by Lynne Jaymes
“Hey miss Jen-na!” Stewart calls from a bench by one of the doors. He always says my name like it’s at least two words and I can’t help but smile. We went to high school together—and middle school and elementary school if you want to get technical—and whenever we hang out it’s a little like being home again.
“Hey Stew.” I walk up and he gives me a giant hug and a kiss on the cheek as if we haven’t seen each other in years, instead of yesterday in class. Right now, it feels pretty nice.
Stewart is tall and gorgeous, with thick dark hair and an athlete’s body from so many years on the football field. For years Gram tried to get us together, always dropping hints around Valentine’s Day and just about had a heart attack when he asked me to Homecoming senior year. She says she can’t understand why we couldn’t work it out and in a lot of ways she’s right–Stewart would be the perfect boyfriend. If it wasn’t for the gay. Being openly gay at Garvin State is rough. Being openly gay in Grand Junction is impossible.
“Why so glum?” he asks, making a sad face.
“Nothing.”
“A boy?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“I can tell,” he says, putting one arm around me. “Which is all the more reason why we need to. I think this study session needs a pizza and a pitcher of beer,” he says, opening the door for me. “Philosophy is always so much more meaningful with a buzz on.”
I lean against him as we walk in the building. This isn’t the first time he’s been the one to help me through a bad date or a bad relationship. I wouldn’t have survived the Jake experience without him. “Men suck.”
An evil grin crosses Stewart’s face as we head for the stairs. “Oh Sweetie. Only the good ones do.
Chapter Seven (Ty)
I’m standing in line at the coffee kiosk when one of the few black guys on campus walks by. I wasn’t totally kidding before—half the football team is black, but other than that, an insane percentage of this school is lily-white, something that’s taken a long time to get used to. I see the guys together in twos and threes sometimes, but I usually avoid them for the same reason I was avoiding Nina. Reflexively, I nod at him, but he looks right through me and I realize with a jolt that he only sees me as another of the thousands of white guys that populate campus. There’s no hint of recognition, no quick handshake like at home. It’s what I’ve been trying to do since I got here. So why do I feel like total shit as he keeps walking toward the quad?
I’m putting a lid on my coffee when I see Jenna heading toward the Student Union. She’s wearing black leggings and a short black skirt that bounces as she walks and I figure she’s probably coming from the studio. I sit on the low wall next to the kiosk to watch her. Her arms are bare and I can see the definition in her muscles and that brings me instantly back to that night, how she looked with her head back and hips thrust forward, the way her body arched and shivered the moment she came. I squeeze my eyes shut to get the image out of my head. Replaying scenes from that night isn’t going to help anything.
She doesn’t see me, doesn’t even look my way as she crosses the quad and walks up the steps to the Union. She waves to a guy sitting on the bench, and he stands up and says something to her as she approaches. I get a bad feeling in my stomach as soon as I see him. I don’t judge guys or anything, but even I can tell that this one isn’t bad to look at. He’s tall and through the thin fabric of his shirt I can tell he works out. Jenna knows him, it’s obvious by the way he pulls her to him, and the smile I can see on her face from here. She must have moved on already. Maybe I don’t need to feel so guilty about bailing on her because it looks like she doesn’t give a damn about me anyway.
They talk for few seconds and then the guy holds the door open for her. I don’t like the way she leans against him as they walk into the Union and disappear. This is more than just a friend. I could have been that guy if I hadn’t fucked things up. I could have been the guy she meets after dance class, the one giving her a kiss hello, the one who gets to spend the rest of the night with her.
I take a swig of my coffee and it burns with a bitter heat, which feels like some sort of justice as I keep my eyes on the empty doorway. I don’t know what I’m waiting for—to see Jenna walk out alone? To have her spot me over here and come by to say hello? Not likely.
“Is that your ex?”
I turn to see Rowan sitting beside me. “Who, her? No. Not really.”
He smiles and takes a swig of his own coffee. “Could have fooled me. You looked like you wanted to kill that guy.”
I shrug and take another sip. “We…had a thing. Just one night really. But I fucked it up and now, apparently, she’s moved on.”
Rowan glances toward the door of the Union. “I wouldn’t worry about that guy if I were you.”
I follow his gaze to the tall glass doors. “Oh yeah? Why?”
“Gay,” he says with a grin.
My gaydar is usually pretty good, so I’m skeptical. “That guy? You think so?”
“Yep,” he says, nodding his head.
So the rumors must be true. And Rowan must not care if I know. “Interesting,” I say. “Thanks.”
We sit silently for a few minutes. It’s cool seeing Rowan outside of baseball for a change. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he says, downing the rest of his drink.
“Why do you put up with so much shit from the guys? Why don’t you just say something to shut them up?”
“Like what? ‘Yeah, everything you’ve all heard about me is true? I’m a full-on faggot? Oh, and I’ll suck your dick if you ask me nicely?’ No thank you.”
I wince at the word ‘faggot’ even though my gay friends back home use it all the time. “I didn’t mean like that,” I say, not sure if he’s kidding or not. “But lots of guys are starting to come out in the pros—look at Michael Sam and the draft. Pretty soon it won’t be such a big deal.”
“I’ve got enough on my plate that I don’t need to be some kind of martyr for the gay movement. Look, I grew up in Georgia and I’ve had that kind of shit pulled on me since middle school. I know what locker rooms are like—it comes with the territory.” He shrugs and looks off into the distance. “I don’t confirm or deny—if I don’t react, they don’t win. I let them have their jokes because honestly it doesn’t really matter to me.”
I almost envy how sure he is. I have doubts on a daily basis, but Rowan seems to know exactly where he stands. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair? Who said anything about fair? From the outside, our entire baseball team looks like a bunch of straight, white guys. Homogenous. Every one of us is exactly like the next guy. We’re pieces of a puzzle, a team. Why do you think we wear uniforms? So that we’re all the same. You put someone in the mix that isn’t like all the rest, even though I may look just like one of you, it stirs up trouble. So the less I make of it, the better, because then, as long as I’m pitching killer games, everyone else can pretend that I’m still just like they are. Another straight, white guy in a baseball uniform.”
Another straight white guy in a baseball uniform. The thought echoes through my brain. Exactly what I’ve spent all year trying to be. “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” I say.
“You bet your ass.”
I watch Rowan stand up. “I won’t say anything. To the other guys.”
“I know you won’t,” he says. “Or I wouldn’t have told you.”
I glance back up at the Union. “You’re sure that guy’s gay?”
A sly smile spreads across his face as he balls up the paper cup and tosses it in the wastebasket. “Positive. You can trust me on that one.”
I slide into my usual seat in my Intro to Marketing class, but Mitch is nowhere in sight. It’s his fault I’m in this class in the first place—he decided that I should be a business major like he is because even when I hit it big I’m going to have to know how to market myself. So far all I’ve learned is that most advertiser
s are scum and you have to watch your back every second. Actually, not bad life lessons when you think about it.
The TA flicks on the projector and flashes some slogans on the screen.
“What did I miss?” Mitch asks, flopping into the seat next to me.
“Nothing yet. Where were you?”
A shit-eating grin crosses his face. “At Nina’s.”
“Enough said.”
Callie Jones turns and glares from her usual spot in the row in front of us.
We try to sit still and pay attention, but it doesn’t last long. “If things are off with Jenna, you should totally take a run at that,” Mitch says, nodding to Callie.
“I’m not ‘taking a run at that’,” I say to him.
“Shhh,” she says, looking up from her copious note-taking. I can tell by the look on her face that she didn’t hear us. She’s just annoyed by our mere presence as usual. Blond hair, blue-eyes and a love of short-shorts have made Callie the object of every guy’s desire in the entire class. But she’s never given any of us a second look.
Mitch considers it for a moment. “Come on—look at her.” He glances back at me. “The two of you would make the prettiest blond babies.”
I search his face, but I can tell he’s serious. Nina hasn’t told him. “Now there’s a great opening line.”
“You’d be surprised how well that works,” he says confidently.
“Don’t do me any favors.”
Another angry glance from Callie keeps us quiet for the rest of the hour. I actually take a few notes and some of the slides are cool. I’m going to have to cram for our midterms in a couple of weeks if I want to keep my grades up, unlike Mitch who actually seems to like this stuff and aces every test.
As we get up to go, I notice Callie’s phone on the floor under her chair.
“Hey Callie,” I call. She’s almost out the door and doesn’t turn around. I jog to catch up with her outside. “Hey!” I say, tapping her shoulder.
She flinches and pulls away. “What?” she asks in her patented annoyed tone.
I hold her phone out. “You dropped this.”
She looks at me like I’m carrying a pile of dog shit. “Oh. Thanks.” She pockets the phone and turns away, her blond hair bouncing behind her.
“I think she actually acknowledged your existence,” Mitch says, standing next to me and watching her go.
“Hmpf,” I grunt. “Good thing I’m not doing anything about it.”
“Speaking of,” Mitch says, falling into step next to me. “I’m going to watch Nina’s dance recital tonight. Want to come along?”
Nina’s dance recital is also Jenna’s dance recital. “I don’t think so.”
“Come on,” he says. “Nina told me what happened with you guys. At least, Jenna’s version of it.”
“Which is what?”
“That you made out with her and then bailed like she’d asked you to marry her.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t exactly like that.”
“Well,” he says. “Do you like her?”
“Yeah,” I answer honestly. “She’s great. I just…I just can’t handle anything heavy right now and I didn’t see a way to make Jenna a casual thing.”
“Maybe that’s all she wants.” Mitch shrugs.
I flash back to that night like I have hundreds of times in the past week. There’s nothing casual about Jenna, and if I want something more with her, I’m going to have to come clean about my family and that will ruin everything I’ve been working for this whole year. It’s bad enough Nina knows about me—I have to control the damage. “Why are you so concerned about what goes on with me and Jenna?”
“Honestly, I’m not. But Nina is. And a happy Nina is a happy Mitch. So how about it? Why don’t you come tonight? What else are you going to do?” He pauses. “You don’t even have to talk to her, I promise. We’ll sit in the audience and she won’t even know you’re there.”
I’d actually like to watch Jenna dance. She’s so graceful just walking down the hallway, I can only imagine what she can do on a stage. But only if she doesn’t know I’m there. “You only want me to go because otherwise you’ll sit there by yourself and fall asleep in the seat and Nina will kill you.”
Mitch laughs. “Nothing gets by you, does it?
Chapter Eight (Jenna)
It’s chaos as usual backstage with half-dressed people running around and the hum from the audience filling the theater beyond the deep red velvet curtain.
“Ten minutes until showtime,” the theater manager says, clapping his hands as if we aren’t all frantic enough.
I’m in the short, flowing black dress I’m wearing for the modern dance number that’s first up and trying to keep my lip liner straight as I lean closer to the mirror with the pencil. I only have seven minutes to change out of this outfit and into the one for the ballet and I’m not going to have time to redo my makeup. Leaning back to look, my phone starts to buzz from inside my bag.
“Crap,” I whisper and fish around for it.
“Jenna, honey,” Mom says as soon as I answer. “Gram forgot the handicap tag for the car and we can’t figure out where to park that’s close enough to the theater so that she can walk.”
I hear the warm-up music start out in the audience. “Just drop her off at the front and then go find a spot in the big lot behind the theater.” Several dancers all dressed exactly like me run by me on the way to the stage.
“But I can’t drop her off, I have the tickets,” Mom insists and I hear Gram and Gramps murmuring in the background.
“Mom, I love you but I don’t have time right now. I’m about to go on.” One girl motions for me to hurry.
“Well, we don’t want to miss you.”
“You’re about to,” I say. I feel bad, but I don’t have a choice. “I have to go.”
“Break a leg baby. We’ll see you after.”
“Bye Mom.” I toss my phone in my bag and shove the whole thing behind a chair in the dressing room.
I race through the corridors until I come to the stage where everyone is already frozen in their places, waiting for the curtain to go up.
“You’re late!” the stage manager whispers as I rush by him to my spot on stage right.
“Nice of you to show,” Courtney says frozen in her position next to me. She hates ballet, but was on her modern dance team in high school so I convinced her to take the class with me.
“Sorry. The family.” I pose with my head back and my arms up just as the audience starts clapping and the curtain rises.
The stage is lit with dim blue spotlights and the second the music starts, my heart steadies and my body starts to take over. After years of stage fright to the point where I used to puke before a performance, I’ve found that if I can get my brain to get out of the way, the rest of me knows what to do. Hours and hours of practice have driven the routines into my subconscious and my arms bend and my legs split without having to think about it.
The sound of a lone, frantic violin fills the theater and I glance out into the audience in the split second before it’s time to start moving. I wish everyone had made it here in time to see this routine—moody and evocative, it could easily be on an episode of American Dance.
As the music gets louder, we spring into action, sliding across the stage as if pushed by an invisible wind, my splits are perfect thanks to years of flexibility training and my extensions are dynamic thanks to Madame. Fifteen years of dance lessons all come together in one moment so that each pose, each flex and each leap look effortless. I leap in midair and Courtney catches me by the back foot, pulling me into a split and then a spin as I stand up on one leg and arabesque over her crouching form. The violin reaches a crescendo and I can feel the audience along with us, clapping to the beat as we pound on the wooden stage with our feet in perfect synch before split-leaping together and landing with barely a sound. I can feel the other dancers exhale as the most difficult part of the routine is passed and we swirl toward t
he end with a final pull of the violin strings. The stage goes dark except for one lone spotlight just as the last note is cut off.
The full house bursts into applause as we get up from our positions and give a little wave before rushing offstage to the dressing rooms. “Wonderful job ladies,” the stage manager says, huge headphones covering his ears as he directs the next group to their places.
I’m already twisting my hair into a tight bun as we reach the chaotic dressing room. I find my place on the floor by the mirror and secure the knot with pins and a choking mist of hairspray before checking my makeup and swiping at a stray line of mascara that’s appeared under one eye.
“That was killer,” Nina says, from her spot two chairs away. “I caught the beginning of the piece from backstage. Who choreographed it?”
“A few of the girls got together and did it,” I said. To say that I did most of it would just sound obnoxious.
“Well, it was world-class. I can totally see that on American Dance.”
“Thanks,” I say, hoping she really means it and not just trying to make me feel better.
Nina straightens her skirt as I stand up and pull my black dress off in one motion, quickly changing into the short white skirt and sleeveless top that Madame has chosen for this traditional piece. I love contemporary ballet, but Madame insists that in order to break the rules beautifully, you first have to know them perfectly.
Nina sticks her head out of the dressing room. “We have like four more minutes,” she says to everyone who’s still here frantically trying to find the bits and pieces of their costumes.
I put the cotton pads on the sore spots on my foot and cram it into the toe-shoe, lacing it whip-fast up my right leg. I look around my corner of the dressing room, but I can’t find the other one.
“Shit!” I say, throwing things out of my bag and searching through the piles on the floor.
“What?” Nina asks.