Spin the Sky

by MacKenzie, Jill;

  Jacks sticks one foot out to trip Liquid, mid-spin.

  “Hey, man, what’s your deal?” Liquid gets up, hands thrown in the air.

  Jacks ignores him. Turns to me. “Where’d you say you’re from?”

  “Summerland.”

  “Asshole,” Liquid mutters. He whips a cigarette out of his pocket and sticks it between his lips, unlit. But then he slinks away with his friends.

  “Summerland? Where the hell’s that?” Jacks says.

  “Here. In Oregon.”

  “And you learned to dance where?”

  I take a sip of my water. Straighten my back and elongate my neck. Say something about my small studio. My strong teacher. Maybe I even say something about the fact that I’ve danced since before I could walk. But what I won’t say is anything about dancing with George next to me. Always with him next to me.

  And then suddenly he is next to me again. “Mags.”

  No. He can’t take this from me.

  Liquid comes up behind George, grabs his arm, waggles his eyebrows. George shrugs him off. “Not now. Later. Okay?”

  Jacks gaze bounces between Liquid and George. “Oh, that’s just perfect. Now everything makes sense. You two are a regular Gene Kelly and Rita Hayworth. Question is, who’s who?”

  I stare at Jacks. I’m not going to lie, the fact that he knows who Gene Kelly and Rita Hayworth are catches me off guard. And I know it must catch George off guard too. But George ignores him, his eyes steady and on me. “Listen to me, Mags.”

  Like nothing ever has before, earning my spot on the show will change things for me and Rose in Summerland. That’s what’s important here. I turn my head. Look straight at George. See him like I’ve never seen him before. Fixing my family’s life in Summerland. That’s what’s important here. Not this with George. Never again.

  I take a step back, moving away from George’s smothering stare. I used to think it was love when he looked at me like this, his pupils meeting mine like they’re searching for something good, and finding it. But now I know that the only love George has ever felt is love for himself.

  “What do you want?” I say.

  His mouth falls open. “You made it.” He studies his feet. “I knew you would.”

  I shake my head. I don’t say a word.

  A couple of the other competitors—one guy, one girl, both contemporary dancers, both from Minnesota—walk past us, staring at me and George and the heat that’s radiating from us both. They stop, just inches away from us. Waiting.

  George steps toward me. Tosses the couple a dirty look. So dirty, in fact, they keep walking. He whispers to me, “Don’t be mad, okay? I didn’t know that was going to happen. I had to make sure we made it through. I did it for us.”

  My limbs fall limp, softened and worn, like kneaded clay. “Tell me,” I say. “Tell me how you did it for us. Because I want to believe you. I want to believe that you are the same person I’ve known my entire life.” I motion around the room, to all the eyes watching, watching, watching. There are no cameras in Summerland, but it’s no different than this. “Everyone thinks you slipped and freaked out because you thought you screwed up your own chances of getting yourself on the show. Everyone thinks you did this for yourself.”

  “Who cares what they think. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  I turn to go, but he grabs my arm. Sticks his face close to mine. Keeps his voice low. So low, only I can hear it. “Fine. I admit it. I slipped, okay? But who cares? It worked, didn’t it? They loved the story. They loved us both because of it.”

  “I trusted you. You told them who I was. Everything you said is going to make it on TV. Now it won’t be only Summerland people who hate me and Rose, it’ll be the whole nation.”

  “They won’t.”

  “You thought I wasn’t good enough. You took my past and made a circus out of it. She died, George, and all they’ll see is how I whined about how it made me look. You know it means so much more to me than that.”

  “You’re right. I do know. You want your mom back. That’s why you’re here. You want her back and you can’t even see that she’s a shitty person but that’s what she is. That’s what she’s been for a long, long time.”

  “You’re wrong. You have no idea. You shouldn’t have done that to me. After everything we’ve been through.” I clench my fists and release them. “You’re selfish. And scheming.” I get close to his face. “You’re nothing but a liar.”

  George’s eyes waver on mine as if he’s stumbling, falling. “I know you’d do anything to turn back time to before Colleen and the drugs. To before things got so bad in your house. I was trying to help you get there.” He steps closer. Closer. Takes my hand and places it against his heart. I don’t pull away. Instead I leave it there, nestled in the warmth and softness and safety I know so well. “I was trying to help you fill the hole I know you’ve felt every day of this year.” He flicks his head toward the stage. “Those emotions were real. Everything I felt out there was real. I want this for you. I want you to see how it doesn’t matter what they think of you. I want you to know how amazing you are, with or without them.”

  I jerk my hand away from his chest. “You did this for you, not for us.”

  “Mags, please,” George whispers. He glances left and right but there aren’t any cameras near us anymore. “You made it on the show. I did what I had to do to get us there.”

  “I would have made it on my own.”

  “Everyone’s good out there. Have you seen where some of these kids have come from? They’ve gone to real dance schools with famous teachers and round-the-clock training. We’re from Summerland. It isn’t good enough. I needed to make us stand out. Give the judges something to remember us by. It doesn’t matter how good we are.” He slaps his chest. “Our stories. That’s what they want. Something to sell to the crowd.”

  George’s words permeate my brain and spread like anthrax. It isn’t good enough. I know it’s what he said, but I also know it’s not what he meant. You’re not good enough.

  Until this very second, I thought we could go back to the place where “friend till the end” is enough because wading through George’s thick ego is something I’ve always been able to navigate. But now I see who he really is. A fame whore. A glutton for the limelight. A sellout, willing to sell me out too if it means selling ourselves to the crowd, piece by piece by piece.

  Everything inside me goes black. And then white. And then red, lava red. And then I’m on top of him, banging his chest with both fists.

  “What the hell are you doing?” George shouts and people fly toward us. Cameramen on foot and cameras on wheels and kids with phones snapping pictures and cameras.

  I feel someone yank the back of my leotard and someone else grab my hair. “Get her off him,” someone shouts. Hayden. “She’s losing it. Get her off him before she hurts him!”

  Tears fly from my face. My hair hurts from being pulled. But the pain is nothing in comparison to this. To knowing that George never believed in me.

  “You’re dead! You’re nobody to me!”

  A crowd forms around us, circling, swarming. Lawrence. Zyera. Jacks. Liquid. Screens come closer, forward, around, over, and between George and me. They’re filming it all. Another circus. I don’t even care.

  My head snaps back. I shriek and then whoever it is that has me lets go and grabs my arms instead of my hair. I swivel around. It’s Liquid who has my arms pinned behind my back, twisting them so high it feels like they’re going to snap like branches, like kindling, not arms. I stare at Liquid, pleading, but I see nothing behind his eyes. Why is he doing this to me? I could see it from Jacks but not from him. Jacks is the brute. Liquid’s the one who doesn’t want to do anything but dance and get laid. And then I remember. George is the one he wants. And I’m nobody.

  I try to lunge forward, but it’s no use. Liquid’s got a good grip.

  And I’ve got nothing left.

&nb
sp; George jumps back but he springs too far, too quickly, his left cheek hitting one of the cameras, knocking over the man behind it. Liquid releases me. The man scrambles up and the light of his camera flashes red, rolling. George doubles over. He glares at me. His hands drop to his sides, revealing the scratch slashed across his face from the bottom of his left eye to the tip of his chin. It’s bleeding.

  “Who do you think you are?” I never expected to hear him this snarly. I never expected any of this from him. The crowd moves back though the cameras don’t budge. I hear Jacks laughing somewhere at the back of the circle, while Liquid stands so close to George, ready to grab me again if I get near him. I don’t want to be anywhere near him.

  “Just leave me alone, Moutsous. Leave me alone for the rest of my life.”

  George dabs at his cheek with the bottom of his tee and then holds it out, surveying the blood. “With pleasure,” he says. “I’ve spent the last ten years of my life letting you drag me down. I’m sure as hell not going to spend the next ten doing the same.”

  SIXTEEN

  I hear the music stop. I hear a bunch of people clapping and cheering. I hear the screech of metal chairs—judges’ chairs—pushing back, which probably means a break or a standing ovation for someone out there. And I hear Camilla’s voice. Excited. Exclamatory.

  The clapping simmers. And then Rio comes flying backstage toward George and me who are still standing, facing each other, locked in the most wicked stare down ever.

  “We made it on the show!” she screams and the cameras swarm her. “We’re gonna be on TV! We should try to get one room at the hotel, right? We are the three musketeers, just like Camilla said! All for one, one for all! Isn’t it awesome? I can’t believe we all made it!”

  George blinks. His head turns toward Rio, the cameras, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me. “What are you talking about?”

  Rio jumps up and down all around me and George, making these crazy whooping sounds. She’s out of breath but still spurting words that seem empty and hollow and impossible. “I made it through. Did you watch me? They said they’ve never seen anything like me before. Kind of like what they said to you, Magnolia. They loved us all. Isn’t it perfect?”

  I take a step forward and Liquid grabs my wrist, but I shake it free and he doesn’t reach for it a second time. I rub the sides of my arms where his fingers have dug into my skin and the cameras zoom in on that. One guy shoves a girl out of his way to get a better shot and Liquid stumbles back and I know he doesn’t care how he hurt me. I know he’s probably hurt a thousand people before me like this, only worse because it was to save his life, not to save some twelve-year friendship.

  Rio celebrates through all of it.

  I can’t believe she’s danced and finished and neither George nor I watched her or cheered her on, like we promised we would. Like she did, for us. And by the gallon of glee spilling from her, she has no clue that the term “three of us together” no longer has any meaning.

  George must see it too. See how totally oblivious Rio is, because his face softens. He gives her a weak little smile. Squeezes her hand. “I knew you’d make it.” His gaze shoots briefly to me, then down to the smooth floor below, avoiding Hayden, Jacks, and the other contemporary girl, Juliette, too. He doesn’t look at the cameras. He doesn’t even look at Liquid, who’s only ever been looking at him.

  And me. Most of all, George is avoiding me. “I knew we’d all make it,” he says, but his voice is quiet, bitten.

  Jacks’s jaw clenches. “You hoped we wouldn’t,” he says. He steps closer to George. “You’re transparent. I know you were hoping we’d all fall out there.” He head flicks to Rio. “Even her.”

  The glimmer in Rio’s eyes dulls. She stops jumping. Creeps slowly toward George, ignoring Jacks’s words. “What happened to you?”

  Rio touches George’s cheek, stained with the red tracks of deceit. He flinches, but he lets her touch the blood, lets her wipe a drop that’s still loitering there at the corner of his nose.

  George raises his head and stares me square in the eyes for one, two, three seconds. It’s enough for Rio to know. She spins around, her eyes wide and wild. “Did you do this to him?”

  “No. I didn’t—” Something makes me stop. Like my mouth and brain are out of words. My left hand slides up under my bra strap to find my pillowcase piece. I take it out, hold it against my eyes that sting as though they’re bleeding, too.

  A month after Colleen died, I came home from dance late to find the house dark and quiet. I thought I was the only one home. Rose had started working at Urban Outfitters only a week earlier and seemed to be gone more often than she was home. Mom was always at her court-ordered counseling sessions in Astoria, every day, sometimes twice a day on days that seemed more bad than good.

  So I thought I was alone. Until I heard noises coming from Mom’s bedroom.

  I pushed her door open. She was there, crumpled underneath her blankets, crying into her pillow. On her nightstand was a small rectangular mirror and the remnants of fine powder that clung to its edges, like a snow that just won’t melt.

  I climbed on the bed next to her and lay behind her. I wrapped one arm around her thin frame.

  I know she felt me, but she didn’t roll over. Instead, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  I snuggled in closer behind her back and her bones that poked me in a way I knew they shouldn’t.

  “I can’t keep doing this,” she said.

  “So don’t.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do. Just give it up. You don’t need it. You have us.”

  Her body quieted for a moment, as if taking in my words. I needed her to know that I’d never give up on her. That I’d fight for her, through anything.

  “Everything felt easier when I lived in Portland,” she said. “It’s big and free and nothing like here. Nobody knows you, no matter how long you’ve been there.”

  “We belong here.”

  I remember wishing I hadn’t said it, because something about those three little words made her cry again, harder this time. But it’s how I felt. Things had been good for us there at one time. We’d been a family, me and Rose and Mom. I said it again. “We belong here. This is our home.”

  “She’s dead,” my mom said between heaving breaths.

  “But we’re still alive.” I nuzzled her neck and she turned away. It’s not what I meant. Only that yeah, this terrible thing had happened but it didn’t need to keep happening. We could fix things. As long as we were still that family of three, that trifecta that connected us and would always connect us, we could make things better like they used to be.

  But Mom couldn’t hear me. “I killed her,” she said. “She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.” Her body shook, the words, shaking her, as if out of some unwakeable nightmare.

  Ten minutes later, I felt her body calm and then give in to the desperate pull of sleep. Felt my own body, my breath, slowing to match hers. But I got up. Took that mirror from her bedside table. Dusted the powder into the toilet with my bare hand. Walked back to her bed, and slept.

  I woke up the next morning to bright streams of light pouring through Mom’s curtains, bouncing off that damn hand mirror, cleaned, but still there. The mirror’s reflection flashed prisms on the wall behind us, beautiful rainbows that made the place seem happy and colorful.

  I sat up.

  Mom was gone.

  Somehow, I knew that this time, she was gone for real. She couldn’t take it in Summerland anymore. Not after what she’d done.

  I placed one hand over her pillow, hoping to feel her warmth. Instead, all I could feel was the wetness she’d left behind. The tears, the release, the realization that she couldn’t get better. Not here. They’d never let her.

  I never told anyone that I’d cut out that four-by-four square of pillowcase that absorbed her grief in a way we never did. Never told anyone that I’ve been carrying it with me since that morning, exactly one year an
d one day ago.

  Now, Rio’s hand is on mine, pulling at mine. My breath catches in the hundredth of a second it takes for her to grab that piece of cloth away from me. My body lunges toward her, but I’m not quick enough.

  She pulls her arm back, hand closed around my scrap of pillowcase. “Magnolia, what are you doing?”

  “That’s mine. Give it back to me.”

  “It’s just some stupid handkerchief. Can’t you see he’s bleeding?”

  Rio furrows her brows, turns to George. She presses my square to his cheek. The blood soaks through to the other side in seconds, growing from the size of a dime to the size of a silver dollar, the deep red thick and dark and damaging. Her bottom lip trembles. “Tell me what happened to you.”

  George bows his head. And even though I expect him to tell her every ounce of what’s transpired between the two of us, how the earth has shifted, the planets unaligned, he doesn’t. Instead George just stares at the ground.

  Rio glances over her shoulder, accusing. She wipes the remaining droplets of blood from his face. When she’s finished, she walks to the garbage can, opens her palm, and lets my pillowcase piece fall into it.

  “No!” I throw myself toward Rio and then Liquid is back, jumping between me and her. I don’t know why he won’t let me have at Rio when Rio’s taken George from him, too. Maybe it’s payback, for damaging George’s perfectness. Maybe it’s all he knows.

  “Magnolia!” Rio shouts. “What’s gotten into you?” The cameras swing between us and I see our reflections bouncing off them. Rio’s face white and open. Mine red and crumpled.

  “Give it back!” I turn and snarl at Liquid, “Get out of my way.”

  “How could you do this to him?” Rio says.

  “Don’t you mean how could he do this to me?”

  Rio’s eyes widen, shifting around the room without really settling on anyone. “He didn’t mean to. I know what it looked like out there.” She’s scrambling for words. She touches George’s scratch, swelling and bluing and looking so much worse than I ever meant it to be. She turns back to me, her bottom lip trembling. “You hurt him.”