by Rena Rocford
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He nodded and gave me an open handed half wave. The door clicked shut, and I could breathe again. Why did he make it hard for me to breathe?
Probably because I had already spent years in a relationship with him, and he only knew that I had a car and went to Fourth Street three times a week for practice and classes. Everyone knew that.
I slipped on the clutch. The MGB bunny-hopped for twenty feet in a gyrating death rattle before I slammed the clutch down and tried again.
I hate you car, just so you know.
he salle had the musty smell that came with years of a dairy town choked in fog. I popped the windows, the kind that leaned back into the building. Even if the fog moved on to actual rain, the water would just slide right out. That and we’d avoid the blistering heat if the fog suddenly burned off. It could go from cold damp to roasted in fifteen minutes flat.
And of course, the salle didn’t have AC.
I changed into my uniform and got out the giant dust mop. Fencing shoes wore out faster if the floors were dirty, and I couldn’t afford another pair for a while. As I turned the last corner around the floor, the first mom showed up with her kid fresh from school, and then the deluge hit. Fifteen kids in all, ranging from six to ten, filled the hall. They all had perfect little fencing shoes. Most of them would out grow them before they wore them out.
Each of them had a sparkling, brand new uniform, their names on their backs, all USFA regulation, despite the fact that almost none of them would see a single competition. Their names were also on their off leg, mostly the left leg, but one had her name on the right leg, like mine. All of them were little rich kids from a rich white town, too classy for Tee Ball, but still desperate for something more active than video games. The salle took their money just the same.
I’d watched the maestro talk to some of their mothers like they were the future of fencing. Maybe they were. Maybe these were the Olympians of tomorrow, but I doubted it. The maestro knew that if he gave parents the hopes of having an Olympic champion in the family, then they might pour money into his pockets.
It happened enough that I knew the face he used when he told their parents after they’d hit puberty that they hadn’t developed correctly for the sport of fencing. I knew it all by heart: too tall for foil, too short for epee, not fast enough for saber. Nothing wrong with the person, just the way the cards were dealt. So sorry.
He usually waited until the kid was no longer interested in fencing, but if they didn’t lose interest, he’d sometimes recommend they move to a salle in San Francisco to get a head start on the competition. Those students never lasted long. The training in The City was brutal by comparison. Maybe it was a blessing. If he sent them on, maybe it really was potential and not some sort of kick back.
And then there was me.
I started fencing at ten. For the first time in my life, it didn’t matter that I didn’t have my right hand. Ever since I’d lost my hand, people would always say things like, “Oh, she’s good, you know, for only having one hand.”
When I won my first competition against people with two hands, I was absolutely floored. I’d never won anything where someone hadn’t let me win. I’d beaten all those other kids with a sword. It was like a pass into the human race. After I started winning, people barely noticed the stump. After all, there was a sword in my hand. Who had time to notice the off-hand was AWOL?
The only problem was that the first salle had taken me on as charity, and we didn’t have the money. Fencing lessons dried up as soon as they realized I had actual talent. I begged to keep fencing, but there was some falling out between my mom and the maestro.
My mom found a new job, and I found a salle where I could comp some of my lessons in exchange for cleaning, then later, teaching some of the younger students foot work, the tedious part.
Almost like little robots, I lined up the kids and we all jogged in place, did some jumping jacks, then started in on the footwork. We’d lunge, and I’d tell them to hold it. They’d complain, and as their legs fatigued, they’d recover back to on guard in shame, waiting for the rest of the class. I could outlast all of them, but they really were kids.
I did footwork at home every day. I wanted to be the best, and it took time to develop the muscles. I’d hold a glass of water in my weapon hand for the added weight.
Still, before long, I was sweating with the best of them, and things were moving along.
Maestro Higgs stalked into the salle and glowered at the students. He grabbed an epee from the wall and went around the room, tapping knees and pushing elbows. All the mothers who stayed to watch sat up straighter. Other than the streak of grey through Maestro Higgs’ hair, he could be any age from twenty-five to fifty, and his rugged smile had an air of recklessness that tended to drive women insane.
I thought it made him look like a used car salesman.
The students lunged, and we held to the count of twenty. I lead by example of course. Higgs gave me a half-hearted, lopsided smile that meant someone was getting bad news today. I lead the students through some double-advance lunges and brought the class to a halt. We saluted Maestro Higgs, and he smiled like an uncle with a surprise.
“Let’s run a pyramid. Winners to the north wall, losers to the south.” He paused, taking in the class with a critical eye. “Well, what are you waiting for? Christmas?”
All the students scrambled to grab their masks and put on jackets. Higgs turned to me with a stony face, and pointed to a little booth where he kept records and trophies for the salle. My heart thumped in my chest. I’d seen it before. When my charity lessons dried up, the maestro had the same somber set of his face when he told me he couldn’t afford to keep teaching me without charging.
Higgs held the door open, and I slipped through. I brushed dust off the second chair so as not to get my uniform dirty. He sat in the desk chair with a sigh. Higgs pushed back from the desk to turn toward me and crossed his legs. Elbows on the arms of the squeaky chair, he leaned back and chewed on his lip.
Finally, he took a breath as if steadying himself for ripping off a band-aid. “You are the most talented fencer I’ve ever had.”
Hope glimmered in the pit of my stomach. He gave me a watery smile, and I tried to feel like things would be okay.
“But I don’t know if I can get you where you need to go.”
His words stabbed my heart, and the caving-in feeling sucked at my chest. My lip trembled, but I clamped it down against my teeth. Like hell I was going to cry in front of my maestro. Fencing was everything to me.
Everything.
“There’s a salle in San Francisco where my maestro still gives lessons. I know things aren’t all daisies in your court, but if anyone can get you there, it’s Maestro Ferrero.”
“You’re sending me to another salle?”
“I can keep running you through the basics, but Cyra, if you want to go somewhere, you’re going to have to step it up. Fencing here will only get you so far. Maestro Ferrero can give you a real plan.”
But I could only afford the lessons I was getting because I taught so much.
My heart constricted in my chest, and my hope fell through the empty space. This was it. This was the end of my dreams, the end of my Olympic run. Dead before it even started.
A shudder ran through my shoulder, but I clamped down on it before actual tears could escape. Higgs thought he was delivering me to the next level. He had no idea he was relegating me to the end of my dreams, crushing them to bits no bigger than ground cinnamon.
Brows stretching together, Higgs gave me a half smile. “You look a little stunned, Cyra. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off? I’ll call your mother, okay?”
Higgs picked up the phone, but I stumbled out the office and headed for the changing rooms. The paint chipped corners seemed more obvious today. Rusty door hinges creaked, and the whole place suddenly seemed as rundown as I felt. Graffiti from past students proclaimed good ti
mes. As I pulled off my white pants, I tried not to think about how incredibly large my thighs were. No girl in the world would want my thighs, but they were fencer thighs.
And now I was a mutant for nothing.
My throat constricted, and my eyes burned. The harsh sound of the ballet teacher counting and yelling at his students drifted through the walls and warred with the thump-thump of the fencers. I could hold it together in front of everyone, but as my knickers hit the ground, tears fell. At least I’d have time to go see Rochan’s gallery opening.
he door chimed as I pushed through. My jeans pulled at my left leg as I slipped inside. Rochan looked about the same as he had two hours ago, except somehow flushed with excitement. His skin was too dark to show actual blushing, but his cheeks dimpled when he couldn’t stop smiling. The dimples were in full view of the day.
“Cyra, you made it!” He beamed at me, and I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s good to have a friend here.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Someone’s dreams should come true. My smile wobbled on my face, and for half a second, Rochan paused, like he was going to say something, but the door chimed behind me.
The gaggle of ballet girls burst through the door, talking and giggling at a hundred miles a minute. They came in a flood. Rochan’s eyes lit up when he saw them all. “Right this way, ladies. Please sign the guest book and enjoy.”
With a self-conscious smile, he waved them toward his guest book. It was sparkly new, something between wedding guest and lawyer’s notebook, leather bound, with broad pages and wide spaces for people to sign. Before the ballerinas, there were six signatures. Two were his parents, and two were the gallery owners.
I got in line, and the ballerinas all waited for Sara to sign. She flourished her name unnecessarily, and Rochan’s eyes twinkled at the extra care she gave his book. After the first three had signed, Rochan started leading the group into his exhibit. The newest ballerina, Ms. Neuve, stared. She stood half a step away from the podium with the guest book and watched Rochan retreating into the exhibit.
I poked her in the side. “You gonna sign?”
She started at the sound of my voice and quickly took a step forward. Her head craned up to follow Rochan as he moved into the exhibit with the gaggle of ballerinas. I chuckled. His perfect chin and high cheek bones had broken more hearts than there were ballerinas here. When it came to Rochan, though, he had eyes only for art. It was his own form of vanity, but he’d been clicking pictures, painting landscapes, and delving into the composition of poetry long before I’d moved here.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, turning on me sharply.
“Nothing. You like the view?”
“Oh, so you like him?” Her words were laced with knives, hissed under her breath.
I took the pen from the podium and read her name. “Nothing of the sort, Christine.” I paused long enough to sign my name. I flourished the Y of Cyra into an infinity sign connected to the tail of the A. It wasn’t much, but a signature was the part of my name that was me. “I think you should know, he doesn’t go for just anyone. He’s into deep people. You know, women with brains and a solid understanding of beauty. Artists.”
“I am an artist.”
I snorted. “Oh please, you show up with your head stuck in a ballet. You think you can sort your way to the bottom of Rochan with your perfect pirouette? Think he’s the right pas de deux partner?”
Her eyes got wide, and a sly smile stretched across her face. “You like him, don’t you? Ha!”
I flushed and wrote down my address next my signature, resigning myself to worthless gallery junk mail. It wasn’t like I’d be back for anything but another one of Rochan’s exhibits. I didn’t have the money to buy anything they usually sold. I sculpted my face into a perfectly stony façade and pretended not to care.
She took a scandalous breath that lit her perfect cream skin. “You do like him.”
“We’re old friends, practically related. Before the dawn of time stuff.”
“Oh my god, you really like him!” She squealed it, and Rochan swiveled his head around to see what caused the squeal.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree. Besides, you like him.” I watched her from the corner of my eyes. “Good luck there, cotton candy brains. You ballet bots have less in common with artists than you do with slugs.” I squared up, one hand between us to catch her retort before it formed. “And no, I don’t think ballet is easy. I just don’t think you spend time, you know, thinking.”
Rochan led the other ladies over to the start of his exhibit. He looked back at us for just a second, and his eyes paused on Christine. The words falling from his mouth in a well rehearsed speech to lead people through his exhibit dropped into an “Um, the, ah… composition—that is the arrangement.” He moved on quickly, recovering his momentum, but his face lit from inside. Struck by Cupid’s arrow.
I groaned. I’d never stood a chance, but now, ha, now that he’d seen beauty queen Christine Neuve, I might as well be a stain on the floor, present, but never acknowledged. Who was I kidding? I’d always be half a person.
Sara saw the glance between Christine and Rochan and stepped between them to ask a question about the lighting of a shot. It was a sunset, nothing really to talk about, but it was technical enough to capture Rochan’s attention from the beautiful Christine.
Christine scowled at the two, now talking excitedly.
“Competition?” I asked with a lift to my eyebrows.
“At least I can be in the running.”
My lips twisted into a sour puss face, and I tried to smooth the expression before she realized how close to the mark she was. “You’re not in the running. You don’t have enough brains to fill a Dixie cup. He likes a girl who can think.”
“You’re just jealous because you’re not his type.”
“And you are?”
“Oh yes, I am an artist. And I’m beautiful. He’ll be falling for me by lunch tomorrow.”
Sara hooked an arm through Rochan’s, and together they strolled deeper into the exhibit, behind a blank wall. The freshmen ballerinas giggled and bobbed their heads as they clutched to each other and followed.
“Gotta watch Sara,” I said. “She sees you like something, and she’ll destroy you through it. She takes on a new project every year. You’ll be crying by sunset on homecoming. Everything you love will be gone by then. Everything.”
“Liar.”
My eyebrows twitched. “Funny, but this is one of those things I don’t even have to try to win. She’s going to destroy you for me.” She stepped back and opened her mouth to retort. I nodded. “You must be good or she wouldn’t want to ruin you. What did you do? Try out for the Nutcracker? And where exactly have you been all this time that you’re new now?”
“I lived in Austin. They have real ballet there, but my father got a really good job and a signing bonus in The City.” She watched me through half-lidded eyes, but I didn’t respond to her with the expected awe, so she upped the ante. “Tomorrow, we’re going to get my car from the dealership. A brand new convertible.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, you’re doomed. He isn’t going to see you past your expensive car. Do yourself a favor and don’t even try to take him for a ride. He prefers people who know about their carbon footprint and how to get super gas mileage.” I tapped the pen on the guest book. “Maybe you should consider a Civic or something.”
“Yeah, well you might want to consider a trip to a salon.”
I twirled the pen through my fingers, ending with it in my hand like a weapon. “You don’t like my look?”
“Well, it’s no wonder you spend all your time with swords in your hand. But you don’t have to worry, you know, because of your hand and all. People already make excuses for you.”
“You got something to say to me, cotton fluff?” My voice rose dangerously, and the freshman ballerinas stopped to watch the coming carnage. Rochan was nowhere to be seen, which was a good thing. If I was going to s
chool this bun-head, I didn’t need him seeing it.
“As a matter of fact—”
My phone blared to life, cutting across the conversation. I held up one finger, and her words ground to a halt in her throat.
“Hi, sweetie,” my mom said on the other end of the line.
I turned away from the ballet girls to shield the fact that my mother just called me.
“Hi.”
“Ah, you sound like you’ve already talked to Higgs. I just wanted to let you know that I think we can do this. We can make this work. I know it’s your dream, and I know you’re willing to work for that dream.”
“But how?”
There was a pause. “I was going to tell you when you got home, dear, but one of my clients has a daughter who’s in remedial English. She didn’t do very well at her last school, and they’re worried about her education. I think you’d like her. She’s a lot like you. I met her yesterday. She’s driven and talented like you.”
I tried not to snort. “Does this flunking prodigy have a name?”
“That’s not very nice, Cyra. You’re going to be her tutor. Make sure she passes.”
“But how am I supposed to add lessons in Frisco to my calendar while tutoring someone else?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? She just joined the studio in the same building as your salle.” My mother paused to take a breath, and I turned around, a sinking suspicion growing in my stomach. The ballerina minions cloistered around Christine, already finished looking at the exhibit. They stared back at me like cats defying a trip to the vet. “Her name is Christine Neuve. I’ll introduce you this evening if you like.”
“No need, we’ve met.”
“Wonderful! Then I’ll see you for dinner. Spaghetti with Nana’s sauce. Don’t be late.”
Fake grin plastered to my face, I said goodbye and clicked my phone off.
My hot anger now burned in the background, but hope lived in those embers, too. If this foul creature was to be the salvation of my fencing career, then I needed to tread carefully. I needed her, and she hated me. She didn’t have to like me for me to tutor her.