The Boy and Girl Who Broke the World

by Amy Reed

  “Intermediate ballet?” I say. “Is that with, like, middle schoolers?”

  “Would you rather not dance here at all?”

  “No, ma’am,” I practically shout. “Intermediate is great.”

  “And I don’t know what you might have heard, but this is a No Eating Disorders Tolerance school, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Belinda can give you a printout of some sample meal plans and recipes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. We’ll see how you do. If you seem to pick everything up in the first few weeks, we may decide to move you to advanced ballet. But don’t count on it. You’ve been dancing feral for, what, eight years?”

  “When’s the next class?” I say. “Can I start today?”

  Mary’s thin lips twist. “I don’t think so, dear. It’s the preprofessional pointe workshop.”

  My body actually recoils at the word “pointe.” Fucking fancy-shoe ballerinas. No thank you.

  “You can get your schedule from Belinda. And the dress code for each class so you’ll know what to buy.”

  “Dress code?”

  Mary looks me up and down. If she were forty years younger, she could fit right in at Fog Harbor High. “You didn’t think you could come to classes in that?” she says with a smirk.

  I’m too happy to want to tell Mary to go fuck herself.

  The little girl is bouncing up and down in the mirror with a big smile on her face, showing all the excitement I’m trying not to, and somehow this pains me more than her sadness. Even after I was so mean to her, even after I pushed her away, she’s still here, still happy for me, still loyal.

  The dressing room is packed now, pink nylon and pink skin everywhere. It’s all spider legs and arms and shoulder blades and jutting hip bones, girls chattering like hens at the mirror as they do their hair. A couple of girls are bent over a bench pounding new pointe shoes with a hammer. Another girl looks beastly as she gnaws on a chunk of beef jerky. Everyone thinks ballerinas are so pretty and graceful, but really, they’re animals.

  I grab my stuff and try to get out as quickly as I can, but as I turn around, I run straight into Natalie Morris, Miss Prima Ballerina herself.

  “Watch it,” Natalie says.

  “You watch it,” I say.

  A bunch of girls stop what they’re doing, like they just noticed I’m here, and there seems to be a consensus around the room that I do not belong among them.

  I lift my chin even higher than those long-necked princesses and walk out of the dressing room, the little girl trailing behind me. I am going to prove them all so wrong.

  The only problem with going to dance school is having to deal with other dancers.

  BILLY

  THIS IS WHAT’S ON THE shopping list Caleb gave me late last night:

  BigMart:

  Glue gun w/ lots of extra glue

  Staple gun w/ lots of extra staples

  Large sewing needles

  Thread, many colors

  Fishing line

  Button variety packs, many colors

  Extra-strength laxatives

  Thrift Town:

  Every single doll and stuffed animal they have

  More blankets and pillows

  I spend the whole afternoon shopping, but my thoughts keep returning to Lydia. As I select a pack of fluorescent-colored buttons, I think she must be getting off the bus at exactly this moment. As I stand in the BigMart checkout line, I think she must be getting ready to dance.

  I could tell she was excited all day today but she was trying to hide it. I don’t know why she acts so cool all the time, like she doesn’t care about stuff. Who’s she trying to impress? Certainly not me. I’m so easily impressed, it’s kind of embarrassing. And anyway, who decided not caring about stuff was impressive?

  Lydia has no idea I lied to her about the audition. She’s going to get there and dance for that Mary lady, and Mary’s going to see she’s as good as I told her she was, and they’re going to sign her up for all the classes she wants, and Lydia will have no idea it’s me paying for the whole thing. Mary promised she’d keep my secret, and I guess I don’t really know if I can trust her, but what choice do I have?

  I thought about just telling Lydia I wanted to pay for her classes, but that idea didn’t last long. I know she’d never let me. She’s weird like that. I’m guessing it has something to do with pride, which is not something I know a whole lot about. Why would you say no to something you really want just because someone’s trying to give it to you?

  I know the whole situation is a little dishonest, and probably technically a lie, but I think sometimes being sneaky is okay if it’s for a good cause. Sometimes people don’t need to know when they’re being helped, because sometimes people won’t let you help them.

  The checkout lady at Thrift Town doesn’t bat an eye when I show up with my cart full of the store’s entire doll selection. She’s used to me doing Grandma’s weird shopping. She even lets me borrow a shopping cart to haul everything home, which I know for a fact is against the rules because she calls the cops whenever homeless guys try to “borrow” carts. As I head out the door, I think Lydia must be done with her audition by now. I wish I had a cell phone so I could call her.

  I thought if I hurried, I could make it home before the fog came, but I was wrong. I exit Thrift Town and walk straight into thick white soup with zero visibility. It’s half a mile of this as I make my slow way home, running off the curb several times. Cars pass by, but I only see their fuzzy, disembodied trails of light. Pedestrians pop up out of nowhere. One second, all I see is white, and the next, there’s a face right in front of mine, yelling at me to “Watch it!” It’s like trying to play a video game with the screen turned off. At one point, I have a head-on collision with the cart of a homeless man coming from the opposite direction. I never even saw him coming.

  And then I’m alone again, just me and the white, and I hear the sound of hooves and feel a swift cold wind that makes my lungs sting. The sky darkens and something big and black passes overhead, and then a sound like thunder, but from way closer than the clouds. Then everything is still and quiet, and I can feel my teeth chattering, and the smell of rot is overwhelming. It’s impossible to tell how much is real, how much is my imagination, and how much is the effect of my sleep problems slowly disintegrating the already fragile state of my mental health.

  When I get home and carry everything upstairs, Caleb says, “Just leave it by the door.” He doesn’t even bother opening the hatch of his blanket fort to look at me.

  “What are you going to do with all this stuff?” I ask from the doorway.

  “Just leave it,” Caleb says again.

  “Is it for an art project?”

  “Leave it,” Caleb says for the third time.

  I stand there for a moment, wondering if I should tell him about the black car I keep seeing, even though he told me not to tell him anything about the world outside. But wouldn’t he want to know if he’s in danger? Which one would make him madder at me—telling him or not telling him?

  How can I keep talking so I get to stay up here longer?

  “Are you constipated? Is that why you needed the—”

  “Jesus, Billy. Just get out of here and leave me the fuck alone!”

  So I leave Caleb alone and go back downstairs. The whole house shakes with each step I take, and the lights blink on and off. A weird sound comes from the walls, like a bunch of people are in there throwing themselves into things. It sounds violent.

  I use the house phone to call Lydia to see how the audition went, but she doesn’t answer. What if the whole thing backfires and she’s humiliated and hates me? Or what if she’s thrilled beyond belief because she did great and got in? Either way, why doesn’t she want to share it with me?

  I sit on the couch and search for something to watch. I turn to the AA channel to say hi to Lynn A., and then I keep clicking; I’m not really in the mood for a meeting right now. I know the
y’re just going to talk about how important honesty is, and that’s not really helpful when I’m trying to keep a bunch of secrets.

  All those years sitting here with Grandma, all I ever wanted was a chance to hold the remote and decide what we watched, but now that I have that power, I spend the next two hours just clicking through the channels. Nothing I land on feels right. Without Grandma here making all the TV decisions, I don’t even know what I want.

  I spent so much of the past several years wishing I could see Caleb. For a few of those last weeks, I made my wish even smaller—all I wanted was for Caleb to be alive, even if it meant I never got to see him again. No one ever taught me how to pray, but I did it anyway. I got on my knees and everything. I asked God or whoever to protect my uncle and keep him safe. And my wish actually came true, and I got more than I even dreamed of—Caleb is now living under the same roof as me for the first time in ten years. I should be happy. I should be grateful. I have more to be grateful for than I’ve ever had in my life.

  The lights flicker as I take a deep breath in. I hold my breath and remind myself to be grateful. It could be so much worse. The house groans as I breathe out, twisting and settling in a big cloud of dust that makes me cough.

  Honestly, I feel more alone and confused than ever. The problem with wishes is once they come true, you have to figure out something else to wish for.

  LYDIA

  “WATCH YOUR TURNOUT, LYDIA,” MARY says. I am positioned between two twelve-year-olds at the barre. The little girl is in the mirror, running around like she’s purposely trying to distract me, and I’m trying to concentrate on my dancing at the same time I’m fighting the impulse to start screaming at her, and this is really the last place in the world I need to have an outburst. Sometimes I’m pretty good at ignoring her, like she’s nothing more than an annoying mosquito bite, but sometimes, like right now, when I’m already a ball of nerves, it hits me how incredibly twisted it is that ignoring a ghost seems to have become a normal part of my life, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to keep this up before I just can’t hold it together anymore.

  I can dance circles around all these kids, but they’re not the ones under the microscope. Of course, Miss Prima Ballerina herself is here assisting Mary. Natalie Morris walks up and down the rows correcting each student, wearing some extra-long leg warmers that go up to her thigh gap and a flimsy pink ballet sweater that probably cost a hundred dollars and provides exactly zero warmth. I had to spend nearly all the money I’ve saved up to buy the pink leotard, tights, skirt, and new slippers required for ballet, and the black tights and leotard for modern, and black shoes for jazz—that’s over two hundred dollars right there, gone in an instant. Not to mention this whole meal plan I’m supposed to be on. Organic fruits and vegetables and free-range meat? Yeah, right. I don’t think they even sell that at BigMart. This scholarship is turning out to be pretty damn expensive, not to mention the fact that I’m losing two work shifts a week to make all the classes. I don’t even know how I’m going to afford tampons this month.

  Larry’s so clueless, he doesn’t even notice anything’s different. He never saw any of the money I made when I was working more shifts, and I’m gone now pretty much the same amount as I was before. But even if things changed drastically, he probably wouldn’t notice then, either.

  Natalie is getting closer. I square my shoulders and tuck my pelvis as I do a goddamned perfect grand plié in second position. “Don’t touch me,” I snap as Natalie hovers next to me.

  Natalie looks hurt. “I was just going to say your arms look nice.”

  “Whatever.”

  I’m pretty sure I killed it on the barre warm-up. The choreography for the floor is easy, though I’m a little slow with some of the words. I have to watch the other girls to see what they’re doing, but it’s not too hard to catch on. So what if I can’t perfectly translate the moves from French? It’s doing the moves that counts.

  I make up for that weakness with my dancing. I know my arabesques must be higher than everyone else’s. I add embellishments wherever I can—a battu in the jetés, an extra turn in the pirouettes. Because when people expect you to fail, for whatever reason—because you’re an outsider, because of your lack of training, because your hair’s weird and your skin’s brown, because you’re here on a scholarship and they know you can’t afford any of the pink shit you’re wearing—you have to be ten times better than the best kid in the class.

  “Turnout, Lydia,” Mary says again.

  “Fuck,” I mutter in the middle of a tour jeté. The prepubescent girl next to me gasps and stumbles on her landing, nearly knocking over a whole line of tiny blond creatures. I am a monster towering above them. The little girl laughs at me from the mirror. What is she even doing here? Why does she pick the most annoying times to show up?

  I catch my breath and wait by the wall as the old lady playing piano in the corner starts the song again for the next group. As I pant, I remind myself I really need to work on my endurance. Maybe I should start jogging.

  “Relax,” Natalie whispers, gliding up noiselessly beside me. “This isn’t a contest. You’re doing great.”

  I think she’s trying to be nice, but it feels like a judgment. She is telling me to calm down. She is telling me I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling. Natalie doesn’t understand. This is a contest. Maybe she doesn’t have to work so hard because she’s the teacher’s pet and her rich parents pay for everything and she’s been a part of this world since she could walk. But I have to earn this. I have to prove I deserve to be here.

  I get ready to dance again, but Mary says time’s up, so everyone gets in lines and the old lady plays something ridiculously flowery while we do our bows, and then all the dancers run to the changing room and I’m left in the middle of the studio, alone, the little girl grinning across from me in the mirror. Natalie smiles at me as I leave, and it’s not a bitchy ballet-princess smile at all. For a moment, I’m disarmed by surprise and a warm feeling spreading through my guts, and for some strange reason I don’t completely understand, I smile back.

  “Point taken, Miss Lemon,” Mary says without looking up from the cell phone she’s poking at. “You can move to advanced next week. And I recommend you study up on ballet terms in the meantime. Flash cards can be helpful.”

  BILLY

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING AFTER school?” I ask Lydia at lunch.

  “It’s Tuesday,” she says. “You know I have dance class.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. I guess I knew that. Even though it’s been a few weeks since Lydia started taking dance classes, I still ask every day.

  She looks at me funny. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” she says.

  “It’s okay.” I try to smile. I’m happy for her. I am.

  “Are you sleeping okay?” she says. “No offense, but you kind of look like shit.”

  “I think there are raccoons or something in my walls. They kept me up all night.”

  “You should call an exterminator.”

  “Yeah.” Or maybe an exorcist.

  “What’d you do after school yesterday?”

  “First, I stopped by Mrs. Ambrose’s class, but she just started talking about some new life coach she met online who’s teaching her about how her body’s made out of light so she needs to do everything at a higher vibration, and how for only five hundred dollars she got her own unique personalized mantra.”

  Lydia laughs, her mouth full of french fries. “You should introduce her to Larry.” She takes a bite of her second hamburger. “And then what’d you do?”

  “Oh, you know. Hung out with Caleb.”

  She grimaces. She does not approve of our relationship.

  “He was in a surprisingly good mood, actually,” I say, which is partly true, meaning he wasn’t being mean to me, though he was sort of in the middle of a panic attack because he accidentally signed into his e-mail account and was reminded that outside the attic there’s still a whole world of pe
ople who want something from him. But then he smoked some pot and felt a little better and he let me sit next to him while he watched a movie that was all in French and I couldn’t read the subtitles fast enough.

  “Are you sad about all the Unicorns vs. Dragons signs?” I say. This morning’s big news is that someone vandalized all of Carthage’s prized Unicorns vs. Dragons–themed street signs, but only the ones featuring dragons.

  Lydia laughs. “I could not give any less of a shit,” she says. “But Larry was practically catatonic.”

  “How’s dance class?” I ask. Is this small talk? This feels like it might be bordering on small talk. Or is this just how normal people talk? Is a normal conversation just calmly asking questions back and forth?

  “Good,” she says. “Really good.” She smiles, her face so relaxed and happy, and for a second I feel the air knocked out of me. I wish I were a part of that smile.

  Just then, everyone on one side of the morning prayer circle table stands up from their seats in unison and shouts, “Who’s in the house?” Then everyone on the other side of the table stands up and says, “J.C.’s in the house!” Then they all cheer and clap for themselves at the successful completion of their cafeteria Christian flash mob, then Grayson Landsverk shouts, “Fuck you!” Then they sit down and pray over their burgers and fries, and all I can think is who in their right mind would thank God for any of this? And then I think, that’s the exact opposite of gratitude and not how I should be thinking if I want to be happy, and then I wonder if I even want to be happy.

  Lydia just keeps eating with a smile on her face, not even bothering to say something snarky. I should feel happy that she’s happy. But mostly I just feel alone.