was only fifteen years older than me, but her sadness brought out the lines in her face, and I could swear she had more gray hairs than the last time I’d looked. Someday soon someone at her coffee shop would call her a “tough old broad” and they’d be right.
“I thought we could talk,” she said. “Spend some time together. I took off work.”
“That’s nice of you. Thank you.”
“Of course I’d take off work.” She seemed offended that I thanked her.
It was clear I had not told Jess I was getting the spell, either. She thought I was grieving, still, like her. I had to tell her.
My legs started shaking.
Later.
Dance first. Dance, and then I would come clean.
“I really want to dance,” I said. “It’s . . . all I want to do.”
Jess stared at me, her no-shit-taking stare that usually came with flexed biceps to show off her tattoos, and then she softened, deflated, and nodded. “Come right back afterward.”
“I will.”
I hugged her, and she clutched me tightly. In our miniature family of two, we weren’t much for hugging. But it wasn’t only my lack of experience making me feel awkward. That feeling I’d had in my room—the strangeness, the not-rightness—ran down my arms like goose bumps.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too,” I said, and hurried for the door. “See you soon.”
The worried feeling in my stomach only grew.
The other dancers stared at me when I stepped into the changing room.
“I’msosorryforyourloss,” one of them said, then the rest all mumbled something similar. Then they looked down at their pink shoes and tried not to look me in the eye.
Rowena, a former prima ballerina at the Royal Ballet and my teacher for the past nine years, hugged me when I came in (just as awkward and just as well-meaning as Jess’s), but she didn’t seem surprised to see me. Perhaps going to dance was the right thing to do after all. I belonged here, in this wood-floor practice room, with its three walls of mirrors and one of windows. The ancient piano player noodled gently in the corner as always, and as always the room smelled like sweat and talcum.
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on dance, on getting my body ready to move. But my mind wouldn’t settle. I could think of nothing in particular: my thoughts cast about in a large white room, nothing to land on, nowhere to rest. I tried checking in with my muscles and joints, but could only feel the insistent, pulsing pain in my wrist. Usually I could ignore that—I’d had years of practice—but this time I couldn’t quite block it out.
By the time we started warming up, my breathing had gotten shallow. I didn’t know what it was, yet, but something was wrong.
The piano music. There. That was vivid in my head; the same chords, same melodies, same movements as always. It existed complete in my mind, elegant, precise.
I began to move.
First position. Second. Fourth. To the front. To the right. To the left. To the back.
I kept my eyes closed and concentrated on the steps.
I needed to relax. To get into the steps.
Somewhere around the eighth measure, I felt a pressure on my bad wrist—Rowena’s hand—and I opened my eyes.
“Watch the mirror, please,” Rowena said.
I
nodded, keeping my face stoic, even though that was a request she made when someone was screwing up so badly they’d lost all perspective on their body.
In the mirror, I watched myself go through the warm-up again. It took several measures to sink in, since I was so used to seeing myself the way I usually moved. The smooth mental image needed time to be wiped away and replaced with what I saw: a jumble of elbows, jerky knees, awkward arms, wrists off-kilter. The harder I tried to force my body in line, the worse it got. Actually, as far as my brain could tell, I was doing it beautifully. But somewhere in between my mind and my body, the signals sputtered out and were lost.
When the warm-up ended, I couldn’t move. The other girls scurried around me for the next part of class. I looked at myself in the mirror.
No. That wasn’t me. It couldn’t be. I was out of practice. It would come back. I had to push through.
We cleared the barre and lined up to cross the floor for a simple combination. Rowena made small gestures with her hands and called out what she wanted (“Tombé, pirouette, relevé and extend, pas de bourrée, and balancé, balancé . . .”), and I counted off, waiting for my turn.
As soon as I started across the floor, I knew I was not simply out of practice.
I knew why it had felt odd to get dressed for dance.
I knew that I had done something terrible.
In my head, I could see the steps, could feel the way they would work together. With eyes closed, it felt almost like it always had.
But with my eyes open and a wall of mirrors right in front of me, I could see what my body actually looked like.
Stiff. Jerky. No smoothness, no graceful transitions. Angles all wrong. Arms over-rotating. Legs pigeon-toed. If it hadn’t been so terrifying, it would’ve been funny, like a scene in a movie where a romantic heroine who bluffed that she could dance was being proved grotesquely wrong.
I focused and tried harder. But the me in the mirror looked as out of joint as before. I could not make corrections when I had no way to calibrate them; I could not fix what already felt like perfection.
When I pushed even harder, ignoring the signals my body was giving me and relying purely on the mirror, I managed to hit myself in the face with a hand, and I lost my balance, falling right in the middle of the floor.
The Cost of All Things Page 3