by Cate Holahan
“Don’t go.”
“You have to teach and I have a choreography meeting for the fall show.”
His arms wrapped around her waist. He rose to his knees. “I know. You’re right,” he whispered. “When will I see you again?”
She scanned for her clothing. The leotard lay in a tangled heap beside the couch.
“Tonight? Can I come tonight?”
She laughed. “Haven’t had enough?”
He swept her hair to the side. His nose pressed against the base of her neck. Warm breath tickled the baby hairs at the nape.
“Can’t get enough.”
“I can’t come here at night. The students will see me.”
“I’ll come to you. I’ll be discreet.”
She tossed her hair as she finished dressing, knowing he watched her. “Everyone is in their dorms, asleep by ten.”
“Then I’ll see you at ten.”
18
Épaulement [ay-pohl-mahn]
Shouldering. A term used to indicate a movement of the torso from the waist upward, bringing one shoulder forward and the other back with the head turned or inclined over the forward shoulder.
Nia swallowed the protein bar and rose from the couch to grab another. Dinner would consist of whatever she found in the cardboard boxes stacked beside the kitchen sink, plus the grapefruit on the counter. She’d planned on eating the fruit for breakfast tomorrow, but the choreography meeting had run long, and she hadn’t wanted to grab dinner and risk missing Marta.
She grabbed a knife from the drawer beside the sink and stabbed the center of the grapefruit. She forced the blade down to the counter, splitting the fruit open. The two parts fell away, exposing the bright pink inside. She grabbed a spoon drying in the plastic dish rack beside the sink and wedged it into the flesh.
A knock sounded. She shoved the spoon into her mouth as she crossed to answer the door.
Marta entered the room like a thief diving into an alley. She clearly didn’t want anyone to see her visiting. Talking to the RA was certain to provide grist for the Wallace rumor mill.
“Thanks for coming.” Nia gestured to the couch.
Marta sat on the cushion like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office. The girl tucked her knees to her chest. She pulled her extralarge sweatshirt over them, like a blanket.
“Want some grapefruit?”
Nia needed to put Marta at ease. Sharing food did that. But part of her hoped that Marta didn’t take the offer. She needed the acidity to break up the sugars from the protein bars. Alone, the soy sitting in her stomach would become a lead weight.
“I never really liked grapefruit. But I guess it keeps you thin.”
Marta was ten pounds lighter than when they’d first met three days ago. Disappearing water explained some of the postpregnancy weight loss, but probably not all of it.
“I don’t have much else. Would you like water?”
“No, thank you.”
Nia left her grapefruit and settled on the end of the couch. Her stomach rumbled, the churning acids kicked into high gear by the long-awaited presence of food. She longed for vegetables, steamed, over brown rice. Better yet, cucumber salmon rolls. Why didn’t the boondocks ever have sushi restaurants?
Marta chewed on her thumbnail. Nia didn’t remember that habit from their first meeting. Evidence of hunger? Frayed nerves?
“So you wanted to talk?” Marta examined the bleached, peeling skin beneath her nail instead of making eye contact.
“Yes. I wanted to know if Theo Spanos was the student you saw when you were in Claremont on Saturday.”
Marta gnawed on the end of a finger. She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, how did you know that the person at the bus stop was from school?”
“Um, I guess I didn’t, really. I just thought that I kind of recognized him.”
“Who did you think you recognized?”
Marta pulled the sweatshirt lower, folding more of her body inside, turning herself into a ball. “I don’t know. He just looked like someone who would go here.”
“Do you remember hair color or anything about his clothing?”
Nia waited for a response. A digital clock hummed somewhere in the room. Air hissed from floor vents. The girl continued to peel the skin from her finger with her teeth.
Nia placed a hand on Marta’s shoulder. “If you saw Theo, you have to say something. You don’t want one of your classmates to go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”
Marta tucked her hands beneath her armpits, shrugging off Nia’s hand and creating a shield of arms across her chest. “Even if I might have seen Theo, it doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Lauren. I mean, you and Director Battle found her body Monday, right before classes started. Theo had all Sunday to do it.”
“You should still come forward. The police think Lauren was killed Saturday evening, and they don’t believe that Theo was off campus then. It’s a big reason why they arrested him.”
A shriveled thumb sneaked back toward Marta’s mouth. “The police will want to know what I was doing in Claremont. They’ll know I had an abortion.” Tears muddied Marta’s dark eyes. “They’ll tell my parents.”
“I don’t think they would need to tell your parents.”
“What if I’m asked to testify to Theo’s whereabouts? I’ll have to get up on the stand and say I saw him in Claremont. Then the attorney will ask why I was there. I’ll have to talk about aborting my baby in front of my parents, my classmates, maybe the whole world. The case will probably be televised by, like, CNN. My grandparents will see it in Armenia.”
Marta buried her head in her knees, reverting from teenager to toddler.
“I know it would be difficult. But if you saw something that could prove one of your friends is innocent—”
“Theo’s not my friend.” The sweatshirt muffled her voice. “I’m sure he barely knows I exist.”
“Well, he’s still your classmate.”
Marta raised her head. Her brows pulled down into a deep V. “And he might still be a murderer. I don’t know that he didn’t do it. I just saw him Saturday after I got out. It was already five. Maybe he strangled Lauren super quick that afternoon.”
Marta had seen him. That meant, in all likelihood, Theo was innocent.
Nia had traveled to Wallace by first taking the train from Manhattan to Claremont and then grabbing a bus to the school. If she remembered correctly, it had taken her ninety minutes to get to campus from Claremont. Round trip to the town would take three hours. Assuming Theo had waited at the bus stop for someone for an hour or so—or maybe even seen this girl—he would have spent nearly the whole evening off campus.
“The police can pinpoint time of death with forensics. If they have the time that you saw Theo, they can compare that to the window when they think Lauren died. That could exonerate him.”
“And ruin me.” Marta’s brows retreated into a straight line. Tears again clouded her eyes. “My parents will never speak to me again. My grandparents will never speak to me again. I will be a baby killer. Nothing else will matter.”
“Your parents love you.”
The girl rubbed her forehead with her chewed fingers. “They won’t if they find out.”
“I know it must be scary. But you can’t let an innocent person spend their life in jail.”
Marta’s legs burst from her sweatshirt cocoon. She stood from the couch and stepped toward the exit. “Theo’s dad is a rich lawyer. He won’t let him go to jail. I’m sure they’ll subpoena bus stop tapes or traffic cameras, something to show he was there.”
“But what—”
Marta grabbed the doorknob. “I can’t destroy my life to save his.”
“Marta, wait.”
“I’m sorry. No.”
The door clicked closed.
Conflicting emotions roiled Nia’s insides. She didn’t want to hurt her student, but she had to go to the police. Theo must have told the detectives where he’d g
one on Saturday. The officers wouldn’t have arrested him if they’d been able to confirm his alibi with a bus driver or a closed-circuit camera. He needed Marta’s testimony.
She would give Marta the night to think about what she had said and then talk to her tomorrow. Perhaps she could convince her to come forward without revealing her motivations for heading to the clinic. Marta could admit to some lesser offense, like wanting to obtain birth control. The clinic couldn’t be forced to divulge the procedure.
Nia glanced at the time. The clock almost read nine o’clock. Peter would arrive in another hour.
*
Someone knocked just as she exited the bathroom. Nia held her breath, waiting for another sound. Maybe Marta had already decided to come forward. She tied the towel over her breasts. The knock sounded again—a short, quiet rap. Almost timid.
Peter stood in the hallway. He wore jeans and a T-shirt that made him resemble a Gap model. A bottle of red wine dangled from his fingers.
Nia felt a flush of embarrassment. She didn’t have wine glasses or food or even a bed big enough for two people.
“Come on in.” She shut the door behind him. “Welcome to my very humble abode.”
Peter winked. “I think I know your decorator.”
He placed the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter. “Did they give you the standard issue water glasses?”
Nia followed him into the kitchen area. She opened a cabinet and withdrew two of four skinny, ribbed glasses. “Most of my stuff is at my mother’s house. I took the train here, so I packed light.”
“No worries.” He pulled a steel utility knife from the front pocket of his jeans and flipped a corkscrew from the back. “I came prepared.”
“You did. How did you even get in? I thought your ID didn’t work in this building.”
“Some girls are smoking in the courtyard. One of them let me in after making me promise not to report her.”
“You promised?”
He twisted the screw into the bottle. “I told her lung cancer is a shitty way to die, like a proper authority figure. Then she said she was sure science would clone new lungs by the time she had to worry about it, like a proper spoiled Wallace student. Then I said she was probably right.”
He yanked the cork out of the wine. A triumphant grin spread across his face as he filled both glasses. The vessels made the wine resemble grape juice.
He handed her a glass. His fingers fell onto her towel.
“Have a thing for terry cloth?” she asked.
The smile turned devilish. “I like to take it off.”
19
Changement De Pieds [shahnzh-MAHN duh pyay]
Change of feet. Springing steps in the fifth position in which the dancer changes feet in the air and alights in the fifth position with the opposite foot in the front.
Nia’s phone buzzed across the kitchen counter like a fly. The sound woke her from the light sleep she’d eventually eked out on the couch. She buried her head beneath the thin throw blanket, hoping the noise would stop.
Peter didn’t know how to sleep in a small bed. He lay on his back in the center of her twin mattress, one arm flung across it, the other jammed against the wall. He had started on his side, hip bones pressed against Nia’s pelvis, arms draped over her back, but the position had led to another athletic round of intercourse that left them both too sweaty for close quarters. Afterward, he’d rolled onto his back and fallen into a dead sleep, apparently unaware that his broad body left her a four-inch-wide rectangle of mattress.
The phone continued vibrating against the counter. She must have forgotten to turn off her alarm. Ballerinas shared God’s work ethic—they rested just one day a week. Since Ms. V was Jewish, Nia’s Sabbath was Saturday. Having class Sunday also worked better since some kids went home Friday night and returned Sunday.
Nia stumbled over to the counter to silence the buzz. Her temples throbbed from a mild hangover. Her muscles felt tight. She wanted to crack her toes.
A text from Dimitri blared on the home screen:
Just took the exit for Wallace. GPS says I should be there in ten. Where should I park?
Brunch. She’d forgotten.
The room smelled like stale sex. She couldn’t meet Dimitri like this.
Peter’s pupils moved beneath his thin lids, a sign of REM sleep. Air rumbled through his nose.
She tiptoed to her bathroom, shutting the door behind her before turning on the shower. She avoided wetting her hair in the stream. Not enough time for the blow dryer. Barely time for soap. And zero time to explain to Peter about brunch with her ex. She would let him sleep and text him that she’d had a meeting. They could meet up later.
She applied light makeup: lip gloss, a little blush, a neutral eye shadow. She wanted to look good without seeming like she’d made an effort. Getting dolled up for the guy who’d dumped you was desperate, and she wasn’t desperate. She’d met a very nice guy. A great guy, in fact.
Still, she wanted Dimitri to want her. She just didn’t know if that desire stemmed from unresolved feelings or a demand for revenge.
She slipped from the bathroom like a cat burglar and made her way toward the closet. It creaked as she opened it. Peter stirred in the bed, a slumbering Goliath on David’s pillow. She pulled a blue sundress from a hanger. The dress was summery, not fancy. Not trying too hard. She slipped it over her head and shoved her feet into her ballet flats.
Dimitri would need to leave the car in lot A, beside the football field. She texted parking instructions as she crossed the room to the exit. The girls’ quad was a short walk away. She would see him in five minutes.
“That’s not a leotard.”
The bed springs groaned as Peter rose from the mattress. His eyes were still swollen from sleep. “So,” he yawned. “Showered, nice dress. I was thinking faculty dining hall, but I take it you want to go out for breakfast.”
He lumbered over to her. Lips landed on her cheek. Nia stood paralyzed.
He stretched his arms as he walked into the bathroom. The door shut. The toilet flushed. The sink faucet blasted.
She called through the door. “Actually, I have—”
“What? I can’t hear you over the water. Just a minute.”
Her phone buzzed again.
Parked. Walking to girls’ quad. What building are you in?
Nia felt panicked. What if he somehow made it into her building and knocked on the door before Peter left? Meeting Dimitri with another guy would seem deliberately mean, as though she’d orchestrated Peter’s departure to get back at him.
She texted,
I’ll come out. Boys aren’t allowed in the building.
Peter rubbed his face and hair with the hand towel as he reentered the living room. Blond strands flopped across his forehead. Stubble dotted his jawline. “There’s this little country kitchen–type place in town. It’s on the first floor of a bed and breakfast. Great apple muffins.”
The back of her neck grew hot. “I’m sorry. I have plans. I’d told a friend that I would have brunch with . . .” she trailed off. No need to add a gender identifier. “It was before we had Friday plans.”
“Oh. Should we all go together? Just let me get on some clothes.”
Peter flung back the covers, revealing his wrinkled jeans and boxers from the prior night. He shook them out and then slipped them on. He peered behind the bed, hunting for his shirt.
“Actually, ‘friend’ might not have been the right word. A professional contact.” She feigned nonchalance, as if she wasn’t struggling to find gender-neutral pronouns. “Just someone I used to dance with who works at the New York City Ballet. I need to keep up my connections. There’s a lot of crossover between NYCB and some of the companies that I hope to audition for this winter.”
Peter continued searching for his shirt.
“Anyway, we were just going to talk shop. Ballet gossip. You know, who is dancing where, which choreographers are being groomed, kind of inside-baseball. It’s r
eally more of a professional meeting than friends catching up.”
She was talking too much, but she couldn’t stop. Words vomited from her nervous gut. She wasn’t practiced in lying.
“I should probably go. I said we’d meet on the quad at ten.”
“Okay.” Peter smiled. It looked forced. “Would you like to grab dinner later?”
Nia couldn’t imagine Dimitri staying until dinner, but she didn’t want to risk it. What if they decided to eat in Claremont? She might not make it back in time. She didn’t want to tell Dimitri that she needed to return for a dinner date.
“I don’t know. Can we play it by ear?”
He found his shirt on the side of the bed and slipped it over his head. “Yeah, sure.”
Nia’s phone buzzed again. She glanced at the text:
Here.
Peter grabbed her waist. He pecked her lips. “Talk to you later.”
“Yeah.”
He opened the door and then turned back toward her. Another kiss landed on her mouth. More passionate than the first.
For a moment, she forgot about Dimitri.
The door closed behind him. The phone buzzed.
*
Nia descended the steps into the girls’ courtyard. It was a fall morning. Goosebumps broke out on her shoulders and upper arms as she stepped into the shady quadrangle.
Peter was still walking across the courtyard. She watched him pass the magnolia trees. A door slammed. A couple girls hustled down the steps of a neighboring building. They waved to Peter as they turned in the direction of the dining hall. He was a popular teacher. He must be good at it.
“Nia.”
Dimitri’s voice. She searched for the source. He sat on a metal bench pressed against the side of her building, beside the stairs. The wind jostled his wavy dark hair and loose button-down shirt. Tan forearms, slender yet muscular, peeked from beneath three-quarter sleeves. The memory of her body in those arms—the way they had cradled her, thrown her, supported her—sent a shudder down Nia’s back.
She walked down the remaining steps. Dimitri ran over and threw his arms around her waist. Her feet left the ground as he spun her around. “I’ve missed you.”