He was quiet for a minute. What was he thinking? What was he feeling?
“I’m sorry, Natalie,” he said finally. “I guess I took advantage of you.”
He exhaled heavily: he was smoking.
“But I wasn’t calling just to apologize.”
I knew it.
“You weren’t?”
My heart was pounding. I wanted to hear in words what I’d seen in his eyes that afternoon. A confession of feeling.
“No.” He paused and inhaled again. “I—I’d like to see you again.”
That wasn’t nearly enough. “I’m in Vancouver.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and I’m going out clubbing tonight.”
“With who?”
I told Kevin what Monique had said: When I’m finished with you, you won’t even need fake ID.
He snorted. “Watch out for older guys. They’re only after one thing.”
I sputtered. “You’re an older guy, Kevin. What does that say about you?”
“There’s an exception to every rule, Natalie.”
“And you’re it.”
“That’s right.”
“Whatever.”
When I hung up the phone, I was shaking.
Sunday, August 22nd
Last night I wore a backless halter top with Monique’s leather pants and swept my hair into a French twist. Three-inch heels and dramatic makeup. Two of Monique’s friends joined us: Nadia and Min. Nineteen-year-old Nadia and I look a little bit alike, and she lent me her driver’s license. It passed inspection, and they let me in. Nadia joined us half an hour later, using her passport for ID.
It was dark, loud, and crowded. I needed a drink just to blunt my senses. The waitress didn’t ask for ID. She just delivered what I ordered. I couldn’t get over the freedom, the power. The others said I looked nineteen or twenty and fit in just fine. I could afford only two drinks and downed them one after another. Two coolers on a fairly empty stomach made me tipsy.
Black wavy hair, rippled arms, and a long body grabbed my attention—Kevin! The guy must have felt my eyes on his back. He turned around and caught me staring. Then grinned. Not Kevin at all, but cute. I grinned back and he approached and asked me to dance. I flung myself into the movement, at ease. The music changed and we stayed for a slow dance. He held me close, and the heat of his body aroused me. When the song ended, he led me to a velvety-cushioned seat. Across the bar, the trio of Monique, Nadia, and Min sipped their drinks and watched me over their straws. It felt good to know they were looking out for me. Hip hop music blasted and people grooved, like an MTV video, but live.
The guy, named Michael, bought me another vodka cooler. He talked about his car and the work he was doing on it. I really didn’t care what he had to say—I was just hoping he would touch me again. Pretty soon he did. When I didn’t respond to a question, he nudged me and then let his hand drape my thigh. I was hoping he would work his hand up my leg. But the waitress arrived with my drink and he lifted his hand off. He stretched his arm over the back of the seat and brushed his fingertips against my shoulder. I snuggled against him and turned up my face. He didn’t have much choice but kiss me. It was soft and slow, the opposite of Kevin’s.
He broke away. “I have to ask you how old you are.”
I blurted, “Fifteen.” I don’t know why, except I was sick of secrets and lies.
He jumped back on the seat and retracted his arm. “Are you serious?”
“No, just kidding!”
But it was too late.
“I thought you were nineteen or twenty. What are you even doing in here? You could get yourself into a lot of trouble.”
“What are you, the minor patrol?”
“My sister is eighteen and I wouldn’t even want her in here. For God’s sake, I’m twenty-four.”
It was my turn to be surprised. “I thought you were nineteen or twenty. Anyway, I can take care of myself.”
“That’s not what it felt like to me. Man, I feel like I should turn you in.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I took a swig of the cooler.
He eyed the bottle and shook his head. “I bought liquor for a minor.”
“That’s right, you’re an accessory, you can’t turn me in.”
He sighed. “You’re right. I’ll have to share it with you.” He took the bottle from me and sipped. “Blech. How do you drink that sweet crap?”
“Easy.” I snatched the bottle.
Michael turned his head away to think, then swiveled it back. “Okay.” He slapped my thigh in a friendly way. “Here’s the deal. I won’t turn you in, but I’m going to keep my eye on you for the rest of the night.”
“No more kissing?”
“Go dance with your friends, child.”
I stuck out my tongue at him. I didn’t appreciate being called a child. But he did watch out for me for the rest of the night. If any other guys started to move in on me, he would step in and join me, kind of like a bodyguard. We danced a few more times and chatted a bunch. I said things like, “You’re sure you don’t want another kiss?” just to tease him. It was so fun just to flirt. At the end of the night he said, “It was a pleasure to meet you. Do come back—in four years!”
I’m glad it turned out the way it did. Michael’s reaction to my age has made me wonder, again, why Kevin would want to date someone so much younger. And my reaction to alcohol makes me think I should hold off in the future. I didn’t get as drunk as the other girls, though, so I’m feeling pretty good today.
Night
When Monique stumbled out of her bedroom/closet at 10 a.m., she said—or croaked, actually—“I need some water!” Her French accent thickens in the morning. Once she had filled up a couple of water bottles, she said, “Best thing for a hangover is to sweat it out.” We bought muffins and yogurt at the grocery store across the street, then bussed to Stanley Park and circled the sea wall on foot, a three-hour walk. Thickly-leaved trees bordered the path. Jagged, blue mountains loomed on the north shore. Crisp salt air rolled off the ocean and we breathed it in deep. Waves sloshed and slapped the wall. Every so often, a beach opened up and we would rest on a log for awhile. Nothing better than walking and talking. I learned a lot about Monique. For now, she waitresses to supplement her dance career, but she’s going to train as a massage therapist: the human body fascinates her.
Tonight, we made Indian food—chicken curry and basmati rice with mango chutney—and drank mint tea. It’s only nine. The sky hasn’t yet faded to black, but sleep is dropping down, bringing sweet salt-air and blue wave dreams …
Monday, August 23rd
I doubted myself during rehearsal again today. The others have all learned the piece, so I’ve lost the advantage I had last week. Lance and Petra have to reassure me constantly; otherwise, I feel myself shrinking.
After rehearsal, Petra took me aside and said it looked like I was holding back. She wanted me to dance bigger. I admitted that I was afraid of making mistakes and embarrassing myself in front of the professionals. “I thought so,” she said. “You’re starting to be ‘careful.’ If you’re going to make a mistake, make it big!”
I couldn’t imagine doing that. I stood there feeling miserable. When Petra hired me, she didn’t realize how much propping up I was going to need.
“Remember when you couldn’t look at me after the Dance-Is show?” She hugged me sideways, with one arm. “You thought I was going to be so mad at you for changing the counts.”
I remembered that night all too clearly. “That’s exactly the sort of screw-up I’m worried about.”
“Natalie, don’t you remember what I told you that night?”
I shook my head.
“You got it right. You danced from your emotional core, and that’s what the audience
saw. That’s what’s most important. I don’t mean you should throw technique or choreography out the window, but what matters most is staying true to the mood of the piece.”
It was becoming clear that Petra really meant what she was saying. This wasn’t just about trying to make me feel better for messing up the counts.
“Why don’t you come watch my tech rehearsal? It might be a good distraction for you.”
In the empty theater, Petra performed a solo created by another choreographer for the same festival. At the beginning, she crouched and huddled, balled up like a seed pod in a dim cellar. Light stabbed like someone was opening a door, and a beam of bright sunshine flooded a narrow strip of stage. Petra started to unfurl towards the light, then the door slammed shut and she crumpled again. She repeated this sequence several times.
Finally, the door cracked open and the light stayed. Petra’s arms unfolded and she grew to a standing position. She explored the narrow corridor of light as the music intensified into sustained, orchestral chords. Once she had established the boundaries of the space, Petra began to dance bigger, with jumps and turns, running from one end of the beam to the next, but always contained within the light, never stepping outside it. The music was fading and the door began to close. She twisted and turned in panic as she realized she was running out of lit space. I leaned forward, terrified that she would end up in the cellar again, wanting something to happen, some breakthrough.
Before the door could close on her, Petra escaped the beam of light. She began to zigzag in and out of it, making it a part of her pattern. She controlled the space. The door halted. Then it slowly widened, back to the previous width. Petra played a game. She circled the perimeter of the triangle of light, staying just outside it. The crack widened to include her. She did this twice more, each time pushing the light to expand. Then it became random. She danced anywhere on the stage, and the light swelled and shrank, no longer a cage for her but a playmate. At one point, the stage was flooded with light—a bright, shadowless noon time. At another it was pitch dark, then lit from the wings. I wondered how the piece would end. I hoped Petra wouldn’t be returned to the box—and I got my wish. The last light effect made the stage look like a sun-dappled forest, and Petra ran and skipped in figure eights and circles, forwards and backwards, until finally she ran off the stage.
During the tech rehearsal, she had to break down the piece step by step so the lighting designer and the choreographer could make the cues. It would have been boring, but Petra took the opportunity to plumb each phrase for its deepest quality. Movements that would happen in a split second during the actual dance, she dwelled in sometimes for minutes. I was startled by how naked and vulnerable the gestures could be. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and hug her; I wanted to join hands and skip with her; I wanted to fight my way into the technicians’ booth and learn how to shine the light she longed for and deserved.
By the time it was over, I’d been on a journey. Petra pulled me out of myself, and at the same time, I related to her. Now I see what bothered me about Ms. Kelly’s choreography. It was purely physical. Her jazz moves isolated sexual energy, so the girls dancing weren’t fully human, just eye candy. Petra’s solo made me feel.
Tuesday, August 24th
The other night I asked Mom if she was going to bring Marine to Vancouver to see the show. Her breath sort of caught in her throat. “I’m sure she would love to come, but she doesn’t like to impose on our family time.”
I could hear how much it meant to her. “I don’t mind. I like Marine. It would be nice if you brought her.” It made my heart swell to say that.
“Thank you, Natalie. That’s very generous. I’ll invite her and let you know.”
Tonight she confirmed that Marine is coming with her.
Too bad Paige won’t be here. She will only miss the show by a couple of days.
Wednesday, August 25th
Lance seems to have a fountain inside. It fills him up with self-acceptance and spills over to his students. I soak up his instruction the way a plant absorbs water, and it makes me more expansive and daring.
The only problem is that, by the next day, the inspiration leaks away and leaves me empty and wilted again. I could never teach. I can’t even buoy myself up, let alone someone else.
Thursday, August 26th
DAD JUST CALLED!
That has to be the first unscheduled Dad-initiated phone call in YEARS. Okay, it was obviously Mom-initiated, since how else did he get Monique’s phone number? (I’ve dropped a few hints about cell phones making it easier to get hold of people, especially nomadic performers like me, but so far no dice. Not surprising, since Mom loathes technology. On the other hand, Dad lives and breathes it—can’t he get Paige and me on some family plan? Or would that depend on living in the same province? Oh, no. I was in a good mood. Here I go again …)
Dad put Vi and Paige on the phone, and everyone wished me good luck and said they would have loved to see the show. Bittersweet. Why can’t Dad live out here, anyway? Plenty of other kids’ parents have stayed close by after a divorce. They make a commitment not to move until the kids are eighteen. That’s what becoming a parent is: a commitment. Dad never seemed to grasp that fact. It interfered with his bliss. (Gag.) At least he showed some responsibility and got a vasectomy. Otherwise, he probably would have done the same thing all over again with Vi, who doesn’t have kids. I wonder if she’s disappointed. She met Dad at thirty-five, just when her biological alarm clock should have been going off. I have a feeling he didn’t tell her about the vasectomy until after she had fallen for him. I don’t think it shows too much, the scars I mean, or, actually, I don’t know about that. I’ve never asked—eww!
Thankfully, Monique just came home and distracted me. She made me sniff her clothes: “Do I smell like fish grease?” She went out for a drink with a guy after work and worried about her odor the whole time. “I hate working in a restaurant. My hair stinks as well.”
“When you’re a massage therapist, you will only smell of essential oils.”
“Mais oui.” She lit patchouli incense and headed for the shower, calling out that we should go to the Blue Zone for a cast party on Saturday night.
I hope we just go out for food instead. I can’t face the whole lying-about-my-age thing again right away.
Friday, August 27th
Over the past two weeks, I’ve gathered from dressing room conversations that Beth is out of work, Katrina is breaking up with her boyfriend, and Halle’s father is dying of prostate cancer. Monique, of course, is working full-time and trying to save money for massage school. But everyone puts their stresses aside when they enter the studio, and magic happens. Fatigue melts away when we start to move.
After our final run-through today, Petra pulled me aside and said she was delighted with my work. She said I’m showing an emotional maturity that is surprising in someone my age, and that she can’t tell anymore that I’m younger than the other dancers in the piece.
I owe it all to her and Lance. Not sure what will happen on Saturday without class or rehearsal before the show.
Saturday, August 28th
Wow. Can’t believe they all showed up!
To start at the beginning: arriving backstage alone was nerve-wracking. The dancers from the other choreographers’ pieces huddled in clusters and either ignored me, or looked me up and down like I was in the wrong place. A woman whose silver makeup made her look like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz was hairspraying her bangs. With one eye shut and a hand shielding her open eye, she said, “Who’re you looking for?”
“Petra Moss?” I couldn’t keep the question mark out of my voice.
“Other dressing room.” Spritz. Spritz.
I coughed. “Thank you.”
Next door, I found Petra, Monique, and the others. “There you are!” Petra said. She hugged me. “
Do you need any help getting ready?”
She pinned me into my costume and touched up my hair. The close quarters made it hard to warm up, but I followed the others in Pilates exercises on the floor.
We were third up in the first half. When our five-minute call came, we held hands in a circle. We breathed together to center ourselves, then entered the wings one by one and picked our way among shin-high light fixtures and electrical cords. Crew members dressed in black were standing by to handle props and set changes. We slid into place behind heavy velvet curtains. I glimpsed the audience. Although it was dark, light reflected off people’s faces, especially their glasses. Adrenaline surged through my body and my muscles twitched. Too late, Beth pulled me back, and I remembered the simple rule: If you can see them, they can see you. I was acting like a kid again.
As the lights came up, we sensed each other to know the timing. Eye contact and synchronized breath joined us into a larger organism. We gave weight and received it; we lifted each other. As the music sped up and grew louder, dissonant notes made us jump higher, push harder, and split from each other. As we spoked in our own directions, I felt the thrill of near-collision. These women commanded the space, and it took all I had to match their power.
I made it into the wings, where I had a few bars to catch my breath. As my lungs heaved, it hit me: I am performing professionally. I nearly missed my cue and Katrina pushed me between the shoulder blades. She and I were supposed to cross together, as rivals, and it took me a couple of counts to catch up.
I pressed on for the rest of the piece, but it felt more like a dress rehearsal. The music, the lighting, the stage, and the movement didn’t really coalesce anymore. At least it rang true when I stumbled, confused and alone, across the stage. I was surrounded by darkness, stripped of support, forced to rely on myself. Anyone who did cross my path was likely an enemy who couldn’t be trusted. Safety came only from solitude. But solitude brought pain. I filled that solo with so much emotion that I almost lost control.
Afterwards, Petra ran backstage right away. She handed each of us a long-stemmed red rose and kissed us on the cheek. “You were wonderful. So fully invested in the movement.” Her kindness made me all the more determined to do a better job the next night.
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