by Dyan Sheldon
“I guess I just grew up,” says Ruben. Which is one way of putting it, but not, perhaps, the most detailed or the most accurate. “That kind of life’s too insecure. For every successful artist you’ve heard of there are another thirty thousand with an attic full of pictures no one wants. I need a real profession. Something that’ll give me a good living and a secure future. Not a career where I might not make any money until I’m dead. And then that’s only if I’m lucky.”
“So what do you have in mind?” asks Mrs Witten.
“I was thinking maybe business or law,” says Ruben. “Or maybe business law.” There is a lot of money to be made representing corporations – they’re the barns full of geese laying giant golden eggs. “I’ve joined the Young Entrepreneurs’ Club and I’m on the debate team to hone my powers of persuasion, and this term I’m doing my community service at the law centre in Peakston.” And he smiles again, so neither of them can tell how much he dislikes it.
“In that case,” says Mrs Witten, “you may still want to consider Harvard.”
Ruben says, “Undergraduate, I may stick closer to home.”
The first bell rings as he leaves the counsellor’s office. The meeting went well. Saying his new direction out loud for the first time makes it right; makes it real. Ruben lopes to his locker, and opens the door. Sorrel Groober is sitting in the space where his coat is meant to go, reading a book on Renaissance art. Which is as much a surprise as the fact that she can fit in his locker. His heart wallops so hard that, if he were able to think, he’d think he was having a stroke.
“You know what I suddenly realized?” She lowers the book and looks over at him. “I actually like knowing stuff. It makes the world so much bigger. And, I don’t know, fascinating and alive. I mean, like this?” She holds up the book. “This is thousands of times more interesting than your average photo shoot. Honestly? Your average photo shoot makes peeling mushrooms seem exciting. People don’t get it, but a model’s just a prop, really. Like the palm tree or the snake or the fake sphinx. Only she’s the prop that everybody yells at.”
Ruben glances over his shoulder. There are a couple of kids at the end of the corridor, talking together as they walk towards him. “Shhh!” he hisses. “Someone’s coming!”
She doesn’t shhh. Surprise, surprise. “It’s all Meryl the Peril’s fault. As per usual,” says Sorrel. “She said I shouldn’t waste my time on books and school and all that crap. I was going to be this famous model and nobody was going to give two false nails what I thought about anything except make-up and clothes. She said it’s better to be beautiful than bright. ‘Look at your father,’ she’d say. ‘Where did being smart ever get him? Teaching at a second-rate community college in the sticks.’ Eat your heart out, Albert Einstein, right?”
Ruben can hear himself breathe. Is that a question she expects him to answer?
“I’m trying to make a point here,” says Sorrel. “I don’t know why you want to do business or law. You’ve never been interested in those things. You’ve always known exactly what you wanted to do. I can see now that that’s a gift. To be so sure. To have something you really care about. And to actually be able to do it. To have nobody telling you that you have to do something else. How can you dump that gift in the garbage like you’re doing?” Apparently she doesn’t expect an answer from him, because this time she doesn’t give him a chance to make one. “Me, I never wanted to be a model. That’s what Meryl wanted to be – only that didn’t work out for her. So she took all her ambition and dumped it on me. Which is kind of what you’re doing. Only you’re taking all your ambition and putting it into something you don’t care about. Why are you doing that, Ruben? What’s got into you? Do you think you’re going to get a second chance to get your life right?”
He can hear voices that don’t belong to Sorrel getting closer, but he’s afraid to look. Instead, he slams shut the door, and leans his head against it. Stupid. Super stupid. There was no one there. She wasn’t all squashed up; she wouldn’t fit in there if she wasn’t all squashed up. He must have left something hanging. A sweater. A bag. Something. As two girls pass him, Ruben straightens up and slowly opens the door again.
He can smell lilacs (not a scent common to his locker), but there is, of course, no one there.
Orlando has a secret life. It may not be as interesting or romantic as the secret life of Clark Kent – mild-mannered reporter in his day job, Superman fighting for truth, justice and the American way whenever needed, which is fairly often – but it requires just as much subterfuge and deceit to keep anyone from finding out about it. Possibly more. Orlando assumes that among Superman’s special powers are nerves of steel, because he, as an ordinary teenager, finds it exhausting to try and keep his stories straight. Which is why stress and tension are such close companions of his. And it hasn’t got easier to keep this up the longer he’s done it, but harder. He could teach your average spider a thing or two about weaving webs. At least he can eliminate undercover agent as a possible career choice. He wouldn’t last a month.
Last week Orlando ran into one of his father’s cop friends in Peakston, and his heart didn’t just stop, it screeched to a halt and fell flat on its face. Orlando wasn’t meant to be in Peakston. Not that Sergeant Lujd could possibly know that, but it wasn’t the sergeant Orlando was worried about. Worst-case scenario: Orlando turns a corner and walks straight into his father. Less-worst-case scenario, but still bad enough: Sergeant Lujd inadvertently says something to Officer Gwinnet about seeing his boy the other afternoon way over in Peakston. Officer Gwinnet would be suspicious immediately, no matter how casual the remark. Who were you seeing? What were you doing? What’s going on? Why were you there? Sergeant Lujd, for his part, seemed pretty happy to run into Orlando. Sergeant Lujd is looking forward to the coming basketball season, as is the rest of the force. Sergeant Lujd didn’t say so, of course, but Orlando knows the officers bet amongst themselves. Sergeant Lujd told him (as he always tells him) how proud Orlando’s father is of him – all of them are. Sergeant Lujd has three daughters, which, apparently, limits his chances of pride. “What are you doing so far from home?” asked Sergeant Lujd. Through the ice-sculpture smile that had formed on his face Orlando said he was doing an errand for his mother. Fortunately, the sergeant didn’t ask him what that errand was; Orlando can’t come up with more than one spontaneous excuse at a time.
Needless to say, there was no errand for his mother. When basketball isn’t on Orlando goes twice a week to a ballet class. He used to go once a week. His teacher was always trying to persuade him to increase his lessons, but it wasn’t until the end of last year – after Sorrel dumped him – that Mrs Andonis succeeded in getting him to agree. He needed a new distraction. She lets him use one of the practice rooms without charge whenever he can fit it in. Basketball will be on soon, so he’s making the most of this time, sneaking off to the studio whenever he can. His father thinks that he and Ruben hang out a lot, like they used to; still go on long hikes and camping trips. And that Orlando spends a lot of time playing friendlies with teammates and boys from nearby schools, getting in that extra practice Bernard Gwinnet values so much. God forbid he ever finds out the truth.
Orlando has been dancing since he was four, when his mother took him with her to pick up a friend’s daughter from her class one rainy afternoon. He can’t remember the friend’s daughter or her name, but he remembers standing in the doorway with Suzanne, watching the twirling little girls, all of whom, in his memory, were dressed in silver, their hair tied up with ribbons of blue or green. They reminded him of dragonflies; light and graceful dragonflies. And he remembers thinking, That’s what I want to do. (Not be a dragonfly or wear silver and coloured ribbons, but dance.)
By then his father was already complaining that Orlando was nothing like his brother Raylan – no manual dexterity, no coordination, no interest in any sport, not even as a spectator. “What’s wrong with that boy?” his father would shout at his wife. “You mollycoddle him
. You spoil him too much.” Which was not something Bernard was likely to do. But, despite his father’s best efforts – which included running Orlando around the block, making him do push-ups in the yard and forcing him to join teams where he was always left on the bench – Orlando never improved. Athletic as a potato, according to his father. “Throws like a girl and runs like a girl,” declared Officer Gwinnet. Whereas Raylan ran like a boy as soon as he could walk, threw like a pro as soon as he could grip a rattle and was playing baseball at three and on a Mighty Mites football team by the time he was six. Raylan, the future sports legend, was still alive then, of course. And so Officer Gwinnet, not really paying much attention to his youngest son, allowed Orlando to attend Luanne’s School of Dance, thinking that the lessons might build his muscles and improve his motor skills. Which they did.
Everything changed when Raylan died. Suzanne turned to Jesus for comfort; Bernard turned to Orlando. Orlando was seven. Suddenly, from being largely ignored by his father unless he was being criticized, he became the centre of his father’s world, although not as he might have wanted. Now he was his father’s last and only hope. Orlando wasn’t a replacement for his brother – his father never tires of telling him how inferior he is to Raylan in every way – but his stand-in. Second best, he’ll have to do. In his fixation on Raylan and his football career, Officer Gwinnet had forgotten all about the dance lessons, but now they were cancelled. “Time to get serious,” he told Orlando. “Time to be a man.” Meaning, time to be a basketball player (too slight for football, but tall). Orlando never thought about arguing or resisting, it’s not the way things are done in the Gwinnet household. They might sneak around or crawl under, but they never confront head-on. It’s not worth it. And so he fell in with Officer Gwinnet’s plans for him. High-school basketball, then college basketball, then professional basketball. If that fails, he’ll study IT or engineering, just as Raylan would have done. The fact that Orlando has no interest in basketball, IT or engineering is immaterial to his father. At least Raylan did love football.
Orlando, however, does have two parents. No one would ever describe Suzanne Gwinnet as feisty or confrontational, and fewer would mistake her for a feminist. She believes that since her husband pays the bills he gets to call the shots, and she defers to him in most things, which is just as well as her husband is a man who insists on getting his way – no matter how. But she has learned to live around him as much as she can – to use his preoccupation with himself and indifference to everything else to her advantage.
Understanding how much her surviving son loves dance, Suzanne eventually found another class for him, this one in Peakston, and enrolled Orlando under a different name so that, with any luck, there is no way this insubordination could ever get back to her husband.
And so Orlando’s double life began. An aspiring Michael Jordan most of the time, a Carlos Acosta wannabe when no one (especially Officer Gwinnet) is looking. Not even Ruben knows about the ballet. It’s not a secret if you tell anyone.
On this Thursday, Orlando parks nearly a mile away and slouches to the studio, sweatshirt hood up and head down, keeping close to buildings and taking the most circuitous route he can. Just in case he runs into someone he knows – it happened before, it can happen again. You only have to be shot once to be shy of guns.
Today, however, everyone he passes is a stranger. Nonetheless, when Orlando finally reaches his destination he feels as relieved as a soldier who’s just made it through a minefield. Safe at last.
It seems he took an even more convoluted route than he thought, because when he opens the door to the Andonis Dance Studio he discovers that, for the first time since he started here, he’s late. The other students are already warming up.
“There you are, Bryan!” calls Mrs Andonis. Mrs Andonis is owner and principal teacher of the studio. Bryan is the name Orlando’s known by here; Bryan Grainger. Bethany Grainger is a friend of his mother; it is she who signs the cheques that pay his fees. “We were afraid you weren’t coming.” Of course she was. There used to be two boys in this class, but one moved.
“Sorry, Mrs Andonis,” says Orlando. “I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”
He opens the door of the small room (or large closet) in which he and Mrs Andonis’ assistant, Rios, change. And once again his heart slams on the brakes and falls over. If there was one advantage to seeing Sergeant Lujd last week, it is that it put seeing Sorrel dancing around his kitchen and giving his father the finger right out of his mind.
Which is where she has stayed. Until now. For here she is, sitting on the step stool in the corner, reading a book about the pioneering choreographer Katherine Dunham. As if Sorrel ever read books; as if she would ever have heard of Katherine Dunham. Sorrel’s wearing black leggings and a black leotard, and has her hair scraped back in a tight bun. Her feet are bare, and so dirty she may have been walking the streets without shoes. As if Sorrel would ever be seen in public with dirty feet.
Orlando stands still for several seconds, gawping. He can’t believe he managed to forget about her. Can’t believe he convinced himself that she wouldn’t be back. What a jerk. Here he was terrified about bumping into the sergeant again. If only. That’s like worrying about a dripping tap when you’re about to be hit by a tornado. At least Sergeant Lujd is alive, which has its own problems, of course, but not as many as Sorrel being dead has if you really think about it. It might occur to Orlando that he has just learned an important lesson – that people often focus on the wrong things in life – but it doesn’t. All he can think of at the moment is how much he wishes she’d go away.
Sorrel, however, has no intention of going anywhere.
“God, what took you so long?” She shuts the book with a snap. “What’d you do? Walk here? You must know everybody was waiting for you. Like you’re the guest of honour or something.” She gives him a conspiratorial wink. “I bet they all have crushes on you. All those girls? Even the teacher. Mrs Andonis – that’s her name, yeah? The woman with the thin lips? She kept checking her phone and looking at the door, getting wound up tighter than a screw lid you’d need the Terminator to open. Where is he? Why isn’t he here? She kind of reminded me of my mom. Which is not really something a person would want.”
Mrs Andonis has never reminded Orlando of Meryl Groober, not even for a split second. He likes Mrs Andonis. Which can’t be said about his feelings towards Sorrel’s mother, but that doesn’t stop him feeling compelled to defend her. “Okay, I get that your mom’s a little controlling, but she—”
“A little controlling?” interrupts Sorrel. “You mean, like your dad’s a little controlling?”
Orlando can’t even think about his father – never mind name him out loud – just in case that makes him appear. He opens his mouth and shuts it again.
“Not that I think Mrs A is really like the Groober,” Sorrel babbles on. “It was just that she was so worked up. You know, like the day was ruined because you weren’t on schedule. I’m sure she’s way nicer than Meryl the Peril.” Sorrel laughs. Very briefly. “She’d pretty much have to be, wouldn’t she? Still, you can’t really tell by looking at someone, can you? I mean, if you think of all the horrible things that happen in the world, who does them? You don’t see someone on the street and right away think, Wow, I bet he beats his wife… Or, I bet she locks her kids in the closet… Let’s face it, most people are not half as good or cool or even sane as they act, are they? I mean, how many people would you really trust? If your life totally depended on them, who do you think you could count on?”
Is this what death does, makes you cynical? Critical? Suspicious? In his memory, Sorrel was always pretty sweet and easy-going. She could be sarcastic, but she wasn’t mean. Even when she dumped him she was nice about it. There wasn’t any fight, or big scene or recriminations. And they were still friends; nothing changed in any major way. Things, however, have changed now. He starts to say that there are quite a few people he trusts – at least two of them with his life
– but she cuts him off. She used to let him speak.
“But she is real disciplined, your teacher, isn’t she?” says Sorrel. “Dancers have to be super disciplined. Kind of like models, I guess. But more so. I mean, they do more than wear clothes, walk and turn, don’t they? But if you’re really ambitious… You know, ambitious so nothing else matters – not love or a gorgeous sunset or hearing a song that makes you smile – not even the thing that you’re ambitious about. If you don’t get any real joy from it, but you just want to win, then you lose perspective. And that can make you ruthless. Like your dad – he’s ruthless, isn’t he? Like my mom. She wanted to be a big-deal model, and your dad wanted to be a big-deal athlete.”
Another of the great disappointments in his father’s life, though he’s not sure how Sorrel knows that. “You don’t always get what you want,” mutters Orlando, thinking of himself.
“But your dad sure is trying,” says Sorrel. “He’s making you one instead. You know, because your brother’s dead. If your brother were still alive your dad probably wouldn’t even notice you’re there. Anyway, he’s like my mom. Everything has to be the way they say. It’s all about them. What if they had real power? Like if they ran a country or something? They’d be tyrants. Guaranteed. Do you think maybe they’re related? People like that? Do you think there’s a gene that makes them crazy mean? Hitler. That Kim Jong guy. My mom and your dad.”