by Staci Hart
I bent over, resting my hands on my knees. “Now’s your only chance, so make it count.”
Cooper smiled as he dribbled toward me, shifting to keep me guessing. I moved with him to the line. “Since you asked, Astrid's just as exciting as always. But it's getting old."
I met him step for step. "Time to cut it off?"
"Maybe I'll get with Lily instead."
Annoyance prickled my nerves, but I stayed on him. "You wish."
“Lily always has a special smile, just for me. I mean, damn, those Thomas sisters are hot.”
Anger flared in my chest at the thought of Cooper and Lily, and I faltered. Cooper took the opening, cutting around me to run up the court to make a hook shot. I fumed as I recovered the ball and stopped next to the hoop. And then I nailed him with the basketball. “Your ball, fucker.”
“Ow, man,” he said with a laugh when the ball hit him in the hip. He was lucky he moved — I was aiming for his nuts.
“Four to one.” I got in his face as he dribbled, keeping my hands low and ready, on a mission. “Look at you, up bright and early at the crack of three in the afternoon. What’s the matter, couldn’t get laid last night?”
Cooper snorted dribbling between his legs. “I think we both know that’s not a problem for me.”
I watched, waiting for an opening. “Must be nice being rich and jobless. Until your dad pulls the plug on your bank account, at least. When's that happening again?”
His smile wavered. “Ask my mom.”
“I already did last night.” I snatched the ball and charged up the court, jumping for the rim. I slammed it into the hoop and hung on, dangling off the ground. “Slam dunk, motherfucker.” I let go with one hand to flip him off.
Patrick and I laughed as I hit to the pavement, and Cooper hung his hands on his hips, huffing. “You’re a regular fucking comedian today, West.”
I grabbed the ball and spun it on my middle finger before dropping it and dribbling back to the three-point. Cooper didn’t talk shit this time, and I stayed behind the line, ready to end the game, shifting back and forth as I dribbled. I faked, and he was so focused on keeping track of me that he bought it. I twisted around him and went for a jump shot, holding my breath when it hit the backboard.
I sank it.
I’m not gonna lie. I totally rubbed his fucking face in it.
But Cooper wasn’t so easily razzed, even when I got in his face to laugh at him. He just shook his head. “Every goddamn time.”
Nerves fired in my muscles, sending tiny shocks down my thighs and calves as I walked over to the bench and grabbed my water again to take a drink.
Patrick rested his forearms on his knees. "Four games in a row. You going for five?"
I took a seat next to Patrick, who sat on the back of the bench. The minute my ass hit the seat, I knew I was done. "Nah. Why press my luck?" I leaned back, trying to catch my breath.
Cooper stopped in front of me. “Going to Habits tonight?”
I shook my head. “I’ve gotta put a dent in these papers before I get too behind to catch up.”
“You’re such an adult.” He smirked.
I snorted. “Compared to you, maybe.”
He shrugged and bent down to dig in his bag for his water and a couple of towels. “I’m a responsible drinker. That counts, right?”
“In some circles.” I folded my hands behind my head and smiled.
Cooper took a drink. “Any news on your doctoral application? When do you find out if you made it?”
“A couple of weeks. I’m trying not to think about it.” He handed me a towel, and I wiped my face.
“How’s that working out?” The question was heavy with sarcasm.
I laughed and poured some water on the towel before hanging it on my neck. “Like shit. And I've got Simon Phillips around every corner hassling me about it as a reminder.”
Cooper just scoffed and rested a foot on the bench, leaning on his knee. “Don’t let that little prick get to you. There’s no way Columbia is going to accept him over you.”
I wanted to believe him, but I shook my head. I knew better than that. “You say that, but he’s got status and money that I don’t.”
“But you’ve got brains and wit that he doesn’t.”
“That’s not always the deciding factor, and you know it. But if I don't get in, I’ll figure everything out. It’s not the end of the world if I have to get my doctorate somewhere else.”
He eyed me like he knew better. “Right, not the end of the world. It's just the end of everything you’ve wanted since Blackwell took you under his wing first year.”
I gave him a small salute. “Thanks for helping me forget all about that in case it doesn’t work out, Coop. I knew I could count on you.”
He put up a hand. “Hey, man. I’m just saying. You work your ass off. You deserve it.”
I sighed. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Anytime.” Cooper jerked his chin at Patrick. “How are things at work? Tattoo any sweet asses lately?”
Patrick smiled sideways. “No, but I did a hip tattoo yesterday that wrapped down and around this chick's thigh, so she had no pants on for the entire session. We have two more sessions scheduled to finish it.”
Cooper smirked. “Was she hot?”
“So hot.”
“Hotter than Rosie?”
Patrick threw a towel at his face. “Fuck you, Cooper.”
Cooper batted it away, laughing. “Just tell her you still love her, man.”
Just like that, Patrick's eyes were dark, lips pressed tight. “It’s not that simple, and you know it.”
He shrugged. “Seems pretty simple to me.”
Patrick's eyes were narrow. “Says the guy who avoids responsibility like chlamydia.”
“Better to avoid chlamydia than the girl you love,” Cooper volleyed.
Patrick huffed. “Says the guy who’s never loved anybody.”
Cooper made a longing face and sighed dramatically. “Not true. There was a girl in Saint Lucia who I loved deeply for twelve hours.”
A laugh burst out of me. "You're fucking impossible."
Patrick leaned back with a slight air of superiority. "You don't get it, man. One day, you're going to meet a girl who you can't live without, and it's going to fuck you up. Joke all you want, but when it hits you, it's going to be like a glass door to the face."
But Cooper was as unflappable as ever. "Which is exactly why I'll keep avoiding it."
Patrick shook his head. "You're missing out."
"Am I? You just compared it to getting hit in the face. Hard pass, man. I'll stick to my empty relationship with Astrid and an endless supply of booty calls. No expectations. Dates when I want them. A bed to climb in if I'm lonely. West gets me. He's got Christine."
I rankled. "That's different."
He raised an eyebrow. "Enlighten me."
"Chris and I only hook up. That's all there is to our relationship."
"And how's that different from me and Astrid, or anyone else for that matter?"
I rested my elbows on my thighs and looked up at him. "Maybe it's not all that different on paper, but I'm not scared of falling for somebody. I just haven't found that somebody yet."
"Who says I'm scared?"
Patrick and I laughed.
"What?" he asked genuinely. "I'm not afraid. I'm just not interested."
Patrick shook his head. "Because you haven't found that girl yet."
But Cooper's face changed, hardened. "You don't know that. Maybe I have, but I know better than to get involved with her. I'm a fucking mess, man. I can't be there for somebody else."
His unexpected honesty stunned us into silence.
Cooper pushed away from the bench and grabbed his bag. "You guys think you've got everybody figured out."
"Hey, man. We didn't mean--"
But his face softened, and he waved me off. "It's fine, really. Can we at least get a beer on our way home? I thin
k West owes us a drink, Tricky."
Patrick smiled. "Agreed."
I stuffed my water bottle and towel into my bag, still curious as to what Cooper was talking about. He'd never mentioned any girls to us before, not with the emotion we'd just caught a glimpse of. Relationships were mostly a joke to him, something to pass his long days -- days he loved to act like were full of living but I knew to be lonelier than he'd admit. "All right. Drinks on me for being a better baller than either of you could ever hope for."
Cooper picked up his bag and snorted. "If you weren't a giant, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Don't hate on my dunk, Coop."
"Fucking showboat."
4
TOE-TO-TOE
Lily
“FIFTEEN MINUTES UNTIL THE SECOND ballet of the evening, Balachine’s Apollo. Dancers to the stage please.” The intercom cut off with a pop.
My nose was as close to the mirror as it could get that night as I lined up the fake eyelash and held it on my lid for an awkward five seconds, taking the opportunity to just breathe. The dressing room was empty — Jenni, who sat next to me, was already downstairs warming up. Who knew where Nadia was. There were eight dancers to a dressing room and a hundred dancers in the company, but when Jenni and I were promoted, they moved us in with her.
None of us were thrilled with the arrangement.
Once the lash was firmly in place, I blinked, fanning them to make sure they didn’t slip. The big bulbs framed the mirror that was taped with ticket stubs and photos from shows, a box of flower petals on the counter amongst and explosion of makeup. I dug through the mess for my favorite lipstick, getting to work as Nadia entered the room and sat behind me, eyeing me in the reflection of her mirror.
Stone cold, Lil.
My eyes were glued to my reflection as I lined my lips, even though I could feel her watching me. It’s impossible to ignore someone at times like that, when every molecule in the air is charged with tension and your fight or flight kicks in, anticipating the confrontation. I could feel her, even though she hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken a word.
But the last thing I wanted to do was get into it with her minutes before a show — especially one where we’d be dancing together. I tried not to rush through finishing my makeup, not wanting her to know she was in my head, but I hurried anyway, anxious to get away from her. When I stood, she stared at me in the mirror, the façade of sweetness over the face of poison.
“Break a leg, Thomas.”
I smiled back. “Eat a dick, Anderson.”
I grabbed my open bag, stuffing my shoes a little deeper before blowing out of the room and trotting down the stairs. I was in warm up booties to keep my muscles hot, sweater on over my costume, and I dumped my things by the wall near the practice barres just off stage, grabbing my toe pads and shoes to head to the sewing table.
Our costumes for Apollo were simple — white tights, leotard, and skirt — practice attire, really. They were meant to be stripped down and bare, with nothing to compete with the music and dance, the story. Jenni was already at the table, hair in a tight, dark bun, long neck bent as she used the spiked roller to scuff up her shank for better traction. I set down my new shoes — already sewn for the show — and grabbed the other shank roller.
“Hey, Jen.”
Her eyes were bright and twinkling “Hey, Lil. How are you?”
“It doesn’t matter how many years we’ve been doing this. It never gets easier.”
She nodded. “There never seems to be any less pressure. In fact, I think every show is harder than the one before.” She set down the roller with a thump and sat to pull her shoes on.
“I know what you mean. And I hate dancing with Nadia.”
Jenni snorted. “You and everyone. Although she doesn’t usually terrorize anyone but you.”
“I guess I’m just the lucky one.” I sat next to her and pulled on my first shoe, wrapping the ribbon around my ankle and tying the end, slipping the knot into itself. I reached onto the table for needle and thread to sew the knot to my tights.
Jenni’s eyes were behind me. “Looks like they’re going at it again.”
I followed her gaze to see Blane talking to Nadia at a barre where he was warming up. Neither of them looked happy, which probably shouldn’t have filled me with satisfaction, but it did. His face was hard as he said something to her that made her cheeks turn hot pink, easy to see even from across the room. He turned and walked away with her eyes lasered on his back. And then she turned the fiery beams on me.
“Shit,” I muttered and looked away, flustered.
“What do you think happened between them?” Jenni asked, pretending to look busy with her shoes.
My brow quirked. I wished I knew, but Blane and I didn’t exactly do a lot of talking. “I don’t even know. I’ve heard different things, that she dumped him, that they got in a big fight and just separated mutually.”
“If it were mutual, I don’t know if Nadia would be so … well, so ragey. I actually heard they broke up because he found someone else.”
My heart pumped a little harder. “Oh? Any idea who?”
She shook her head. “Who knows. Pretty sure almost anyone would bang him, guys included.”
I laughed, mostly out of relief that the secret was still safe. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe that flash of blond hair. It’s almost too long, but somehow it’s just perfect.”
She sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers through that. I want to know how he’s so tan and if he’s that tan everywhere.”
I snorted, unwilling to respond.
“Maybe he fake bakes. You think he has a little Playboy bunny on his hip?”
I giggled. “I’d put my money on cherries.”
She laughed. “Ugh, so douchey.”
The orchestra began to tune, and Jenni and I hopped up, leaving our sweaters and booties with our bags before making our way to the edge of the stage. The lights went down. The crowd quieted. Blane brushed past me, smelling clean and fresh, walking to the center of the stage to pick up his prop lyre and pose as the prelude music began.
I felt Nadia behind me and shifted so I could see her out of my periphery as we waited for our cue. I don’t know what she might have even done to me — maybe trip me as I tried to enter the stage or do something to my costume. Maybe nothing. But I trusted her about as much as the taserbait who rode the train with me late at night.
The curtain went up, and the violin solo began. Blane strummed the lyre, representing the birth of Apollo as he discovered music. We watched his solo, the massive height in his jumps, the tightness of his turns and form. And then our cue came, and nothing in the world existed outside of that dance.
The crowd disappeared as I made my way onto the stage. The four of us were one unit, particularly the three women as we moved with a precision that I sometimes wondered if Nadia and I would ever find. But all we wanted was to be perfect, to honor the piece and the audience who had come to see it. Even Nadia wasn’t immune to that. Plenty of the dancers hated each other, but in the end, it was forgotten for the sake of a performance.
My body was almost on autopilot — the culmination of years of practice and hours of rehearsals —but every single component of my mind was focused on the performance. Shows were always a blur. Sometimes I didn’t remember them at all. Sometimes I only remembered the bad. And sometimes it didn’t matter what I’d screwed up because the reaction from the crowd wiped everything away. Those were the moments I lived for.
We wove around each other, our dance steps exactly the same but timed in intervals as we wound through each other and around Blane, using each other for balance until the muse solos began.
Blane sat on a box on the stage as we danced, performing the arts that we lorded over as muses. Nadia was first, and Jenni and I watched the diva dance her dramatic solo to represent poetry. She really was a beautiful dancer, but there was something anxious, urgent, about the way she danced that showed a bit
more of her soul than I think she intended. Jenni was next, her dance for the muse pantomime cheery and bright, well suited for her. She smiled and bounced around Blane, long arms fluid. And then, it was my turn.
My part in the story was to introduce Apollo to dance, so I jetéd and arabesqued, pirouetted my way around the stage as he watched on. Every step was for Apollo, every attitude and battement wooing him until he stopped me, and I turned to make my way off stage once more.
I grinned at Jenni once I met her backstage, and she gave me a small hug, the two of us high on adrenaline. Nadia couldn’t be swayed, only stood near us, scowling. I rolled my eyes at her. We were just one, big happy family as we turned to watch Blane perform his solo — Apollo’s transition into manhood. His ridiculous vertical was the one thing we could at least all agree on.
After a moment, I hurried around to the other side of the stage to meet him on stage for our pas de deux where he was on the ground, arm extended, finger pointed at me. I touched my finger to his as the music changed. We danced through the pas de deux, and he was my support, always there to catch me, always there to lift me, balance me. I couldn’t deny that we were a good pairing for more reasons than our height.
The pas de deux was almost over when I felt the ribbon on my left foot give way on a turn. It was too loose, and every twist of my ankle made it worse, but I wasn’t in trouble until the end of the lively coda when my stitches gave way completely. The ribbon hung off my ankle where it was sewn to my tights, but I just dug in and held on, doing my best to avoid stepping on the dangling ribbon, thanking all that was holy in the world that the elastic in my shoe’s casing was tight and that I’d made it to the apotheosis where there was almost no pointe work. If there had been, I would have been fucked.
We held the final formation, and the music ended to a roar of applause. We smiled and bowed, made our way off stage to the congratulations from other dancers and masters, everyone asking me about my shoe, commending me for finishing the performance. But it wasn’t until after the curtain call that I really had time to deal.