One True Thing

by Lynne Jaymes

  “No, thanks,” I say, holding up the book. “I’ve got what I need.”

  “How about I take that up to the register for you?” she holds out her hand for the book.

  “No,” I say. “I’ve got it.”

  The woman glances behind me at my backpack. “We have a no large bags policy here. You’re going to have to check your backpack.”

  I look at her, my suspicions up. “I’ve had it in this store before.”

  She gives me a dead-looking smile. “It’s a new policy, sir.”

  “Well, I’m done,” I say. “I’m just getting this book.”

  “Excellent,” she says, following me up to the register. On the counter beside her, I see a copy of the Garvin Gazette with my stupid face right there on the front cover. The woman glances down at the paper and then up again at me as if confirming what she already knows. No wonder she’s been stalking me all around the store. Can’t have a black guy in here unsupervised. Next thing you know, he’ll have the entire place in his backpack.

  “That’ll be $9.95,” she says, not making eye contact.

  “Actually,” I say. “I think I’d like this gift-wrapped.”

  Whatever was left of her smile disappears into a thin line. Olivia worked at Macy’s one summer and told me how much they hated to gift wrap things. “That’ll be extra.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “Something with a birthday theme. And a big white bow.”

  I lean against the counter watching the people in the store while she wraps the book and drops it on the counter in front of me a little harder than necessary.

  “Here you go. That’s $12.95.”

  I peel off one of the hundreds from the roll that the guy gave me for the bike and hand it over with a smile. Without a word, she runs her special pen over it and then deposits it in the register, counting out the change into my upturned hand.

  “Have a nice day,” I say as sweetly as possible as I shove the change into my pocket. The bitch doesn’t say anything else, just turns to the guy in line behind me. The white guy with a backpack even bigger than mine slung over his shoulder. Whatever. Not the first time I’ve been accused of shopping while black and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

  Crossing the campus it feels like my face is following me from the front page of every newspaper kiosk. I can’t believe they ran that piece—can you sue a school paper? If I could, I’d take every issue and burn it. But it doesn’t matter now, the damage is done. And in a small, annoying way, it’s a relief.

  Jenna’s car isn’t in the lot as I approach our building, just how I’d planned it. Now I just have to hope that Courtney is home. I walk past my door without even an urge to go inside and knock on hers. I relax a little when I hear footsteps approach and Courtney opens the door.

  “Well hey,” she says, leaning against the jamb. “Jenna’s not here.”

  “I know.” I hold the wrapped book and the sealed white envelope full of money out to her. “Can you make sure she gets these?”

  “Sure,” she says. I turn to go, but she stops me. “Hey, Ty?”

  “Yeah?”

  Courtney looks out into the hall to make sure we’re alone. “You know it’s not over, right?”

  I feel my heart race. But I’ve been here before. “What do you mean it’s not over?”

  She looks up at me. “Jenna told me what you said. The very last thing you said that day. And I know you think that she doesn’t care, but she does. A lot. It’s just going to take her awhile to get her head around things, you know?”

  I was as shocked as Jenna was the moment the words “I love you” came out of my mouth. But I meant them. Every word. “You think so?”

  She smiles. “I know so. But if you ever tell her I said any of this I’ll deny it all.” Courtney backs into her apartment and shuts the door in my face. I walk back down the stairs feeling lighter than I have in a long time.

  

  Cassie slides into the seat in front of me in marketing class, but then swivels around to face me. “Do you have the notes from last week?” she asks.

  I look up from my phone, a little startled to hear her speak. The only time she says anything to either one of us is to tell us to shut up so that she can focus on the TA. Cassie looks different today—same blond hair and short shorts, but she’s wearing makeup and her lips are a deep, dark red. “Um…yeah,” I say, flipping through my notebook. I find the right page and hand it over to her. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” she says, giving me a wide smile and turns back around to copy my pages with her phone.

  “What did I miss?” Mitch asks, as he sits down, late as usual.

  “Nothing.”

  “Thanks,” Cassie says, handing my notebook back to me. “You have really nice handwriting.”

  “Thanks,” I say, but it comes out more of a question than I mean it to.

  She drops her pen on the floor and bends down to pick it up, her t-shirt falling to reveal a lacy red bra. Yeah, I look. It’s right there in front of me. It would be impossible not to.

  Mitch looks over at me questioningly, but I just shrug. I have no idea what’s transformed Cassie today.

  The TA lectures for awhile and then talks about the upcoming test.

  “Hey Tyler,” Cassie says, as she stands up and gathers her books at the end of class. “I was wondering what you’re thinking of writing for the essay portion of the test.”

  “I haven’t really narrowed it down,” I say. Meaning that I haven’t really thought about it at all. Cassie’s always been Ms. On-Top-Of-It and I wonder what changed.

  “Well,” she says, waiting for me to put my stuff in my bag. “Maybe we can brainstorm together sometime.”

  I watch her face to see if this is a joke. First the compliment and then the semi-strip show? “Sure,” I say. “We can do that.”

  “Great!” She puts out one hand. “Give me your phone and I’ll put my number in it.”

  I can feel Mitch staring at me as I hand her my phone. Cassie takes it, holds it out and snaps a quick selfie, then punches her number into my phone.

  “There,” she says, handing it back. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that she meant for our fingers to brush against each other. “Call me!” She bounces out of the room, but turns back just before reaching the door to give me a little wave.

  I stare at the photo on my phone. She’s even got her lips pursed like it’s some kind of glamour shot. “What the fuck was that all about?”

  Mitch catches up to me as we walk out of the building and slings one arm around my shoulders. “You really don’t know?”

  We watch Cassie walk off in the distance, the bottoms of her ass cheeks peeking out of her shorts as she moves. “Unless Cassie has really been abducted by aliens and they’ve transfused her personality, no. I have no idea what the hell just went on.”

  Mitch shakes his head sadly. “Oh, my friend. You’re so clueless.”

  “What?” I ask. “Cassie hasn’t even looked at me all year and now she’s taking selfies and putting her number in my phone? What’s changed?”

  Mitch stops walking. “What’s changed? You really don’t know? You’ve changed, you dumbass. Thanks to the love-fest on the front cover of the Garvin Gazette, it’s all over school that the lily-white Tyler Branch is really the exotic spawn of a mixed-race marriage. You’re the hottest thing going.”

  I look at him, but he’s not laughing. “That’s bullshit.”

  “That my friend, is fact. You’re perfect for every blond co-ed with Daddy issues. Your genetic pool can produce a rainbow of brown babies that would piss off any self-respecting Texas father, yet you’re not dark enough to be truly dangerous. You’re like the trifecta of bad boyfriends. The nexus of ‘I’m not a racist’ and ‘Daddy will hate this’.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Like a heart-attack.”

  I look over at Cassie’s blond ponytail disappearing in the distance. “Well, I’m not interested. If I can’t
be with Jenna, I’m done. I’m going to focus on my game and keep my shit clean and maybe someday she’ll forgive me enough to have me back.”

  “I don’t know bro,” Mitch says, as we continue walking toward the gym. “Might be nice to keep your options open.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two (Jenna)

  I watch my split leap in the mirror and land with a heavy thud on my left foot. It’s not at all what I see in my head. When I’m thinking about the jump it’s graceful and effortless, but in reality it lacks height, and my right leg is dragging. Not the kind of thing that’s going to get me called back on American Dance. I pace around the room with my hands on my hips, trying to get my wind back. It’s like the heaviness I’ve been carrying in my chest is manifesting itself into my routines. I’ve been at this way too long to be this bad.

  I stand in the far corner, take three quick steps and leap into the air, both legs parallel to the ground, studying my form in the mirror the whole time. Better. But still not great. I try some floor spins, trying to get the right modern, edgy feel. I want to do something to some techno music, moody but danceable so that I can show off everything that I can do.

  I don’t see Madame until I stop in a pose and she’s in the mirror watching me from the back of the studio. She nods and walks toward me. “Not bad. Working on a new piece? The new recital isn’t for many months yet.”

  “Yeah,” I say, standing up and looking for my towel in the bag. I can’t tell her why I’m working up a new piece—she’d never understand. A professional like Madame would never do something like American Dance. I’m sure she’d think it’s beneath her and all her training and I don’t want her to think that I’m not serious about my career.

  “Is it a modern piece for your other class? The piece you did for the recital was very well choreographed.”

  “I’m not sure,” I shrug. “I just don’t want to get out of practice.”

  I pull the towel out of my bag and the American Dance audition rules fall to the floor at her feet. “Oh! Sorry. Let me get that.”

  But Madame has already picked it up. She glances at the heading and hands it to me. “For the new recital, eh?”

  “Well…” I say, grabbing the paper and folding it up small before shoving it back into my bag. I don’t need it anyway—I’ve already memorized everything I need to do. I shake my head. “It’s stupid.”

  Madame shrugs. “American Dance is not stupid. Many of the dancers on that show are classically trained and go on to do great work with wonderful companies. Why would you not want to try? At the very least, it would be good experience.”

  I stare at her. I didn’t even think Madame knew what American Dance was. “You really think so?”

  “Absolument,” she says in French. “I can’t wait for season eight to start. Although I did have some issues with the girl who won last year.”

  “Sadie? I thought she was good.”

  “Oui,” Madame says. “Good, but limited. She could do the modern choreography and the jazz, but her basics in classical were weak. I was voting for Elaine.”

  I almost laugh picturing Madame in her pajamas with a bowl of popcorn repeatedly dialing the number for her favorite dancer. “I can see Elaine winning.”

  “So what were you working on for your audition?”

  “Oh, um…” I look at the floor. “I was just messing around with a few moves. I have about three weeks to get something together.”

  “They are coming here?”

  “American Dance? No. New Orleans. My mom bought me a ticket.”

  “New Orleans,” Madame says. She gets a far-away look in her eye. “What a wonderful town. You will love it.”

  “I hope so. I’m not sure I’m going to get to see much.” I’m praying that I’m busy with call-backs the whole time.

  Madame claps her hands. “You only have sixty seconds to wow the judges. What kind of piece are you going to do?”

  “I was thinking modern, with a hint of something dark. Similar to what we did at the recital.”

  She purses her lips and shakes her head. “No. With your body and your talents, you want to stick to the classics. Showcase your toe-point and your extension.” She walks me over to the barre. “Leg to the side.” I put my left leg out. “Now lift it up with the tightest point as far as you can.” I lift my leg up to my head so that I’m in a side split. “Oui,” Madame says. “Look at that line.” She claps her hands. “This is what they will see.”

  I put my foot back on the floor. “I don’t know…classical?”

  “With a hint of something else,” she says. “All of those dance-team girls will come out writhing on the floor and rolling their bodies with a modern routine. You need to stand out, to show them your training and your control. They will know by how you execute the ballet that you are capable of great things in any genre.”

  “Because you must know the rules before you can break them,” I say, repeating her mantra.

  “Exactement.” Madame walks over to the stereo. “What music were you planning on using?”

  I shrug. “I don’t have anything picked out. I was thinking of something like electronic dance music.”

  Madame waves the thought away. “Again, too pedestrian.” She flips through some CDs on the table. “Ah! Something like this would be perfect.” She slides something into the stereo and in a few seconds some spare piano music fills the room. Madame smiles and starts swaying, waving her arms in the air.

  I listen for a few minutes, but I still can’t picture it. “Really? Just piano?”

  Madame resets the CD and then sits on the floor, one leg under her and one leg out in front of her, her foot arched in an almost impossible point. As the first notes of the piano echoes around the room, she waves her arms behind her, then arabesques onto the forward leg, her back leg extended high into the air. Madame almost never dances more than a few beats anymore and I feel privileged that she’s showing me this much.

  “That was beautiful!” I say.

  She walks over to me. “Do you remember season three? The auditions?”

  Season three? I can barely remember what I watched last week. “Not really.”

  “There was this girl – Melanie. Beautiful and compact like a pixie. She did a modern interpretation of Swan Lake for her audition and had the judges eating out of her hands.”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “It is on the YouTube. You should watch.” Madame sighs. “She didn’t make it past the fourth week. Such a shame. She had trouble with the hip-hop.” She winks at me. “But you won’t.”

  “Ha. If I get past the auditions.”

  Madame puts one hand lightly on my back. “If you listen to me, I guarantee you will.”

  

  I walk quickly past Ty’s apartment and unlock my front door. I know he’s not staying there right now, but it doesn’t make it any easier. There are no lights on in our apartment, just the blue flicker of the TV set.

  “Hey,” I call to Courtney. She’s sitting on the couch messing with her phone. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” I flick on the wall light.

  “Huh?” Courtney looks up blinking. “Oh. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “What are you doing?” I walk into the kitchen and set the bag of groceries on the counter.

  “Watching old episodes of American Dance online.” She walks into the kitchen and peeks into the bag. “That shit’s hard.”

  “No kidding,” I say, putting my apples in the fridge.

  “I mean seriously hard. Those people have like two days to learn a routine that’s ridiculous.”

  I shut the fridge door. “And?”

  “And nothing,” she says poking in the bag. “You didn’t get any cookies?”

  “No I didn’t get any cookies.” I pull the bread out and fold the bag up. “Are you saying that you don’t think I can do this? That I’m not good enough?”

  “No. I didn’t say that. God, stop being so sensitive. I just said it was going to be h
ard, that’s all.”

  “Sorry,” I say. I know I’m only reacting that way because there’s a tiny seed of doubt down deep that I can’t do it. That it is too hard. That I’m not talented enough.

  Courtney grins. “You’ll be fine. Stop stressing.” She claps her hands. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She darts out of the kitchen.

  “What?” I ask, following her back into the living room.

  She hands me a wrapped package and a white envelope. “Ty brought this by earlier.”

  I hesitate before taking it. Ty was here and I missed him. “Why? What did he say?”

  “Not much.” She shrugs. “Maybe it’s a late birthday present.”

  I think about the last time I saw him, of the horrible things that Gramps said to him. I feel the weight of the envelope and I know what’s in it. I slit the top and see a stack of bills and without even counting I know that it’s a thousand dollars. “How did he get this?”

  “He didn’t say. He didn’t say much really. Just that he wanted me to give these to you.”

  I carefully peel the paper away from the tape and pull out a new journal.

  “That’s nice,” Courtney says.

  I run my hand over the black cover with the ballet image. Ty remembered about the journals.

  “I wonder why he got you a blank book?”

  I flip through the lined pages. Pages that are waiting for my thoughts and emotions. I think about standing in the stationary aisle with him that day, the last day that things were normal between us. The last day everything made sense.

  “Because he knew that I had a lot that I needed to get down.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three (Ty)

  The bat hits the ball with another satisfying crack as it goes sailing past the pitching machine and into the net. I put the bat back on my shoulder and try to zone out, letting my body react when it sees the white ball leave the wheel, whacking it hard one more time. I love the power I feel in my arms, the satisfaction you get when you connect. There’s nothing better than a session with the pitching machine when everything else in your life is going to shit.

  “Hey, Branch!”

  The ball sails past me as I turn around, landing with a huge thud on the pad behind me. I step out of the box to see Coach watching me, his fingers hooked in the metal fence that surrounds the batting cage. “You’re hitting the shit out of those.”