by Rena Rocford
Christine watched me. Her hand covered her mouth, but her eyes were full of knowing. Her head shook gently back and forth. I focused on the door. She might know, but Rochan didn’t. He didn’t know what I felt. He thought these words belonged to Christine. He didn’t know I existed.
“The draft of a thought? I would have thought our time more solid, more real than something broken by thoughts. I love you.”
I faltered.
I was a fake. He didn’t love me. He loved her. He loved her beauty and her charm. Sure my words had helped, but she was perfect beauty, gracious, poised, loved, rich—she had everything. All I had were words, and words could be learned. She’d figure out poetry in time, probably sooner than later. She only floundered in this instance because of the duel ambush of being asked to recite and being unable to produce the letter. Everything I brought to the table was replicable. And her thighs didn’t come with their own rumbling soundtrack.
“Did you hear me? I love you?”
Screw it, this was it. This was my one chance to believe in a dream that I could never taste on my own. The only way to have his heart.
Christine took a breath to answer, but I beat her to the words. “How can I hear the words my heart has always longed to hear? Your words are like a butterfly through a maelstrom: impossible and doomed to die before reaching its destination. But instead of disaster, this butterfly beat its wings and cast aside the storm. Clear is the sky, and small wings can turn back the tide. No storm, no sea, no rain could hold me, bolstered by your words—the butterfly who turned back the storm. My heart hears two beats.”
His breath caught, hitched on my words. “How do—where do you? A storm against a butterfly?”
I held my breath. Too much, I’d gone too far. My improvisation was always out of control and over the top. I could kick myself.
“Is this what was in your letter?”
Christine met my eyes, a silent plea for help. Our ship was sinking.
“No, I’m sorry. My words by paper are more refined—thorough. It’s an ill-conceived contrition that leads me to believe you would enjoy my musings.”
“Ill-conceived? How come you never talk like that when we’re alone?” he asked.
Christine’s eyes were huge. I’d walked right into a trap of my own design. He could tell the difference between us just by the number of syllables in the words we used. I’m such an idiot.
“It’s hard to be intelligent,” I started hesitantly. “People always make fun of nerdy girls. How could I show myself?” I paused, and the awkward silence stretched. “Even now, I feel exposed. Even the rain can’t wash away how embarrassed I feel. Humiliated. I’m sorry.”
He tried the door, but it was already locked. “Sorry? Christine, you have a beautiful soul, more beautiful than even your dancing. Never hide it! You should be proud. You are talented, brilliant, and your work is incredible.”
He didn’t say which work, but Christine beamed.
Rochan shifted against the door, and Christine touched the wood, pulling back her hand as if his very presence burned through the slab of wood.
Sure, never hide it, except she didn’t have it. “I don’t know if I could bear to be so exposed,” I said, lowering my voice. “I have so many people who have already put me into a perfect slot. I am out of words.”
“Nothing could quench your stream of words.” He sighed. “But I’ve held you prisoner long enough. Please come out.”
Christine looked at me, as if begging forgiveness. She reached for the doorknob, and I slipped myself into the corner behind the opening door. “Perhaps we should take a walk,” she said as she came out of the bathroom. “There’s a veranda with rosemary bushes.”
“I’d like that.”
Even from the wrong side of the door, I heard the smile on his lips.
In love.
My words, a storm against a butterfly.
s with every New Year, the Knight Club held their New Year’s Classic: Hair of the Dog. Everyone already had the day off, and we all got together to have the first competition of the year. Every year, it was slated to start at noon, and every year, it started much closer to two. Coffee cups with a heavy scent of gasoline decorated nearly every corner of the gym. The first year I asked about the coffee, the organizers—all wearing sunglasses and surly expressions—informed me that unless I was after the hair of the dog, I should stick to cocoa.
I thought cocoa was grand at the time, but now I wanted to know what they spiked it with.
The whole competition was officially unofficial. We all fenced under pseudonyms, and the results would not be given out to the USFA. But old buddies got together, stories were told, and the greatness of fencing was passed on to the younger generation: me.
Sweat dripped off my nose as I decimated another opponent. A slap on my back informed me that someone was going to regale me with some story of their youth, but when I turned, I was shocked to see my coach, Maestro Ferrero. She slipped an arm over my shoulder.
“Cyra! How are you this fine morning?”
“Um, well, excellent, especially considering that it’s afternoon.”
“Damn time change getting on everyone’s nerves.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Are you drunk?”
She exhaled a whiff of coffee laced brandy, erasing the need for my question.
“You know I’m underage, right?”
“Phisssha! Do you see me handing you a drink? Besides, it’s tradition. What’s your moniker? Captain Hook?” She held up her right hand in the shape of a hook. She maintained a mostly upright bearing, but she lurched when she thrust her hand into the air.
“But of course! Who else?”
“There are other one-handed people in the world—Captain Ahab!”
I shook my head. “Leg, Ahab was down a leg, not a hand.”
“Shit, I thought I had you there. Too damned smart for your own good. Oh, what about that guy who wants to play piano in that Disney movie?”
“Are you comparing me to a cartoon villain?” I looked down at her. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much taller I was compared to her. Usually she didn’t get close to me unless I was already lunging, and then it was just to move one of my hands into a more perfect position.
“Captain Hook is a cartoon villain.”
“I scoff at thee. The illustrious Capitan Hook is a villain of literature. The later adaptation was only bought by the great and powerful Disney because his daughters loved the book. And, I’ll have you know, all the royalties for that book go to helping orphans! And Peter Pan would be nothing without Hook.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Youth today, correcting their elders. There must be another great personage with a hook for you to idolize. One who isn’t a villain?”
I directed her away from the strip. “Come now, haven’t you heard from Jason over there? I am the crusher of dreams, the destroyer of worlds.” I pointed at my chest. “Clearly, a villain!”
“Ugh, kids.” She stopped suddenly. “Wait, what year were you born?”
I took a breath to answer, but she held out her hand to stop me.
“Never mind, I don’t want to know. You’ll have been born the year I graduated from college, and that would just frost my hide.”
I politely kept my mouth shut.
She guided me over to a corner where Julian, the coach building the UC Berkley team, laughed with a man with a mustache and a silk suit and spats on his shoes. He looked like he’d spent the night at a Gatsby party and was only now coming out to view the world.
“Here she is,” Ferrero announced to the men.
They both stopped laughing and turned to me.
Julian reacted first. “The great Master Hook? You are tearing a hole through your competition!”
In my best Dustin Hoffman impersonation, I said, “Ho-ho, you do me great honor, sir. Please continue!”
Mr. Silk Suit snorted. “Epeeists are the same on every continent.” His thick French accent cut
through my expectations.
“Cyra, this is Monsieur Ethan Richard. He’s here from the Escrime line of gear.” Ferrero pointed at Mr. Silk Suit. “Ethan, this is my newest pupil, Cyra.”
I pulled my hand out of my fencing glove and held it out. Before I could close in on the usual, if awkward, handshake, he had my hand to his lips. “Mademoiselle, the pleasure is mine.”
And kissing a fencer’s hand was an act of pure chivalry. Fencing gloves stank.
“Ethan is scouting for sponsors for his U.S. partners.”
I blinked. “Oh,” I said with all the intelligence of a well studied student who landed a nearly perfect SAT score, but had no idea what she was talking about.
“It is a pity about your hand,” he said. “But I suspect it will help. My partners always look for good stories. It helps the promotion.”
Ferrero stiffened, and Julian suddenly looked pale.
“What do you mean?” I asked before someone could stop him.
His eyebrows jumped to his forehead. “The American side of my company likes a good deal. You will surely be in a position to dominate at the Paralympics, and the road is much cheaper.”
My brain ground to a halt.
“You think I’m not good enough to make the Olympics because I don’t have a hand?”
Ferrero shook her head. “Cyra, that’s not what he’s—”
Ethan held up a hand. “Not at all, but to make the Olympics is very costly. Thousands of hours of training, flights to Europe and Asia, and championships. I was under the impression that you were not from a wealthy family?”
Stunned, I blinked back. My heart pounded against my aching chest, caving in like a sinkhole.
“That is how it works for you Americans, right?” He looked to Julian, who studied his shoes. “You compete for points, and whoever has the highest number of points, that is a consideration, no?”
“It’s only a consideration,” Ferrero said. “Not every team is based solely on the old point system.”
My heart hitched on the word: solely. That meant they considered it. “What are we talking about?”
Julian interrupted. “In the two or three years leading up to the competition, you’d have to fence in enough international competitions to at least prove that you could handle the pressure. That’s way off.”
“No, you must start now!” Ethan said.
“But I don’t—”
“Exactly!” the Frenchman said. “But, luckily, your hand may qualify you for a different tournament. And it’s much less expensive to get named to that team!”
“There’s nothing wrong with my legs! Why would I fence in a wheelchair?”
He shook his head. “It is only a matter of reality: with your hands and with the money,” he said as if I should understand.
Exploit the loss of my hand for an opportunity to do something cheaper.
“What are you saying?”
“You are off balance without both hands, surely you know this,” he pointed at me. “I am just saying that it is better to accept the truth of your situations. You do not have both hands. It is better to have both for fencing. It is a disadvantage.”
Something violent slipped in my heart. “You don’t think I can fence because I don’t have two hands?”
Ferrero stepped between us, holding out her hands. “Whoa, Cyra, that’s not what he’s saying. He’s just pointing out the money.”
“You agree with him?” I asked.
Julian stepped in, blocking my view of the Frenchman who started cussing in French. “A lot can happen in four years.”
My world spun. “You believe him. You think he’s on to something!”
“I never said that. It’s a long road one way or another. But there are realities to this regardless of what anyone has to say.”
“You just wanted me for the humanitarian response? Is that it? Can’t make a real Olympian, so you thought you’d go for the girl who didn’t have a hand. Made a better talking piece to get people on your side? Is that it?”
Julian held up his hands. “No, listen to me. You are a great athlete. You have huge potential. What I don’t know is how you will bloom given the opportunities that will carry people through the years of training. It’s three and a half years away. Are you going to peak when we need you to? Are you going to be the fencer we need you to be? It’s thousands and thousands of dollars to put someone out there for the Olympics. And never forget that even if you make it all the way to the top—even if you manage to scrape enough money to fly to Europe four to six times a year to compete—there’s no guarantee that you won’t be runner up. We don’t send a big squad. You could be fourth. It’s a hard, cruel truth. You’re behind other girls who went this year. They’re going to try to make the team next year. How are you going to hold up? What Ethan is talking about is a real chance. You could go all the way with that.” He pointed at Ethan as if he represented a whole different path.
My teeth ground together. “My greatest attribute to your plan is that I lack a hand.” My stomach rolled. Static rang through my head. And worse, they were right. There was no way I could afford all the things they were talking about. Trips to Europe? Hell, we had to scrape our money together just to make nationals, and those were in Texas. How was I going to afford to do things like fly to Europe or Asia? I’d looked up plane tickets over the summer, just in case I had an opportunity to go to the Olympics to watch. It was laughable. I couldn’t do that.
Then there were hotel rooms, food, rides to and from the airport, entrance fees, and all of that was before we started talking about equipment. I went through an epee every two weeks. They cost a hundred dollars each. Then there were the shoes, the bag, the mask, the cords, the time to put it all together.
Thousands and thousands of dollars. More like tens of thousands of dollars. Per year.
My dreams shriveled under the weight of truth.
Julian clapped my shoulder. “I’m not saying you have to make a decision today. Just think about it.”
Like a marionette controlled by some other force, I left, woodenly dressing into my civilian clothes. If someone bumped me, I’d fall off my strings and crumple to the ground.
made it home in a daze. My car seemed to know the way, so I let it get me home. When I pulled up, I realized that nothing could change what they’d said. I went straight to the computer and started researching the tournaments they were talking about, and sure enough, even the registration fees were astronomical.
Stumbling, I took a shower and made it to my room. With the door closed, I could almost pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. The sun shone through the window, in what was the last rays of the most beautiful winter day someone could hope for. Stupid mother nature mocking me with her majestic beauty. Didn’t she know my dreams were dying here?
I’d never wanted anything else. It was the only dream I had. I didn’t even have a consolation dream. When I closed my eyes, I imagined myself holding my weapon over my head at the Olympics. Sure, I wanted to win, but just to make it, to be the best in the U.S., that was what I wanted. I’d never even been to Canada or Mexico, how would I ever make it to Europe?
The short answer: I wouldn’t.
My phone buzzed at me, and for a crazed half second, all my pain and frustration focused into that completely inanimate object. I wanted to throw it. In my mind, I saw how it would explode when it hit the wall, breaking into tiny pieces.
Of course, I didn’t throw my phone.
Instead, I picked it up and answered it. “Yeah?”
Christine’s voice came through the speaker. “Aren’t we going to work on that packet today?”
“Shit, sorry. I was going to come by after the Hair, but…” But what? My dreams were crushed into a fine paste that people with money—people like you!—use to spread on their morning muffins. No, be fair, Cyra, it wasn’t her fault she had money. And it wasn’t like it ever did her any good being born into it. Her father still wouldn’t send her to full time ba
llet school. She had to win scholarships to get the things she loved. It all came from her.
Maybe someone had a grant or a scholarship for fencing.
“I’m sorry I forgot.”
“Hey, no worries. I’ve just got a bowl of popcorn with your name on it and the Russian Ballet’s 1986 Nutcracker.” Her tone left no doubt. There was nothing greater on this green Earth than the Russian Ballet’s 1986 Nutcracker.
“Right, I’ll be right over.”
“You okay?”
“Long story.”
“Then you have to tell me when you get here.”
I nodded before I remembered that she couldn’t see me from the other side of the phone. “Right.”
With the same numb autopilot that brought me home, I made it to Christine’s house. I pushed my way through the door to her room. She had cushions set up on the side of her bed, using it as the back of an improvised couch. I folded my legs under me just as the Russian lead started leaping into the air.
Apparently this was one of the first performances ever videotaped and released out into the Western World early in the breakup of the Soviet Union. It was grainy in places, but the whole thing made me understand what ballet was supposed to be.
The studio on Fourth belied that romantic dream.
My thoughts suddenly went to Sara. She had been the next It girl for the studio on Fourth Street, but one summer with a growth spurt, and that was it. She could never hope to achieve the success she’d dreamed of—and all because her breasts were too big.
And I could make the Paralympics because I was missing a hand.
It made me sick.
“Why aren’t you watching?” Christine asked, hitting the pause button. “Are you okay?”
I sighed. “I’m watching.”
“Don’t you lie to me. Did you see him do that plié?”