by Rena Rocford
Sara poked around in Christine’s dance bag. “Whoops, wrong bag. I’m so tired.” Then she riffled through her own bag, coming up with a sports drink.
Christine’s voice rang through the room. “She gave me a perfect score!”
Sara’s glower burned through the air, and she picked up her own bag, repeatedly tossing a loose strap over her shoulder.
Everyone twittered around Christine, shocked. Her father stepped up. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to invite everyone to a little party at our house this evening! We’d be delighted to have you. There will be food and a movie in our theater.”
More happy squeals filled the hall. Rochan beamed at Christine who stared back, still stunned by what she’d read. No one else saw Sara slink away.
heir house was designed to host parties. The ten girls all came, and except for Sara, who wouldn’t miss an opportunity to schmooze it up with the ballet teachers, everyone smiled. After it was announced that the troupe had won the group performance, and Christine had won the coveted standout solo award, they’d taken a bunch of crazy leaping pictures with the trophies. It was all digital photography, so the photographer had offered to rush them. Eight by tens already sat in mahogany frames.
With the makeup scraped off, the joy was clear on everyone’s face. Apparently, they had never won such an award before Christine had joined them. When Christine’s phone rang, the chatter was so loud, she had to step out of the room. She burst back in. “I got invited to the Academy for their winter session!”
The room erupted.
Popcorn actually flew up into the air. “Congratulations!” her father said. “But what about your school work?”
“The winter session is only six weeks. Please!” She tilted her head down to look up at her father through her eyelashes. “This would put me in front of the company director. Please! This opportunity won’t come twice!”
“But you’d have to miss almost four weeks of school work!”
I set my glass down. “Actually, Mr. Neuve, she could put in an independent study request. She’ll have packets of work, but it’s doable. I’ve taken a two month independent study once.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Oh really, what for?”
“When I tried to have an experimental prosthesis attached, we decided showing up for school would be too much. I got two months off. I still had to do all the work, but it took less time because I didn’t have to listen to all the other students ask their questions and what not. I’ve been thinking about switching to home study to have more time to work on epee, but my mom doesn’t want to make the switch to full time.”
“Please, Dad! Please!”
He rolled his eyes. “How on earth could I say no to that?” Then he looked at me. “I guess I’ll have to retain your services.”
“If you get started early, you might be able to finish the packet before the start of the session. We could work on it together,” I suggested, knowing that any extra time I offered in front of her father would count toward more money in my pocket.
There were only so many A competitions between now and the West Coast Divisionals, and not all of them were in San Fran. I needed the money.
He nodded at me. “Then that’s how we’ll do it: finish the work before you leave for this session, and we’ll talk about the Academy’s Spring Session after you get your grades back.”
Christine wrapped her father in a hug, kissing his cheek. “Thank you, Dad.”
He blushed. “Well, I’m just so proud of you.”
Nancy held up her glass of orange juice. “To Christine, the greatest dancer in the valley!”
With a pretty flush, Christine took a bow, acknowledging everyone in the room. “It was a group effort. I would not have been able to compete at all if I hadn’t had some wonderful opportunities. And you have all been so supportive. I can’t thank you enough.” She held her glass up and everyone clapped. I toasted her and waited for my opportunity to slip away.
Rochan circled around to Christine’s side.
“Well, let’s get this movie going, shall we?” her father asked, making a show of leading everyone to the theater room. They all slipped away, and Christine caught my eye. She mouthed “Thank you,” as Rochan put an arm around her waist.
I smiled as she left, but the second she couldn’t see me, my face fell. If it weren’t for my words, he would never have stopped, but now he loves her. And what wasn’t to love; she was beautiful in the most classical of ways. She was like a walking portrait. No one could ever compete with her. She was beauty, grace, and intelligence—when she wanted to show it.
To make it worse, she was too nice to hate properly. Bitch.
My stomach growled, and I pulled out my phone to check how much I’d eaten today. Training like mine required a strict diet, and through all that, I still had fat thighs. How cruel was that. I worked out for hours, and my clothes looked lumpy because my shoulders were too big, and my thighs made a horse feel skinny.
My phone said I could eat some more, but I wasn’t really hungry. I popped some sushi into my mouth. The ballerinas had only pecked at the finger foods, but there were four people on the staff who kept the house running. Someone would eat the sandwich rolls, sushi, and Italian salami.
Rosa slipped in with a sigh. I’d met her a few times, but she was usually in the middle of something. She looked over the food. “That fool of a man. They’re ballerinas, and he expects them to eat like football players.”
She snagged a California roll and popped it in her mouth. Rain pattered at the window.
“They work as hard as footballers.”
Rosa nodded and took a cream cheese and cucumber sandwich. She sighed with delight. “Of course, they work that hard, but they never eat in front of anyone. It’s like it doesn’t count if no one sees you eat it.” She pointed at the celery and carrot tray. Only broken remains of carrot sticks and shreds of celery let on to the fact that there had once been a proud display of vegetables.
“Well, I’m not a ballerina.” I took a crab cake and it melted on my tongue. Mouth still full, I mumbled, “This is good.”
She took a bite, closing her eyes at the indulgence. “I’m glad you’re here. Christine has been much happier since you’ve been tutoring her. She doesn’t have many friends.”
“Thanks,” I said, tucking another crab cake into my mouth, but I couldn’t help wondering at her statement. I’d been hired to tutor her: had all of her friends come through situations where someone was being paid to provide service?
Did Christine wonder if I was only around for the money?
That’s why I started, but now, well, as jealous as I was, she did more than I could imagine. She worked just as hard as I did. Yes, her father bought her opportunities, but did that make the few victories she had feel hollow? Or did she never even see what he’d done?
I grabbed one last cucumber sandwich and showed myself out the front door. From this side, the whole house looked like a slightly larger than normal house, built back into a hill, but I knew its secret. I always thought the point of these big mansions was to be impressive rather than to hide.
My beat up car at least had friends in the drive around. The other ballerinas weren’t all driving Audis or Saabs. My faded red MGB fit me just fine. Stuffing the keys into the door, I twisted to pop the ancient mechanical lock. The door creaked when it opened, but that was part of its charm.
My back hit the vinyl seat as I slid into the car. My phone went off in my pocket, and I rolled my eyes. My mom probably just wanted to know why I wasn’t home yet. I could be there in less than five minutes, but I didn’t want her to worry.
But when I pulled the phone out of my pocket, it was Christine’s face blinking on the screen. “What’s up?”
“The letter, it isn’t here!”
I blinked. “But I watched you put it in your bag.” I ran the memory through my mind again to be sure. Christine put it into her bag before the judge came by with the raw scoring shee
ts.
Sara riffled through the bag afterward.
“Oh crap.” I stood up out of the car and slammed the door shut. “Where are you?”
“Oh God, Cyra, I’m in the bathroom. He knows something’s up. When I couldn’t find the letter, he asked me to just recite it.”
“He didn’t,” I said. My feet started moving faster than my brain, pointing me at the door.
“Yes! And I tried. I really tried, Cyra. I have no idea how you—”
“Christine, it’s okay. You can come back out again,” Rochan’s muffled voice carried over the phone. “I only wanted to hear your voice to see if you said it like I heard it in my head.”
“Help!” she whisper yelled into the phone.
“Stall. Where are you?”
“Bathroom outside the theater hallway.” She muffled the receiver. “I just need to collect myself. A moment please!” The phone riffled around. “Hurry!”
“I’ll do what I can.” I hung up and ran into the house. It was a bathroom with only one entrance, but there was a window. Unfortunately, it was on the opposite side of the house and on the second floor. And I needed to not be seen getting in.
Through the door and down a hallway, I saw the scene. Rochan stood outside the bathroom. There was a little vanity area separate from the actual toilet, but there wasn’t a second door.
Stupid rich houses not designed for fire evacuations.
I ducked into the first door I came to on the same side of the hall as the bathrooms, and shut the door quietly.
“Are you okay, Christine?” Rochan’s words filtered through the wall.
This room had a long table and chairs around it, like a meeting room. Maybe it was near the theater room in case they needed to have a conference after watching the movie. Of course, a mansion like this, in Petaluma? This could have been some big wig director’s pad at which he screened movies that he then voted on for the academy or something.
Regardless, it had the most desirable feature: a window.
I slipped the window open and popped the screen out. As I eased one leg over the edge, rain pelted into me, chilling my clothes instantly. I’d regret this set of activities in the morning. The decorative moldings on the side of the building were covered in ivy. It gave me exactly what I needed, hand and footholds. Now all I had to do was climb out the window, shimmy ten feet, and climb back into the window, all without letting Rochan know what was going on.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it.
I hooked some ivy into my arm and grabbed the windowsill before easing myself onto the lip of the molding. I had a good enough hold to hang on if the molding gave out. My full weight came onto the outside board, and it didn’t break off. Holding my breath, I took another step before rearranging my hand and arm.
Rain pelted my back, soaking through my clothes. At the very least, I wouldn’t need a shower… well, except to get warm.
The bathroom window was smaller but still large enough for me. I hooked my arm through a thick ivy stalk and tested it before prying out the screen. Seconds later, Christine opened the window.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Knight in shining armor. I’m here to coach you through a poetry recital.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh my God! Cyra you are a godsend.” She took two soggy fistfuls of my shirt and hauled me in over the ledge. My arms were already starting to shake from the cold.
“What was that? Christine? Are you okay in there? Should I just leave?”
“No! No, I just—it’s, ah hard to um…” She turned down to look at me.
“Emotional, say you’re overcome with emotion,” I whispered.
“I’m just overcome by emotion. I’ve never read my poetry aloud. I—I didn’t think my father would approve with all of the ballet.”
I gave her a thumbs up.
“And I feel really stupid for losing the letter. It takes so long to write those.” She hesitated. “And I just hope I can recapture some of that, ah, feeling.”
I nodded encouragement. It wouldn’t take me anytime at all to remember the lines, but these were desperate measures, and Christine might not even know some of the words. Usually, she had an opportunity to look them over before giving them to him. I’d have to ask what happened later.
“I could always come back.” He sounded sincere, but there was something in his voice. This would be the first crack in an otherwise perfect exterior.
Christine looked at me, her eyes begging for some sort of direction. I shook my head and whispered, “No, this moment is all we ever have. One fleeting second before the cruel vagrancies of time sweep us from this planet.”
She frowned, but nodded, lifting her voice to carry through the door. “No, stay! We only ever get these moments, little things. One, ah fleeing—fleeting second before time sweeps everything clean.”
My eyes peeled back with each mistake, and her grimace grew until every scrap of her face held her pain. She’d barely read Shakespeare in class. How was she going to stumble through my poetry to Rochan in a bathroom? We needed a perfect set up, and he already knew something was up. He was slipping away. I could feel it.
“Are you okay, Christine? It just doesn’t sound like…”
“I’m sorry, it’s just that I…” She paused, looking at me, begging me to do something, to save her somehow. We’d be found out by morning.
Sara had the letter; she’d probably put it together. Even if Sara didn’t figure it out, her relentless taunting would crush the bloom of their hopeful little relationship.
Of course, that would give me room to pursue on my own.
Bent over the door, one hand cupped to the wood and one hand to her heart, Christine was the picture of exquisite pain. She knew what was walking away on the other side. She loved him. Damn it to the nine levels of Dante’s hell: she loved him.
But no amount of love could overcome what we’d done. There was no way she could recite my poetry, whispered in a bathroom, and somehow overcome the daunting reality that she didn’t have the letter. And Rochan suspected something.
And I’d never be this close again. Rochan would never see me as anything but the plucky sidekick friend. He would never have actual feelings for me other than friendship. Christine took a breath to finish her sentence when I saw it, the moment when defeat took her. She was going to spill everything. She was going to confess right here and now.
He would hate us forever. Not just her, not just me, but both of us. If it ever got out, we’d be the conniving women who’d wooed him, led him into temptation. We’d be ostracized by the rest of the school. Sirens who toyed with men’s hearts.
“It’s just that I hardly know where to start,” I said. I pitched my voice to sound more like Christine’s, but even through the wall, it was a stretch. “Letters are like portraits, everyone dressed and pressed, primed for the perfect outcome, but recitals are more like the serendipity of sunlight peaking through the clouds during a rainstorm. Seize the moment or the world will never know how the sun blazed through the storm.”
Christine hissed under her breath, “What are you doing?”
“Trying to save this,” I whispered back.
“Today’s been like a storm.” Rochan tapped on the door, like he was leaning against it. “Maybe we should let it go.”
I touched the door. “No! By dawn, the storm-tossed flotsam of our lives might have turned forever to the distant shores. If we can’t manage this one moment, then what hope is there for our future?”
Silence came back from the other side of the door. Christine’s eyes shook, and I held my breath.
“Go on,” he said.
Christine exhaled, but I put her out of my mind. Opposite this door, Rochan waited for my words. No sight of the beautiful ballerina, and only my words to capture his heart.
“If you would just let me in, then I could watch you, too,” he said.
My eyes jumped in their sockets. “No, please, I wouldn’t know
how to concentrate if you stood before me.”
“But I just want—”
“Let me just have this one moment where you can hear but not see me. Words are purer—freer like this, as if freshly cast from the forge of the gods. My words can dance through the air, and you will have to find the meaning of them without my face to hint. Time enough for faces on some other night, but here, in the gathering dark, let me be the candle against the night.”
Christine’s great golden eyes welled up at me. She’d talked about it months ago, but here in the start of December, the truth had festered in the back of her head. Her eyebrows pinched together. My chest pounded as she stared at me wide-eyed and accusing. She knew. Christine knew beyond a doubt. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to me. I tried to smooth my face, but who was I kidding. I hadn’t climbed along the outside of a second story window for her. I’d done it for me.
Rochan bumped into the door, and I jumped at the noise. “You sound different, more, I don’t know, desperate than usual.”
Christine caressed the door, as if she could cup his face through the planks of wood. She tried to mouth something at me, but we were losing it.
“It’s just the power of today. I really get to do it, to chase my dreams to wherever they lead. No one can stop me. My sword is as lightning and my voice is but thunder, and I shall bring down the heavens with my dreams. And with you by my side, we will crack the dawn open and spill the stars from the sky that we might pick through them and hang the prettiest from our necks. Draping our shoulders in the winds and donning the mountains upon our feet, we will conquer all.”
“I never thought of us as conquerors,” he said.
“Today has been a day for ambition, and the avalanche has begun. The pebbles forgot to protest, and now everything I’ve ever wanted is within my reach. I can even speak in my own voice—with my own words! No clumsy paper and strokes of ink to carry my words. Like the veils between this and the greater truths of the world have been lifted. I see what our future could be, but it’s so close—and so far!—that I tremble to touch such beauty and perfection. This could all end on the draft of a thought.” My voice cracked, and I took a breath, hoping the next words would come quickly enough to keep up the charade.