“You’re a day early,” is what finally comes out of my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“Dancing. Obviously.” He circles his hips in a way that reminds me of a squid or some other soft-bodied invertebrate. “And you’re my partner.” He takes my hands in his and starts to move his feet.
“No way,” I say, trying to pull away.
Jesse, not one to give up, places his hands on my hips, places mine on his shoulders, and moves his feet in a simple motion—back-front-side-side—simple, that is, if there weren’t a hundred people bumping into us and if the foot pattern didn’t also require synchronized hip movement. We haven’t even said hello or established why he’s here early, but this is so Jesse. Just jump into it, whatever “it” is. I thaw the tiniest bit.
“Where’d you learn to dance?” I ask as I step on his toe.
“Rebecca Romero’s bat mitzvah. She’s Cuban and Jewish, and cute as hell. I took three weeks of salsa lessons before the big day, so I could impress her.”
“And did you?” I ask as he twirls me under his arm.
“Totally,” Jesse, ever so modest, says. “ She was hot for me after she saw my moves. After the first song we went straight to the janitor’s closet to make out. When she was supposed to be blessing the bread and nobody knew where she was, the rabbi came looking for us. I’ll never forget his face when he opened the closet door.”
The tale of swapping spit with Rebecca Romero distracts me, and before I know it, I’m doing something that could—if you’re being generous or you’re from another planet where everyone has two left feet— be called dancing. The craziest thing of all, though, is it’s fun. Jesse spins me under the other armpit, turns me back to face him, and miraculously, we continue the step without missing a beat.
“I had no idea you could dance!” I call out over the music. It seems like an impossibly ridiculous thing to say with him showing up out of nowhere and everything else there is to ask about and explain, but somehow it’s the only thing to say.
“I had no idea you could either!” he shouts back.
“I can’t. You’re doing it for me. I’d fall down if you weren’t guiding me.”
The song goes from whatever rhythm this one was into a new one. I’m certain Jesse can’t possibly know the moves to this new beat, but there he is, the king of Latin grooves, shaking it down.
Dahlia dances over to me and takes my hand, stealing me from Jesse. “Who’s your friend?” she asks as she tries to get my feet to follow a new sequence of steps.
“Jesse,” I say, and stumble into a blue-haired guy who’s making up his own moves that have little in common with the beat.
“Jesse!” she blurts. Apparently the arrival of Jesse negates her need to dance. She pulls me through the crowd to the side of the dance floor, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks. “He’s supposed to come tomorrow after the concert,” she hisses as if I orchestrated his arrival a night early on purpose. “After you devout your attention to Clem!” She throws him a look. I’ve never seen Dahlia throw anybody a look before. It’s quite impressive. “What are we going to do?”
“About what?” Jesse, who’s been dancing with Jesus/Marcus, says, coming up behind me.
“About the fact you’re a day early and we have tickets for a concert,” Dahlia, whose “we” isn’t lost on me, says, coming to my rescue and answering for me.
For one relief of a second I think she’s solved the problem. We have plans that can’t be changed. This isn’t a lie. I’ll catch up with Jesse tomorrow.
I’m just about to tell Jesse this, when Jesus/Marcus says, “No worries, bro, I have an extra ticket. We can all sit together.”
Twenty-six
I sit erect in my plush, red, third row, center seat of the Lensic, feeling lobotomized, because if I had a brain I’d claim swine flu or cowpox and slink back to the dorm, crawl into bed, and avoid both Jesse and Clem forever. It’s to late to fake catastrophic, contagious disease, though. The orchestra’s already on stage, a cacophony of sound as the various instruments tune. Jesse smiles at me and says something. I return the smile, but not the conversation. I’m too busy managing the twist of guilt knifing my gut. The lights go down. Jesse takes my hand, and I let him, but my hand in his feels abstract, formless, disconnected from my body. Then Clem walks onto stage, and my breath catches.
I’ve never been around a guy in a suit before. Suits are for corporate, talking-head types. But Clem in a suit is something completely different. Clem in a suit is the Aurora Borealis. Niagara Falls. The Sistine Chapel. The person on stage is both Clem and not Clem. It’s like he just walked into himself, like everything else was practice. Then the conductor lifts his baton. The string section starts soft and light, the woodwinds join in, then the brass. Finally, Clem lifts his bow and starts to play.
The sound of his violin makes a beeline for my heart. I want to eat the notes, inhale them, turn them into color and paint my room with them. The music is Clem and Clem is the music. It’s so beautiful and perfect and flawless that for ten minutes or two hours or however long he plays, I don’t move. I’m not even sure I breathe. It’s not until the lights go up for intermission that I notice Jesse’s hand is no longer holding mine. I mumble a word to him about having to pee and avoid his eye as I make for the bathroom. Dahlia follows me out of the theater, down the outside corridor where we manage to score a second-place position in the already forming line.
“Wow, Clem’s amazing!” Dahlia says, as she heads into a stall.
“Yeah, he’s all unfair talent quotient, huh?” I say, having no idea how to express my true feelings and making a joke instead. I don’t actually have to pee, so I stand outside her stall and talk through the door as a parade of women filter in and out of the bathroom. “I wonder if his getting so much talent means someone else got less,” I go on, as Dahlia comes out of the stall and washes her hands. “Like there’s only a certain amount of talent in the world and if one person got more, then another person got less, and—”
“Yep. I got it,” she says, turning off the water. “And you’re rambling. Rambling is a bad sign. You’re in deep.” She pulls her lips back, leans forward, and checks her braces in the mirror. When she’s satisfied with her dental appearance, she turns to me. “And Jesse’s pretty darned cute, too. What are you going to do?”
What I’m going to do, I think as we leave the bathroom, is change the subject, so I do and say, “Can your boyfriend walk on water?”
Dahlia stops and turns to me. She looks confused, but then her eyes crinkle into a smile and she laughs. “Oh! You mean because of his hair and beard! I never asked, but I’ll bet he can turn water into wine.”
When we return to our seats, Jesse and Jesus/Marcus are engaged in a lively conversation about the logistics of green manure (Jesse never met a conversational topic he didn’t like), which means I’m off the hook for talking. I study the program and see that Clem’s nemesis is up next: Paganini. I think of the last few weeks of his panicked rehearsals, his insistence that he can’t play the piece, and suddenly I’m nervous for him. What if he really does blow it? I glance over my shoulder. From what I can tell there isn’t an empty seat. The whole place is waiting to hear Clem and the Dallas Symphony bust out Caprice No. 1. If I were the one up there, there’d be shit stains all over the floor.
The lights dim. The orchestra starts back up. And Paganini is flawless. All Clem’s worry for nada. No need to pull the fire alarm or set off the patriotic fireworks. Clem out-Paganinis Paganini. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. He finishes the piece to a standing ovation and bows to the cheers of hundreds of people.
***
“I didn’t know you liked classical,” Jesse says when the concert’s over and we’re in the lobby with the last of the stragglers, waiting for Dahlia and Jesus/Marcus, who are talking to someone Dahlia knows.
“Yeah, well,” I say, hoping my chee
ks aren’t as red as they feel. “Paganini rocks.”
Jesse stares at me with raised eyebrows over such long-lashed perfectly blue eyes. He considers what I said for a second and then says, “Who’s the guy?”
“What guy?”
“On the violin? The one you couldn’t stop looking at. The one playing Paganini.”
“Oh!” I say with a little laugh. “That guy? That’s Clem.” Round of applause for Captain Obvious. I’m officially the world’s biggest loser. Jesse came all the way to Santa Fe from Philly to see me, and all I can say is “that’s Clem,” like his name wasn’t even in the program? It’s not just the cliché of liking two boys, it’s that I didn’t say anything to Jesse. I forced him into this situation because I didn’t have the guts to tell him what was going on. “He’s…” I begin, but before I can get any further than my monosyllabic mumble Dahlia and Jesus/Marcus are back, and now they’re holding hands.
“Okey dokey!” Dahlia says in a voice so flooded with puppy love, she doesn’t notice the solid wall of tension dividing Jesse and me. “What do you guys want to do?”
I told Clem I’d meet him at the stage door, but I don’t want to bring Jesse with me, and I don’t want to ditch him, either. Turns out the decision is made for me because before anyone can answer Dahlia’s question, Clem emerges from the theater, arm extended in a wave. He races across the lobby, largely empty of concertgoers now, the most beautiful smile swimming around in his coffee eyes. He goes for a hug, but panic leaps around inside me like a trapped animal and at the moment of bodily contact I go stiff. Clem’s arms drop. He looks at me, then at Jesse. The smile falls out of his eyes and off his face.
“Jesse,” I say, clearing my throat and manhandling the lighter. “Meet Clem. Clem, meet Jesse.” My introduction is followed by the world’s most awkward silence. Jesse looks at Clem. Clem looks at me. Jesus/Marcus looks at Dahlia, Dahlia looks at Jesus/Marcus. I look at the floor.
Jesse breaks the silence first. I lift my eyes to see him offer his hand to Clem. “You were awesome, man,” he says. “First class talent.” He’s so decent and civilized and cool that I want to cry. He turns to me, but I can’t meet his eye. “I’m beat. Long day traveling. I’ll text you in the morning, Faith.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out as he disappears out of the theater.
A lot of foot fidgeting follows Jesse’s departure. I can tell that Dahlia and Jesus/Marcus want to leave, too, either because they want to be alone or they think I need to be alone with Clem, so I force myself to speak. I turn to Dahlia, and in a false joking manner, say, “You kids have fun. I can get back to the dorm on my own.”
Dahlia squeezes my hand, but I’m too embarrassed to look at her. I resume my study of the floor as she and Jesus/Marcus take off. It’s just Clem and me and the last of the stragglers in the lobby.
“You were really good,” I tell him, as two ushers come by and congratulate him on his performance. “You nailed Paganini. I never knew you could play like that. You were so amazing. I can’t imagine why you were worried. I saw your mom, too. She looked so proud.” The armor of my silence has cracked, and now I can’t stop talking. I would keep going, but Clem interrupts.
“So, that’s Jesse, huh?” he says, shifting his violin case under his right arm. “Well, I can’t say you didn’t tell me you were dating someone. The only thing I don’t get is why you didn’t tell me he was coming?” I try to speak, since now that I started I want to keep going, but he turns to look at me and our eyes don’t so much as meet as collide. “Why did you have to bring him here tonight, Faith?” he asks quietly. “To my concert?”
“I’m really sorry,” I blurt before he can cut me off. “He showed up a day early. I wasn’t expecting him and then Jesus invited him—”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” I bury my face in my hands, imagining how sabotaged Clem must feel. First his dad bails and then I show up with Jesse. And then how Jesse must feel. I don’t call him for a week and then I don’t tell him about Clem and bring him here? “We could still celebrate?” I suggest, but it’s more of a question.
The look he gives me magnifies how lame I already feel. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I’m going to go meet up with my mom and some of the people from the orchestra. I’ll see you around tomorrow.”
He walks away, and I’m left in the stony silence of his departure. I look around the empty lobby, thinking no place has ever seemed so sad.
Twenty-seven
I knock on Clem’s door and call his name the second I wake up the next morning at the crack of ten. He doesn’t answer. I don’t know if it’s because he isn’t there or because he doesn’t want to see me. I feel horrible, an emotional hangover that makes me want to crawl back into bed for the rest of the day. I plod back to my room and am just pulling the covers over my head when my phone dings with a text. I lunge for the device, thinking Jesse or Clem.
Neither. It’s Amelia with an order: Meet in an hour on the plaza to talk about the menu.
I groan. I have no interest in talking about menus today, but with Clem AWOL and who knows if Jesse’s talking to me, the topic is a welcome distraction. I text back and tell her I’ll be there.
Of course I could text Jesse or Clem and ruin my perfectly good record of horrible communication and hurting people I care about, but since the lobe of my brain that deals with self-expression, apologies, and word formation seems to have been deleted, the phone remains in my hand with a blank screen.
I’m going about my business of getting dressed, pulling on my favorite comfort clothes—cut-off jeans, faded blue tank top, and Converses, when the phone dings again. I expect it’s Amelia needing something else, but this time when I check the screen, it’s Jesse.
My hotel is five minutes from the plaza. Meet there at eleven?
Yes, I immediately reply, disregarding the fact I’ll have to introduce him to Amelia.
***
But at eleven sharp, when I find Jesse on the grass of the plaza playing hackey sack with a trio of local dudes wearing leather jackets despite the climbing temperature, I start worrying about last night. Instead of going over to him, I hide behind a tree and watch the game. Every time the little cloth ball gets kicked to Jesse he misses, but he makes a joke with each miss and the other guys don’t seem to mind. I should stop hiding and go over and say hi, but every time I’m about to step out from behind the tree and announce myself, I lose my courage. What’s he going to say about last night? Did he ask me to meet him so he could tell me I’m a disloyal coward and he wants nothing more to do with me? I’m attempting to become one with the tree when a mother sitting on the grass by the tree with her young daughter gives me a funny look.
“Hey,” I say with a little laugh. “Tree-hugger, you know?” I flash a smile and toss a peace sign, channeling my inner hippie, but I guess I seem like a scary teen on drugs because the woman stands, grabs her daughter’s hand, and leads her away.
I sigh, step out into the open, and call Jesse’s name. Just as the word leaves my lips, I see Amelia heading my way. The timing is a relief. Maybe Jesse won’t say anything about last night if someone else is there
“Hey,” I say, nervously to Jesse, who abandons the game when he sees me, then to Amelia, who reaches my side.
They each say hey, but Amelia’s peering at Jesse and, without taking out her earbuds, asks, “Who’s the guy?”
“Jesse,” I answer, as if his name explains everything.
“Faith’s boyfriend,” he adds, and I wonder if there isn’t a twinge of sarcasm in his voice. “I’m here for the weekend. Just came in from Philly. Who are you?”
“Amelia,” she says, narrowing her eyes and checking him out, an obvious head-to-toe appraisal. “Boyfriend, huh?” She folds her arms and pulls out her earbuds. “You’re not one of those white guys who only go for brown girls because they’re exotic, a
re you?”
“I thought I wasn’t brown,” I interject. “I thought I was a guera.”
She ignores me.
“Nah,” Jesse says, pushing at a strand of hair, which he’s wearing clipped back in barrettes. “I’m one of those white boys who go for girls I like, regardless of their color. I dated a purple girl once. She was hot. She turned fuchsia in the sun. What about you? Are you one of those tough girls who only goes for bad boys?”
“Nah, I’m one of those tough girls who goes for boys, no matter what they are.”
This gets a laugh out of Jesse. One thing about Jesse is that when he laughs, you can’t help but join in, and Amelia’s no exception. The laughter is like an octopus with its ink, changing the atmosphere into something totally new.
“What’s up with your hair, anyway?” she asks Jesse—a critical question with a playful vibe. “Why the girlie clips?”
“Barrettes are the new masculine. What’s up with your eyebrows? Why the minefield for a metal detector?”
“It’s supposed to be intimidating,” Amelia says, turning her expression into a mockery of her own scowl. “Does it work?”
“Totally. I’m terrified. Good thing I’m armed.”
“What, you carrying Mace, tough guy?”
“Nope.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rumpled bag of candy. “But I have Skittles.” He throws one at her and pings it off her arm. “Candy warfare. One of these could take out an eye. Want some?” Amelia accepts, and it’s then that Jesse hones in on the earbuds draped around her neck, the faint trace of music still playing. “What are you listening to?”
“You wouldn’t know them,” Amelia says, slipping the earbuds into her pocket as if to protect her music from Jesse’s prying.
He challenges her with folded arms and a stare. “Try me.”
“The Metallic Mister Rogers,” she says, with a smirk.
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