The Boy and Girl Who Broke the World

by Amy Reed

  We don’t talk much on the way to the show. Larry’s driving extra slow because even with the wipers on full blast, it’s nearly impossible to see through the window. There are puddles in some places several inches deep that spray huge waves when we drive through them. The whole world looks like it’s melting, with occasional bursts of white light followed by the deep rumbling of thunder. It’s like the sky is at war with itself—half crying, half furious with anger.

  “This is exactly what the weather was like in the battle in Book Three of Unicorns vs. Dragons,” Larry says.

  “Oh yeah?” I say. “Who won?”

  “That’s the thing, Bill. Luckily before too many died, they realized they were fighting the wrong enemy, that they’d both been getting played by their real enemy for generations.”

  “So they became friends?”

  “They became allies, yes. They were too different to ever really like each other. But you don’t have to like someone to be their ally.”

  “So who was their real enemy?”

  “You have to read Book Four to find out.”

  “Are you kidding me? You just gave away Book Three.”

  Larry laughs. I have no idea why Lydia acts like she doesn’t like him. Larry is awesome. “Humans, Bill,” he says. “It’s always humans. They ruin everything.”

  The lobby of the theater is a crowded mess of wet hair, dripping raincoats, and gnarled umbrellas. Half of Fog Harbor County seems to be here, dressed up like they’re going to either church or a funeral.

  “Were we supposed to buy Lydia flowers?” I say. “Everyone else has flowers.”

  “Oh,” Larry says, looking around. There’s a world of people who know things like you’re supposed to buy people flowers when they’re in shows. Larry and I are not part of that world.

  “Do you think she’s going to be mad at us?” Larry says.

  “She’d be mad at us if we brought flowers too,” I say.

  “Good point.”

  We take our programs from the white-haired woman at the entrance to the theater and find seats in the middle. My eyes glaze over as I read what seem like a million different levels of ballet, tap, modern, and something called contemporary/lyrical/jazz. Lydia said after the intermission is when all the advanced classes perform and the real show starts. I honestly don’t know if I’m going to make it that far.

  “I think your grandma’s coming around,” Larry says as we wait for the show to start. “She actually answers the phone when I call now.”

  “You guys talk on the phone?” I say.

  “A little.”

  I’m not sure how I feel about this. I wonder how Grandma is even capable of holding a conversation with someone like Larry.

  I look around at all the people in the audience, all the parents holding programs in one hand and phones in the other, getting ready to take pictures. A few fancy video cameras are set up around the auditorium with cool-looking guys behind them. Lydia said they hire professional videographers that come all the way from Seattle.

  Most of these parents probably go to things like this all the time, stuff like plays and soccer games and spelling bees and beauty pageants, and whatever else kids do that parents are proud of. I wonder if they can tell Larry and I don’t belong here. Or maybe they assume I’m his son and we’re here to see my sister dance.

  I look at Larry, and he’s holding his program so tight he’s crushing it, staring at the stage like this is the most exciting thing he’s ever done.

  I wonder if Lydia even realizes how much he loves her. If she doesn’t want Larry as her dad, I’ll take him.

  LYDIA

  WHEN I WENT TO CHECK on caleb this morning, he was gone. A note and eight hundred dollars in cash sat on top of the neatly folded pile of blankets and pillows.

  As promised, I am leaving today. Money is the cheapest form of gratitude, but it is all I have. I’m not sure I deserved your hospitality, but I am determined to earn it, at least retroactively. Thank you for being so good to my nephew. He is the person I love most in this world, and if I am shitty at showing it, I am comforted knowing he has you. I hope to one day be worthy of his admiration. Thank you for everything.

  Caleb

  PS: Tell your dad his ATM is out of cash.

  I try not to think about it as I warm up. As much as I hate to admit it, maybe Mary was a little bit right about needing to leave everything behind when I dance. But I know it will still be there waiting for me when the show is over.

  Everything’s running late because of the rain and a new mudslide on the highway south of town, and Mary is frantic. We were supposed to have more time to go through final blocking, but the teachers couldn’t hold the doors closed anymore to keep the dance moms out, so all the dancers getting ready in the aisles had to run onto the stage before the stampede of people trying to get good seats burst in. Now we’re all huddled behind the curtain, listening to the growing crowd on the other side and the torrential rain pounding on the roof. It feels like we’re in a cave. Underground, but surrounded.

  “Doors are open, people!” Mary bellows as she runs across the stage. “Everyone, finish warming up and do makeup touch-ups!”

  I am lying on my back, one leg flat on the floor, while Natalie pushes the other toward my nose in splits. “Harder,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” she says.

  “Yes.” I grimace.

  “Eight minutes!” Mary screams as she rushes across the stage in the other direction. “Teachers, get all dancers backstage.”

  Natalie looks down at me, her face haloed by the stage light overhead. I lift my hand and place it on hers where it is wrapped around my foot. She releases the pressure, takes my hand, and helps me off the ground. We stand there, eyes locked, holding hands for one brief moment, until Mary screams, “Everyone, backstage NOW!” Then we fly together behind the curtain, feet barely brushing the stage floor, just as thunder shakes the whole building and the houselights flicker.

  As the show starts with the little girls’ routines, Natalie and I continue stretching with the other dancers backstage in the greenroom, but we stay silent as they titter and gossip. As soon as I start feeling nervous, I look at her, and her eyes are always ready to meet mine.

  “Just breathe,” she whispers. And I do, but it is hard with her sitting so close to me, for entirely different reasons than this show being the event that will potentially set the course for the rest of my life.

  I know Billy is out there, and Larry, too. Natalie’s parents. Assholes from school. Random people I’ve served at Taco Hell. People from Carthage and Rome and all over Fog Harbor County. All these people I’ve spent my life trying to avoid, and in just a few minutes I’ll be onstage in front of all of them.

  Is this what I’ve always wanted? To have their undivided attention so they have no choice but to look at me, to see me as someone besides the sad little girl with the dead mom, as someone besides the poor loner with the chip on her shoulder? Is this my chance to finally show people who I am?

  But is this who I am? Am I this thing I do? Am I my obsession and hard work? Am I my sweat and sore muscles and shin splints and calluses and blood blisters? Am I my talent? If I am the best dancer on the stage, the best dancer in Fog Harbor, the best dancer in the world, will it make the people out there love me?

  Billy loves me. Larry loves me. But it is not because of this.

  I look at Natalie again. She just keeps getting more beautiful. I still haven’t figured out why she likes having me around.

  Then Mary runs into the room and screams, “Have all the advanced dancers peed?!” and we collapse into giggles. Maybe Mary isn’t so bad after all.

  “Well, here I go,” I say, standing up. Advanced ballet is the first act after intermission.

  “Lydia, come on!” Mary shouts. The rest of the class is already filing out of the greenroom.

  “Break a leg,” Natalie says, her eyes smiling all kinds of things words could never say, and I run to the wings.
<
br />   The advanced ballet routine is nothing special. It feels weird that my first time onstage in nearly a decade is for something I’m not particularly proud of. I dance as well as I can, then tear my skirt off as soon as I leave the stage. If I’m lucky, I’ll never have to perform classical ballet ever again.

  Advanced tap is next, with a patriotic number involving a lot of American flags as props. The preprofessional ballet class follows with the first of their ensemble pieces, a melodramatic Wagner opera. Thunder booms outside like cannons along with the music, like the dancers are graceful little soldiers in the middle of a war zone. The King would love this patriotic garbage.

  Luckily, Luz’s advanced contemporary/lyrical/jazz ensemble keeps things real. I finally start to feel comfortable, even if the pop song we’re dancing to is a little cheesy. The houselights are dark, so I can’t see any faces, but I can feel their stares, their attention, and it fills me like fuel.

  The preprofessional modern routine is when I finally arrive. My feet are bare, and all I’m wearing is a tiny black top and shorts that feel like an extension of my skin. I leap and spin across the stage with the other dancers to the wild, bass-heavy music. When we’re done, the applause is louder than any thunder. I have never had this many people see me, really see me. Even if I’m in an ensemble. Even if part of what I’m doing is trying not to shine too much, trying to match the other dancers. Maybe there’s something not horrible about being part of something bigger than myself. Maybe it feels okay to not fight it all the time.

  I just wish I could watch Natalie’s ballet solo. I’ve seen her dance it numerous times at the studio and in her home, but I’ve never seen her onstage, lit up, in full makeup and costume. I want to be in the audience with those hundreds of mesmerized people as they fall in love with her.

  But how many of them will ever be close enough to see the way beads of sweat collect in the hollow above Natalie’s collarbone, will ever get to wrap their fingers around her waist, will ever get to cradle her in a backbend, will ever get to eat junk food with her after four hours of practice?

  Natalie only has a couple minutes to get ready for our duet while Simone the tap star does her solo. I don’t look as she quickly changes out of her ballet costume, but I feel the heat of her body a few feet behind me. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck are electrified.

  “Lydia and Natalie!” Mary screams in her muted backstage voice. “To your places!” Natalie comes up behind me and squeezes my hand for one brief second, and then we run to our opposite sides of the stage for the grand finale. We stand alone in the perfectly silent pitch-black moment before the music for our last, and best, dance starts.

  I feel my deep breaths press against my ribs, and I know Natalie is feeling the exact same thing on the other side of the stage. The floor is solid under our strong, bare feet. The music starts with one otherworldly pluck of a distorted string instrument. Two sharp intakes of breath. Two pointed toes. Two lifted chins. And then two bodies in spotlight, moving toward each other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

  We have danced this choreography more times than we can count, but never exposed like this, never with so many eyes witnessing our chemistry as we pull and push each other away, as we touch and break apart, as we bend and twist, as our limbs get lost and merge into one another, as we become a single body. We become the music. The rest of our senses fall away.

  I am only vaguely aware of the increasing thunder, the flickering lights. We twirl across the stage in tandem, fire and ice swirling together. We have no idea what we look like from the audience. Do they know we are conjuring our own weather, that the lights are throbbing with our movements, that we are whipping the shadows around us, that the theater itself is expanding and contracting like the lungs straining inside our ribs?

  I flip Natalie in a roll across my back, and then we pop up and I spring into her arms. We lower to the floor in controlled splits, our faces tucked into each other’s necks, breathing each other’s heat, then wrapping into a single fetal ball until we are a naked heart beating onstage.

  BILLY

  THE AUDIENCE EXPLODES WITH APPLAUSE when the lights come back on and Lydia and Natalie get up to bow. They are holding hands, chests rising and falling together, beaming at each other, as if the hundreds of people giving them a standing ovation aren’t even here.

  All of a sudden I get it. Natalie was never meant to replace me. She is something else entirely.

  My heart swells as I watch them gracefully walk offstage together. I am vaguely aware of Larry’s quiet sobs next to me. Upbeat, triumphant music starts playing as pink toddlers run onstage, bumping into each other as they attempt to stand in a straight line and bow in tandem. Then the little blue dancers. Then slightly bigger ones in black leotards and white tights. Then they all scatter to the back of the stage while the big girls prance to the front.

  Thunder punctuates the music with rhythmic booms. The lights continue to flicker. Phones start lighting up around the audience with emergency alerts. Larry pulls out his phone and joins the growing murmurs of “Oh shit.” I am suddenly aware that my feet are cold and wet and I look down to find them immersed in two inches of water.

  “Oh shit,” I say too, then the thunder booms and the lights flare before going out completely. For a moment everything is quiet in the darkness. Then the coast guard emergency siren sounds in the distance, someone screams, and all hell breaks loose.

  We are trapped in a dark cavern of screams and shouting. People push each other in the aisles and climb over each other to get to the doors. The black is punctuated with the eerie, bouncing, disembodied glows of cell phone flashlights.

  “Over here!” Larry says, and pulls me to an emergency exit door near our seats that no one else seemed to notice. I am blinded by white light when he opens the door, and for a moment I think the world has disappeared and we are about to walk out into a cloud of glowing nothing.

  It’s a miracle no one gets trampled to death on their way out of the theater. People spill out into the street, five hundred plus people dressed in their Sunday best and several dozen dancers still in leotards and tights, all in various states of distress, many splashing as they run to their cars, some standing comatose as they stare at their phones. Parents try to comfort frightened, crying children. Others nurse those beaten and bruised while trying to escape the theater. A few just stand in the rain looking up at the sky like they’ve never seen rain before. Water pours down from above and splashes from every other direction. The emergency siren wails in the distance.

  Larry pulls me through the crowd, and I only catch half of what he’s saying over the sounds of the siren and the rain and everyone else’s voices. Something about the King dropping a nuclear bomb on an island in the Pacific. Something about how the real flooding hasn’t even begun. Something about World War III. Something about how this is about to get way more intense than weather. He keeps repeating one word over and over again: tsunami.

  Larry climbs on top of a car and starts yelling. “Everyone, go to higher ground!” he shouts, but no one’s listening. “Get your heads out of your goddamned asses and get out of here!”

  A pack of dogs runs by. A couple of goats. Then a stampede of deer, a gang of raccoons, flocks of pigeons and seagulls. Rats as far as the eye can see, all heading toward the hills. They don’t need news alerts to know when the sea is coming to swallow them up.

  “Lydia!” Larry yells. He starts waving his arms wildly. I see Lydia weaving her way through the mob toward us, still in her tiny dance costume. She elbows a guy in the gut who’s standing in her way trying to video the whole thing, then wraps her arms around me and squeezes so tight I cough. “You came!” she says.

  “Of course I did,” I say. “But I didn’t bring any flowers.”

  Everything is soaked. Our skin is waterlogged, turning puffy. The emergency siren continues to sound. The animals continue to run. The humans continue to splash and bump into each other while Larry continues yelling on
top of the car, waving his arms in the air, but no one ever listens to the guy who says the sky is falling.

  “Where’s Natalie?” I say.

  “She went home with her family. I told her I had my own family to find.”

  I don’t have time to get emotional. I’ll save that for later. If there is a later.

  “Larry, come on!” Lydia yells, and pulls on his pant leg. “Dad, we have to go!” She climbs onto the car and wraps him in a hug, and for a split second it does not feel like the end of the world at all.

  But then we get back to the business of surviving. Fighting our way out of the crowd is like trying to swim upstream.

  “Hey, wait!” a familiar voice yells, just as we break out of the main horde of people, just as a coyote rushes by in front of us.

  “Who’s that creepy guy in the sunglasses?” Larry says.

  “Hey!” someone yells. “That’s Caleb Sloat!”

  “Larry,” Lydia says, “where’s the van? We have to get out of here.”

  “Are those my sunglasses?” Larry says.

  Caleb pulls the sunglasses off his face and hands them to Larry as he says, “We have to save Ma.”

  Everything’s going so fast, I don’t have time to think about how incredibly weird this all is. Luckily, Larry’s van is nearby, so we’re able to get a head start on all the people chasing Caleb. The van door almost chops a woman’s arm off as she grabs for Caleb’s leg, but she tears off his shoe and flies backward just in time.

  “Was that my shoe?” Larry says as he starts the car.

  “Sorry, man,” Caleb says. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

  As we make our way to my house through the river that’s replaced the road, I see more animals running for the hills, and among them are confused people in drenched Unicorns vs. Dragons costumes, elaborate makeup melting down their faces.

  “That was one of the stops on the tour,” Larry says sadly. “That corner is where Prince Drogon and Moonracer first kissed.”