Spin the Sky

by MacKenzie, Jill;

  “Come on. Let’s finish this up.” Rose waves her watch in the air. “It’s seven thirty already. We can get the rest done later. You don’t want to miss the final show, do you?”

  I wrap my last ceramic mug in newspaper and then plop down next to our La-Z-Boy recliner. “No way. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Olivia and George stand together on stage, their bodies two inches apart.

  They hold hands. Their faces are blank. Or at least, I’m sure they appear blank to those who don’t know a darn thing about just how freaked out they must be right now.

  But I know the difference—know both of them and know the fear that they must feel, pulsing through their veins. Know it so much that my own muscles tighten at the sight of them. As though I’m up there on that stage, too.

  Rose passes me the bowl of popcorn, sprinkled with the razor clam seasoning we bought, special, for this occasion. The show cuts to commercial and I dig my hand in and shove a handful of the popcorn into my mouth. It’s good. So unbelievably good. The spice is just the right amount and the butter is just the right amount and it slides down my throat and tastes like Summerland and happiness.

  I wonder if Rose is thinking it, too. She’s chewing away, but the sight of her reminds me that there’s something I love even more than this seasoning—being here with Rose. I grab a handful of popcorn and flick it in Rose’s face. She looks totally shocked for a second, but then she reaches into the bowl and chucks an even bigger handful at me. Pretty soon we’re all over the living room, me dragging my cast around, her hopping over boxes and ducking behind the TV, both of us shrieking and tossing what’s left of the popcorn at each other and in the air, trying to catch it in our mouths.

  We don’t have many moments like this, me and Rose. Most of the time she’s big sister and I’m little and that’s how it’ll always be between us—how it’s always been. Which is kind of what makes these moments between us mean so much. When they happen, I know she’s feeling it and I’m feeling it and there’s nothing better than when two sisters feel the exact same thing at the exact same time because you know that there’s no one else on the planet who does.

  A few seconds later, we hear the theme song for Live to Dance, so we fill up a new bowl of popcorn and lie on the floor, our backs heaving, out of breath, our shoulders touching.

  “Wow,” Rose says. She stares at the screen, at Olivia wearing the dress her mother made her bring to LA. The one she said she’d never ever wear. “Olivia really is stunning.”

  “Always. The cameras love her. George looks great, too.”

  Rose snorts. “Yeah, great. And kind of like he’s about to piss himself.”

  I smile at her, so happy to have things back to normal, even if it’s a different version of normal. I watch as Camilla Sky trots on stage wearing a petal-pink Oscars-esque gown that reaches her toes. Her hair is swept off her face and her eyes are done up all smoky and dramatic. Which is so perfect for her.

  “What was it like being so close to her?” Rose says.

  “When you first see her, you can’t help but feel overwhelmed. She’s tall and modelly and yeah, she’s really glamorous. But when you spend a bit of time with her, you see that she’s just a normal person.” I think of how she was with the cameras and how she was so different when they weren’t on her at all. “She’s probably got her own stuff to deal with.”

  “You know, when you got hurt, I glanced back at her. She was actually kind of smiling. Like she knew you were going to get hurt. Or maybe she hoped it was going to happen.” Rose looks down, like she wishes she could suck those words back in. “I wish things would have gone differently. I wish you were up there right now.”

  I inch my butt closer to Rose’s and rest my head on her shoulder. “I don’t. This is exactly where I’m meant to be. For today, at least.”

  Camilla waits for the audience to stop cheering and whistling before she addresses the judges, who have so much to say about the season as a whole and how it compared to previous seasons. They talk about the drama of the auditions. They talk about which state they’re going to choose for next season. They talk about Rio’s scandal.

  “But what surprised you most about this season?” Camilla asks.

  Elliot pauses for a whole three seconds before he speaks. The screen flashes to his face, enlarged by a million. I miss seeing him. I didn’t really get the chance to know him, but I know he was different from the other judges. It was always in his eyes.

  “Things aren’t always what they seem,” he says. “And don’t always turn out the way you expect them to. It’s true for our show. It’s true for life.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Camilla says.

  Elliot waves a hand in front of him. “If you would have asked me three weeks ago who would win the Best Dancer, USA title, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Not for a second.”

  Camilla’s eyes widen. “And now? Has your opinion changed?”

  “Well, Cam. I don’t want to take anything away from the big night these dancers up here have ahead of them.” He studies George and Olivia and smiles. “But yes, it has.”

  Camilla taps her foot. “If you’re speaking of someone specific, I’m sure our viewers would love to hear it.”

  “I’m not naming names, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Elliot adjusts the collar of his leather jacket. “But I will tell you this. The contestant I would have picked danced with conviction. When her routines started, I always inhaled. And I never let my breath out until she was done. That’s called passion. And passion beats perfection any day of the week.”

  I choke on a bit of popcorn and then Rose slams her hand on my back, and then hands me her water bottle. “He’s talking about you,” she says.

  “It could be anyone. Zyera. Juliette. Rio was really amazing. They all are. Even when the cameras aren’t rolling.”

  On screen, Camilla crosses her arms. “This dancing goddess of yours, it wouldn’t be a certain someone out there with a sore foot, would it?”

  Elliot grins with his mouth and eyes. “Like I said, whoever wins tonight undoubtedly deserves it. But my dancing goddess moved like she was dancing for her life. Every single time.”

  I suck in a big breath. Rose is right. I would have won the whole darn show. I would have won, if my fate allowed it. But maybe that kind of knowledge—just knowing that I stood a chance—is just as good.

  Camilla shrugs. “Well, there you have it, folks. The last word from Elliot Townsend. And now, without further ado, I present you with your Season Six top two finalists!”

  Olivia and George exchange looks and bounce up and down on their hard-worked toes. I look down at my own foot, still aching in most places but definitely healing in others. I stick my finger inside the cast to give it a little scratch. A little rub for good luck.

  As if I need it.

  Camilla turns to stage left. “May I have the envelope, please.”

  Rose grips my arm. “Here it comes!”

  I nod at her but I can’t take my eyes off the screen. I’m so scared for whoever is—and isn’t—the winner up there. I mean, it’s George and Olivia. They both deserve their place in the sun. And even though this huge part of me wants it to be Olivia, there’s this other part of me that wants George to win.

  Camilla tears the envelope open with her silver manicured nails. In my chest, my heart beats so heavy and fast.

  “The winner of Live to Dance is—”

  My heart pounds as though trying to free itself from my chest.

  “George Moutsous!”

  Forgetting about my foot, I jump off the floor and cheer. The pain sends me to the ground, immediately. Rose takes hold of my arms to steady me. Together, we laugh, cry, shout, “He did it! He really did it!”

  From the TV screen, the crowd’s going totally crazy and cheering while producers whisk Olivia offstage with her runner-up bouquet. The first two rows of the audience rush the stage to lift George u
p on their shoulders. George pumps his fists and leans back, letting the cameras swarm him and the magic of the moment consume him.

  And maybe I’m not there to help lift him to the sky, the way he did for me. Maybe I’m not there to hug Mrs. M. while she cries and cries because her baby is everything, either. But I am here. And I am watching. And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough, too.

  Rose doesn’t ask me to use the gun once.

  In fact, we haven’t even bothered to bring it out here. It’s still there, in the hall closet, one of the only things that isn’t coming with us.

  “There’s one!” Rose shouts after completing her routine of stomping out three perfect figure eights. “Dig!”

  I thrust Mom’s old shovel into the ground and pull up a mound of mud. Then I throw the shovel in again and again, until at last I spot one fantastically huge razor clam. Rose pushes me and my cast out of her way and drops down to her knees. After a second or two of some serious grunt-and-pull maneuvering, she draws it out.

  “It’s huge!” She jumps up and down on the balls of her feet, shakes her booty all around. “We still got it! The biggest one of the season! Mrs. Perkins, eat your heart out!”

  She grabs my arm and helps me to the water’s edge to rinse our catch in the lapping waves. We won’t stick around to fill our quota today, or any day. We have our biggie. Our own supersized trophy. Laughing our heads off, we jump around and whoop because it’s so awesome to be out here, bundled up in the cold, cold air, touching the cold, cold sea, celebrating a slimy piece of fish.

  Rose’s face gets all serious. “Looks like you got yourself one last clam to crack.”

  “No way. We can’t do better than this baby today.”

  “Look.”

  She points to the dry sand part of our beach. The part right in front of our old house. And then at the figure there carrying some kind of paper bag and walking toward us, bundled up, shivering, and very, very tanned.

  Rose nudges me with her elbow. “Remember what you said about good-byes.”

  I squeeze her hand and mouth the word “thanks.” She smiles and walks away from me, toward George. Their shoulders almost touch as they pass each other. George nods to Rose. Rose sticks her tongue out at him before running, full tilt, away from the two of us.

  I stand still until George reaches me. He motions to my clam. “Looks like you girls lucked out.”

  “I saw you on TV. I saw you luck out, too.”

  “Aw, Mags. You know as well as I do, luck ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

  George and I laugh. And then, because neither of us knows how we’re supposed to do this, to say our so-longs, we go silent.

  After a couple of seconds he says, “You’re really leaving Summerland?”

  “Your mom told you?”

  “Yeah, she told me. But I saw the SOLD sign on my way home from the airport. You really got, like, half a million bucks for that dump?”

  I laugh. “Something like that. Let’s just say it was worth way more than I thought it was.”

  George peers over his shoulder, back at our house, just kind of staring at it for what seems like forever.

  I think of the day after we got back to Summerland. Rose looked up the phone number for Jude Benson, local Summerland realtor/go-getter, who was all too excited to list our little beach-front shack. Rose said it was because of my newfound semicelebrity status from being on “that dancing show.” But I think it’s because women like Jude can smell cash in their pockets a mile away.

  A day later, Jude, equipped with two muscly men, came and posted FOR SALE signs outside both our front and back doors.

  “How much do you think we’ll get for this place?” I’d asked Jude. My eyes darted from her immaculate manicure and tailored suit to our house, complete with cracked floorboards, chipping paint, and one very leaky kitchen sink.

  “Prime property like yours,” Jude said, running her hands through her hair, “it’ll go fast. Tourists around here are hungry for a piece of the good life.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. The good life.”

  Jude raised one eyebrow and passed me a stack of spec sheets to hand out to prospective buyers if any came knocking on our doors, which, she said, they most definitely would. She looked from Rose to me. “You two are doing the right thing, you know. Your grandma was smart to put the house in your name. I bet you could do a lot of things with the money you’ll make.”

  When she excused herself to make a phone call a few minutes later, I whispered to Rose, “Don’t you think it’s weird that she’s so confident about this place? I mean, has she even looked around?”

  “It’s not weird, Mags. Not for her.” Rose smiled at me, but in a sad sort of way. “You and I are the only ones who can see the ghosts that live here.”

  Now, I look George in the eyes. “George. I wanted to say thank you. For getting me off that stage. I know you put yourself on the line by doing that.”

  George shrugs, his grin never drooping. “Not like I could have just left you there. How would that have made me look?”

  I smile and shake my head. “Not like the George I know, that’s for sure.”

  He stares at the beach for a second or two before his eyes meet mine. “So. San Diego, huh?”

  “Yep. Apparently there’s this fancy ballet school there that might be worth checking into for next year.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Mark’s going there, would it?”

  I shrug, but I can’t help but smile. Mark didn’t leave me when I told him I couldn’t go with him. He simply waited for me to come back here to change my mind. Waited for me, like he always had. And it hadn’t taken me long to see that while I wanted to leave Summerland, I didn’t want to leave him. Or rather, I didn’t want him to leave me.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I say. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “I already do know. When it comes to you, Magnolia Woodson, I’ve always known.”

  “You’ve got to admit, the guy’s got way better abs than you.”

  “Not even close,” George says, with a deep inhale of his chest. “But he’s okay. Perfect for you, actually.” Then he makes these stupid kissing sounds on the back of his hand while muttering Mark’s name and my name so I push him over until he lands his butt down in the sand with a thud. I squat down next to him, letting my sore foot stretch to my side. “Are you ever going to grow up?”

  “What fun would that be?”

  “Well, you better. You’ve got to get your ass in gear before you head back to LA and your adoring audience. I heard you accepted a job as a junior choreographer for the next season of Live to Dance. You must be totally amped to get out of here again.”

  George punches me, playfully, on my arm. In a mock-Magnolia voice he says, “Not really. Why would anyone want to leave Summerland?”

  “You never know what the future holds.” I punch his arm back. “The possibilities are endless.”

  George raises one eyebrow. “Wow. Brand-new Mags, right? Decided to give up your life of eternal pessimism?”

  “It wasn’t really working for me. We both know that.” I scoot closer to him. “George.”

  “Mags,” he says at the exact same time. But then neither of us says anything else. Our gazes hold each other. He hands me the paper bag he’s clutching. “I told them, you know. I told the judges I slipped.”

  I kick the sand below my toes. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  I squeeze his hand. My own way of letting him know that I’m proud of him. Not for just winning the whole damn show, but for doing it the way he should have done it in the first place. I go to open the bag he’s given me but he places one hand over mine. “Not right now. Wait, okay? Wait until you’re alone. Wait until you miss me and you can’t picture my face.”

  “This isn’t over for good. Not between you and me, it isn’t. Rose and I need to get away from this place. Shed the skeletons. Start new.” I l
ook beyond George’s head at my house. Still my house, for one more day. “But you and me. This doesn’t have to be the end of us.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’d never let that happen. Just like I told Dolores.” George digs one toe into the sand and then does the same with his other foot. “I’d search the globe, day and night, if you tried to leave me for good. I can do that, you know.”

  “I know. Is there anything that George Moutsous can’t do?”

  “Hey. I was just going to say the exact same thing about you.”

  The two of us laugh, but then George bites his lip. His face gets all serious and thoughtful and so I wait. Wait, while he gathers the strength and courage to say it. Say everything I need him to. “I’m not sad to be out of this place, you know.”

  His words should hurt because I’m part of this place, part of everything he knows here. But they don’t hurt now. Now, I understand them more than I ever have.

  “It’s not that I don’t love it here,” he says. “It’s home. But being popular isn’t always easy, either. People say they love you. Even act like they love you.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t mean they know a damn thing about who you are on the inside.” He kicks at the sand. “It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense.”

  I nudge my foot with his. “It’s not stupid.” I should have said this so long ago. If I was the kind of friend to George I always thought I was, I wouldn’t need to say it to him now. But the fact is, I do. “What I did to you. The way I judged you and tried to label you as gay or straight--”

  “Mags, it doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters. It wasn’t right. Whether you’re good or bad or smart or stupid or gay or straight or neither or both. It’s all judgment, no matter which way that pendulum swings.”

  He stares at me. Smiles with all his teeth and it looks so good. “You know, maybe I’ll look you up the next time I’m in LA. I mean, it’s only like a two-hour drive. We could meet halfway or something. See if the beaches down the California coast compare to Summerland’s in the clamming world. I could even check out your fancy-pants school sometime, too. Who knows?”