“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Well, I’m kind of busy in here, so…”
“Can I draw you?”
I blink. “What?”
“Can I draw you?” he repeats, easing himself down so that he’s sitting on the floor pretzel-style. He opens his sketchbook to a clean page.
“You mean you want me to pose, like for a portrait?”
“No. I’ll draw you while you dance.”
“I don’t think so. You’ll distract me.”
“I’ll be really quiet. You’ll forget I’m even here.”
I shake my head. “I doubt that.”
“Please?” he says. “I promise to show you once I’m done.”
This is enough to make me change my mind. “Okay.”
The song changes to “I Wanna Be Where You Are” by the Jackson 5, and I step back into the center of the floor to work on more combinations. Even though I’m wearing a leotard and tights, I feel exposed. I can’t remember the last time Eli saw me dance. Most likely some time in middle school when there was a stage and an audience between us. Never alone like this.
I picture Avery Johnson, because wherever he is, is where I want to be. Whether it’s auditioning for him, learning at his conservatory, or, if I’m lucky, being a professional dancer with his company.
But Avery Johnson isn’t all I’m thinking about. I can’t stop glancing at Eli’s reflection in the mirror. He’s skillfully sketching across the page, and every once in a while, I catch him watching me intently.
He said he was looking for me. He came here because he chose to be wherever I was.
Oh, God. Do I even hear myself right now? Why am I reading so deeply into this? He most likely came here because he was bored. That’s all.
When my limbs feel gooey and loose and my toes start cramping, I decide that’s enough dancing. If I keep going, I might put too much stress on my muscles, and I can’t afford to get hurt again.
After I finish my cool-down stretch, I turn around to face Eli. He’s staring again. Then he blinks like he’s rousing from a dream. I walk over, plop down in front of him, and begin untying my pointe shoes. I’m anxious to see how I appear to him on the page. Will it look like the sketch he gave me before? When I lean over to peek at what he’s done, he quickly closes his sketchbook.
“But you promised you’d show me,” I say, disappointed. Tricked once again.
“I said I’d show you when I was finished. I’m not finished.”
“I really want to see it.”
“You will,” he says. “I promise.”
I nod at his sketchbook. “What else do you have in there?”
I expect him to tell me to mind my business. Instead he looks at me skeptically. “Why do you wanna know?”
“I want to steal your work and sell it. Duh.” I roll my eyes. “I’m just curious. If you don’t want to show me, it’s fine.”
Slowly—and surprisingly—he reopens his sketchbook. He slides closer so that one side of the book is in his lap and the other side is in mine. I blink in disbelief. Is this really happening?
“I drew this one earlier,” he says. The first drawing is of Geezer lying down, chewing on a deflated basketball. It looks so real. He drew the faint scars on Geezer’s muzzle, and the way his right eye is a little smaller than his left.
He flips closer to the front of the sketchbook and reveals a drawing of Larissa. One half of her face has lipstick, big hair, and long, curled eyelashes. Her mouth is turned up in a smile. The other half has short hair, a round, questioning eye, and full lips set in a straight line. Larissa then vs. Larissa now.
I run my fingers over the page. “This is amazing, Eli.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I’m supposed to tell a story through art for my senior project. I’m just not sure what story I should tell yet.”
He keeps turning the pages. He shows me more drawings of his mom and Larissa. There are some of his old basketball teammates and a few of Isiah. A lot of pages are devoted to random sketches of Geezer. The last sketch he shows me is of him and his dad on a fishing boat. Eli looks a lot younger and the expression on his face is sad, even though his dad is smiling. Mr. Greene used to take him on fishing trips all the time when we were younger. But, from this drawing, it doesn’t seem like Eli enjoyed this particular trip very much.
I never would have guessed in a million years that he’d show me his art like this. He has such a gift. It would be a shame if he wasted it.
“Why aren’t you going to art school?” I ask.
He closes his sketchbook. “I am.”
“What?”
“I am going to art school.”
I lean forward to get a better look at him. “But I thought you were going to UNC?”
“No.”
“But your mom said—”
“My mom saw my UNC acceptance letter and called my dad to tell him the news. They both assumed that’s where I was going because that’s where he went to college. Neither of them bothered to ask me.”
“And you haven’t bothered to tell them?”
“You think my dad would be excited to hear that I’m going to college for art? He just wants me to become a lawyer like him. My mom will go along with whatever he says as long as he keeps sending her alimony checks.”
“Who else knows?” I ask.
“Larissa and Trey,” he says. “And now you.”
Well, that explains the weird looks Trey and Larissa gave me whenever I mentioned Eli and UNC. And why Trey said Eli was going through some things.
“Which art school is it?” I ask.
“The San Francisco Art Institute.”
“San Francisco? Wow, Eli. That’s awesome.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs a little, like it isn’t a big deal, but it is.
“When are you going to tell your parents? You have to eventually.”
He clears his throat. “Well, I planned on telling my dad this week.”
Him putting off arriving at his dad’s makes sense now. Even though he won’t admit it, I can tell he’s nervous.
I think about the time Mom told me that parents push their kids in the right direction until their kids can figure out what they want on their own. But our parents really underestimated us.
“If everything works out the way we want, we’ll both be on opposite sides of the country in the fall,” he says. “I bet you’ll be happy to be far away from me.”
I feel the tiniest of pangs in my stomach when he says this, but I ignore it. “The day you move will be the best day of my life. Maybe I’ll send you a postcard once I’m in New York.”
He smirks. “Who says I’m going to give you my address?”
I start to shove him, but he catches my arm by the elbow. “Why must you be so violent?”
I wait for him to let go, but he doesn’t. Instead, he slowly runs his hand down my arm and gently skims his fingers over the scar I got from his thornbush all those years ago. Then he lifts his eyes to meet mine.
My heart is thudding so loudly in my ears I can’t hear anything else.
“I’m back.”
Eli and I jump apart like we’ve been zapped.
Larissa is standing at the door, smiling. Her eyes dart back and forth between us. Who knows how long she’s been there.
“Ready to get some food?” she asks. “Will said he’d cook.”
“Yes,” we both answer.
Eli quickly hops up and helps me to my feet. His palm is warm, and his fingers are covered in pencil lead. When he lets go of my hand, I try to shake off the ridiculous feeling that I wish he hadn’t.
Chapter 19
Starting Over
Will is a senior, and he lives in a house off campus with a few other upperclassmen. His front door is unlocked, and when Larissa pushes it open, Geezer runs to us. I get a view of the mismatched living-room furniture, and sprawled out on the cracked leather couch is a guy who is string-bean skinny with his hair cut in a fade. He jumps up once he sees us.
Larissa can’t finish saying, “Chloe, this is my boyfriend, Will,” before he scoops her up into his arms.
“I missed you,” he says, nuzzling his nose into the crook of her neck.
“I just saw you this morning.” Larissa tries to squirm away, but he holds her closer. She finally stops wiggling and sighs. “Okay. Okay. I missed you, too.”
Eli makes a gagging noise, but they ignore him as Will gently sets her down and brushes a hand over her short hair. He smiles at Larissa like she’s perfect, and then he turns to look at me. He picks up my hand and gives it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you. I hope you like ramen noodles from the pack, because that’s all I know how to cook.”
“That’s fine,” I say, laughing. I point at the Greek letters on his T-shirt. “What does that say?”
He puffs up his chest. “Beta Beta Beta. It’s a biological-science honor society. Sometimes people think I’m in a frat, which is hilarious. Because, no.”
He leads us into the kitchen, where a pot of ramen noodles is boiling on the stove. His roommates come in and out, grabbing food from the fridge and introducing themselves briefly before they scurry away.
“They’re playing video games in the basement,” Larissa explains to me. She nods at Will. “He’d be right with them if I weren’t here.”
“I heard that,” Will says. He walks over and places mismatched bowls filled with noodles on the table.
Eli’s hand knocks into mine as we both reach for the same bowl. I quickly pull away, remembering how strange I felt earlier when he grabbed my hand in the dance studio.
“Go ahead,” I say. “You can have that one.”
“No, you can have it,” he says.
Larissa reaches for the bowl and quirks an eyebrow. “How about I take it?”
Will sits down, and we start to eat. Eli is feeding Geezer some of his noodles when Larissa asks him to take his hat off at the table.
Eli snorts. “Okay, Mom.”
“I’m serious, Eli,” Larissa says. “Come on.”
“I’m serious, too,” he says. “I’m not taking it off.”
She squints at him. Slowly, she asks, “What’s wrong with your hair? You love any opportunity to show off those curls of yours.” She glances at me and my face must give something away, because Larissa pushes back her chair and stands.
“Stop, Riss,” Eli says. He gets up and walks around the table to get away from her. Geezer trails after him like they’re playing a game of follow-the-leader.
“Not until you show me what you’re hiding under that hat.”
Eli breaks out into a full-on run and Larissa chases him. He jumps onto the living-room couch and holds out his arm to keep her at bay. “Don’t touch me. I’m serious.”
Larissa the ballerina makes a reappearance as she gracefully sidesteps his extended arm and swipes his hat off of his head, revealing his bald spot for all of us to see.
“Oh shit,” Will says.
Larissa’s jaw drops, and I cover my mouth to keep from laughing.
Eli clears his throat. “So … what had happened was—”
“I don’t even want to know what happened,” Larissa says. “You’re going to have to cut all of your hair so it grows back evenly. You know that, right?”
He balks at this. “No.”
“Yes,” she says. “Chloe, please tell him I’m right.”
“She’s right,” I say, still trying not to laugh. Eli glares at me.
“Your hair grows fast,” Larissa says. “The curls will be back before you know it.”
He shakes his head. “I’d rather have a bald spot than be bald! Everyone will call me Mr. Clean.”
“Or an old man,” I say.
“Or an old man!” Eli yells.
Larissa gives me a look that lets me know I’m not helping.
“What are you going to do at school?” she asks. “Be reasonable. You have to let Will cut it.”
“Me?” Will says, blinking.
Slowly, Eli lowers his hands from his head. He sighs and looks down at the floor. “Fine.” His gaze snaps back up to Larissa and then to Will. “Please don’t make me look stupid.”
After we finish eating, we move outside onto Will’s back porch so he can cut Eli’s hair. Eli mopes in his chair as he watches clumps fall to the floor by his feet. Geezer sniffs at them, sneezing every few seconds.
Larissa and I sit at the bottom of the porch steps. She hums along to the music playing on her phone, totally relaxed. Meanwhile, I keep thinking about how every minute that ticks by brings me closer to my audition. Dancing in the studio earlier helped, and this is the most I’ve had my nerves under control all week, but I would be lying if I said my stomach wasn’t doing flips.
The song changes, and Larissa suddenly stands up and holds out her hand.
“Dance with me, for old times’ sake,” she says.
Smiling, I let her pull me up, and I follow her lead as she dances the same choreography from our pas de deux. When she begins to stumble over the steps, I take the lead instead and she follows. Then she stops dancing and watches me, smiling proudly.
“You really are meant for this,” she says.
Our moment is interrupted when Will shouts, “Behold, my masterpiece!”
He holds a mirror in front of Eli, who raises an eyebrow like he’s unsure what to make of his new look. He’s not completely bald. Will left a bit of peach fuzz. The haircut makes him look older and more sophisticated. I feel a flutter in my stomach the longer I look at him.
“Thoughts?” Will asks, surveying his work.
Eli shrugs, turning his head this way and that to get a better look. “It’s not bad.”
“It’s definitely much better than having a bald spot,” Larissa says.
Eli’s eyes find mine. “What do you think?”
It’s an ironic question, because without thinking, I blurt, “You look handsome.”
ME AND MY MOUTH.
Eli flashes a small smile and thanks me. I’m busy wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
My state of mortification thankfully ends when the song changes and Will tells Larissa it’s his turn to dance with her. He makes his way toward her and puts his hands around her waist. They sway slowly to the music and gaze at each other.
I make a move to sit on the porch, but I hesitate. I don’t want to sit next to Eli after the compliment I just gave him.
But wouldn’t I look weird if I didn’t sit next to him? I just need to be cool.
As I approach, Eli slides over to make room for me. When I sit down, Geezer lies in front of us, and we watch as Larissa and Will sway back and forth.
“It’s nice to see them together,” Eli says. “It’s like proof that we don’t have to have dysfunctional relationships just because our parents had one.”
I nod, facing forward. I still can’t bring myself to look at him.
“That school has to accept you,” he says. “You’re amazing—I mean your dancing. Your dancing is amazing.”
Surprised, I finally turn to look at him. Pink spots blossom on both of his cheeks. I don’t know what surprises me more: his compliment or the fact that he’s blushing.
But I’m blushing, too. I’m sure of it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
That might be the nicest thing he’s ever said to me. I’m still marveling over it when he breaks the silence again.
“When I was watching you dance earlier, I kept thinking that I was witnessing some kind of miracle,” he says. “You broke your ankle, but there you were, dancing like you’d never been injured in the first place.” He shifts so that he’s facing me head-on. “What you said yesterday was right. I wasn’t the one who almost hit you, but if I’d driven you to the dance like I’d said I would, you probably wouldn’t have gotten hurt. I know that. I think I’ve always known that.”
I stare at him. I’ve waited months to hear him say those words and staring is all I can do.
“I knew I
should’ve apologized, but I didn’t know how,” he continues. “I spent a long time thinking it over, and when I finally knew what I wanted to say, it felt like it was too late.” He looks down and traces his foot over a crack in the porch. “I wasn’t purposely ignoring you at school, either. Sometimes I’d see you in the hallway, and I’d want to apologize right there, but I was afraid you’d yell at me in front of everyone.”
“I might’ve,” I admit. He looks up and smirks.
“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that what I did was messed up. You deserved better. I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.”
I’m quiet as I let his words sink in.
Part of me wants to be the kind of girl who would make someone beg for her forgiveness, who has the ability to watch someone squirm. I shouldn’t forgive him so easily, should I?
But I’m tired of holding on to this grudge. I want so badly for us to start over.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “I forgive you.”
His smile is full of relief and gratitude. “How you feeling about tomorrow? Nervous?”
“A little,” I say, as the jitters return. “I love ballet more than anything, but I have to admit it’s been nice to get a break from it these past few days.”
“You’ll be all right,” he says.
He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, and leaves his hand placed over mine. It almost looks like our fingers are entwined. I keep waiting for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. When I look up at his face, he’s already looking at me. His expression is serious, a little unreadable. Have his eyes always been so brown? They’re the color of milk chocolate. I’ve known him my whole life. Why haven’t I noticed this before?
“You should come with me to my dad’s house after your audition instead of driving home,” he says. “He lives on the beach, and he has a huge TV, so you can watch any movie you want. Even Forrest Gump.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Slowly, his lips form into a smile. It’s infectious. I can’t help but smile in return as I fumble to come up with a reply to his offer.
And that’s how Larissa finds us, smiling at each other and almost holding hands. Somehow, she and Will stopped dancing and turned off the music, and I didn’t even notice.
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