Dark Turns (9 page)

N
ia removed her pointe shoes, revealing a large bunion where the phalange bone in her big toe connected to the longer metatarsal. The bunion wasn’t the cause of the pain shooting from her foot up her calf. Neither was the fresh blister that had formed during the morning’s extended demonstration of échappés sur les points, which were like ballerina jumping jacks. It was her heel again, throbbing from constantly rolling her foot onto her toes.

She shoved the pointe shoes into her cubby and then dug her knuckles beneath her ankle. She rubbed her foot as the class filed out of the door. The health insurance couldn’t come soon enough.

Marta exited the studio first. The T twins and Kim followed behind, walking slowly so as to overhear Alexei and June’s competing opinions about the school e-mail concerning
“a student’s arrest.” Alexei insisted that the school should have revealed Theo’s name. After all, he said, everyone knew he did it.

Lydia and Suzanne brought up the rear. They, too, were in the midst of conversation, but classical technique, rather than school gossip, was the subject. As the new girl, Lydia couldn’t lend any insights into Theo’s guilt or innocence.

Aubrey and Joseph were last out of the room. He draped his arm around her shoulders, a possessive and comforting gesture. Aubrey leaned into his side. Nia wondered whether she’d told him about being with Theo and about her concerns that he would have hurt her too. Joseph had probably heard about the tape.

Nia’s foot still ached as she took the long way back to her dorm. Not wanting to pass the lake was the primary reason for taking the roundabout way. But there were also other benefits. The path passed the boys’ quad, where she might run into Peter.
Best way to forget about an old flame is to stoke a new fire
. That was also one of her mother’s sayings, though not one that Nia had taken to heart—at least, not yet.

She was still hung up on Dimitri. His parting words from their brief phone conversation replayed in her head. He’d said he’d loved her. Loved her! Had he realized that they were meant for each other, or was he between girlfriends and suffering a momentary pang of nostalgia?

Nia tried to extinguish her excitement. Even if he did love her, so what? His love wasn’t lasting. She couldn’t open herself up to getting hurt again. She’d just started to consider moving on. Of course he would show up now, reminding her of the past, trying to make sure she still waited on the sidelines for him while he played the field.

An SUV parked on the lawn outside the boys’ dormitory. This one didn’t have police badges or lettering. Nia doubted
that it belonged to the detectives. The words “Range Rover” glimmered in the sunshine. Surely, Connecticut police departments didn’t pay for detectives to cruise around in a car that expensive.

The SUV’s trunk arched in the air like a mechanical claw. The dormitory door swung open. Peter carried a box out to the trunk. Theo followed behind, rolling a suitcase.

Nia stepped toward them and then stopped. She didn’t want to appear nosey. But she did want to know why Theo, who’d only been arrested yesterday, was out of jail and leaving campus.

She waved to Peter. “Do you guys need any help?”

Peter turned to Theo and said something inaudible. The boy shrugged a response. Peter waved her over.

Her heel still throbbed as she hustled to the stairs. Carrying boxes was not recommended exercise for a foot injury. But curiosity beat out her better judgment.

“Theo is going to spend some time with his folks. His parents are in there packing. If you want to grab a box, that would be great.” Peter leaned toward her. He lowered his voice so that Theo couldn’t hear. “It probably would be good for them to see that the whole school hasn’t abandoned him and that the faculty is being supportive.”

Nia hadn’t made up her mind about Theo’s innocence. But she had already offered to help pack his bags. “Sure. Is the door open?”

“No, I’ll—”

A crash interrupted him. Theo had thrown the suitcase into the interior. It had collided with a ceramic table lamp, exploding a hole in the lamp’s belly. The missing piece sat on the trunk’s carpeted floor, an unconcealed shiv glinting in the sunlight.

“It’s so messed up.” The boy shook his head. “It’s just so messed up.”

Peter squeezed his shoulder. “You’ll be back. They don’t have any evidence except some circumstantial nonsense about a phone call—”

“Not a phone call. A text message that they say came from my phone but that I didn’t even send.” Theo raked his fingers through his hair. “I wasn’t even on campus when they think she was killed. It’s like they’re out to get me or something. I didn’t do anything.” He shook his head and rubbed beneath his nose. “It’s totally messed up.”

“I know.” Peter again laid a hand on Theo’s shoulder. The gesture would have seemed frigid if Nia hadn’t known that any teacher-student contact was forbidden. Peter was risking reprimand for even such a small measure of support.

Teacher and favorite pupil shared a moment. Nia felt awkward witnessing it, but she couldn’t slink away now. She spoke to remind them that she stood there. “What can I help pack?”

Theo eyed Nia like a poker player trying to determine if the other guy was bluffing. Brow lowered. Forehead wrinkled. He swatted at a tear on his cheek.

“Thanks, but my parents have it. They’re not really up for talking.”

“I understand,” she said before Peter could press the issue. She didn’t want to meet Theo’s parents. They’d probably be crying. And what comfort could she offer?

She didn’t know whether Theo was guilty of murder. But, given the rumors, he wasn’t
that
innocent.

T
oo sexy. Nia frowned at the little black dress as she examined her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The built-in bra squeezed her bust, propping it above the scoop neckline like a shelf. The dress didn’t say come hither so much as
come ‘n’ get it
.

She didn’t want Peter to get the wrong impression. Though she wasn’t sure
come ‘n’ get it
was the wrong impression. Her body craved contact, and the call from Dimitri had made it worse, bringing back memories of the two of them together. She felt tight, anxious, uncomfortable beneath her skin. She needed a release.

Still, this LBD wasn’t approved for first dates. Better to opt for a more casual look capable of blending in at an
upscale place. Something pretty, feminine, and summery. Floral.

Nia shed the second-skin fabric and frowned at the scant contents of her closet. She didn’t own anything sufficiently girly. Dance clothes, a skirt suit, and a few solid-color dresses hung in front of her. Nothing flirty. Nothing expensive. Peter’s ex-wife would have worn pricey, designer clothes.

She pulled a Grecian-looking frock from a hanger and slipped it over her head. The cowl neckline cradled her cleavage. About the same amount showed as with the tank dress, but the draping and creamy color softened the impact. The cowl continued in the back, exposing the cappuccino expanse from her shoulder blades down to the v of her waist. Sexy, but not begging for attention. Better.

She swept her flat-ironed hair into a high ponytail that highlighted her defined back. If she didn’t flaunt other assets, she could show off her jutting shoulder blades and narrow waist. She opened her makeup bag. Neutral eyes and red lips were the look of the moment. She swept a taupe shadow from eyelids to brows before lining her lashes with a deep brown pencil. She finished with a coat of black mascara and cherry-colored lip-gloss.

The clock on her nightstand showed ten minutes ’til. Better early than late. She dusted her fingertips against her forehead, pulling down some face-framing hairs from her ponytail. She glanced at her reflection one more time before locking her door for the night.

Nia descended the stairs and stepped out into the warm evening. Peter wasn’t meeting her at the door for multiple reasons. First, students could see him. She didn’t know if Wallace frowned upon workplace romance and didn’t want to find out. Second, gossip circled the campus via an
indelible digital network of smartphones and computers. A web search for her name and “dance” yielded three results: a winning video audition for SAB’s summer intensive, a favorable review of her solo with Janet Ruban’s troupe, and a blurb from one of SAB’s calendars. She didn’t want a fourth result to point to a message thread about the new dance teacher’s dating life.

She rounded the building and entered the student/faculty parking lot behind it. Half a dozen cars were scattered across the asphalt: Volvos and Hondas, a few older luxury sedans, BMWs, Mercedes, Audis—all brands rich parents either purchased for the safety ratings or passed down when they traded up for the new model. A campus security car blocked several empty spaces. Its lights shone, prepared for the last of the daylight to slip behind the buildings.

Nia heard a door open. Peter stepped from the driver’s side of a black BMW. The shiny black color and sleek lines hid the sedan’s age. She guessed the vehicle was at least three years old, given Peter’s history. Wall Streeters, not high school writing professors, bought status cars. He probably couldn’t sell it for anything close to what he’d paid. Or maybe he didn’t want to renounce all the comforts of his former life.

“Wow.” He mouthed the compliment as she approached. His lips brushed her cheek. Warm breath caressed the nape of her neck. She wanted him to kiss her already.

Wow was good. Better than nice. Almost as good as beautiful.

“I can clean up?”

“You look amazing.”

Amazing trumped wow. But it didn’t necessarily mean she looked appropriate for their date. Nia examined Peter’s clothes to gauge whether she had chosen wisely. He
wore near-black pants and a matching button-down. The outfit was part suit alternative, part bus boy, fit for a fancy restaurant or a coffee shop. The dark navy color electrified his eyes, and the close fit displayed his lean body and defined arms.

Muscles tensed in her back where she wished he would touch her. She wanted to feel his hand rest right on her waist, to sense the warmth of his fingertips on the small of her back.

Nia pinched the light jersey fabric flowing around her thighs. “I thought this might be an improvement from terry cloth.”

“That was a good look too.” He offered his hand. “We’re this way.”

He opened her door. She slipped into the passenger seat and leaned over to release the driver’s side. Her stomach grazed the gearshift as she stretched for the door handle. The awkwardness of the move didn’t matter. The act helped level the playing field. It said, You open my door, I’ll let you in. You pay for dinner, I’ll get drinks or dessert. Sex will be a mutual decision, not a way of repaying an evening out. Her body wanted to sleep with him, but she hadn’t made up her mind about whether she would. It was only their first real date.

Peter smiled “thanks” as he slipped into the leather seat. He turned the ignition. His hand reached toward her thigh, then landed on the shifter.

“It’s manual,” he said. “They’re a dying breed. Even sports cars come automatic now. The computers switch faster than any human.”

“Then why do manufacturers still make them?”

He palmed the shifter and jerked it into position. He grinned at her. “They’re more fun.”

He revved the engine. The car growled. The seat rumbled, vibrating her thighs like a massage chair. She eyed the gearshift, trying to anticipate his next move.

The security officer flashed his high beams, visually admonishing them to keep the noise down. Peter yanked the stick. The car leapt out of the lot onto the street and then zoomed down the hill to the guard stand.

They each flashed their IDs to a young campus security officer. The man pressed a flashlight against the cards, like a convenience store clerk looking for the magnetic strip on a hundred-dollar bill. Rather than hand her ID back to Peter, he emerged from the guard booth to deliver the card through the passenger window. He checked the card once more before passing it over.

The car sped through the school’s gated entrance. Sunset washed Peter’s face and hair in a golden hue. She cracked her window, unleashing the country smells outside: cut grass, flowers, the faint sweetness of manure mixed with asphalt and rubber. The wind whipped her ponytail around her face like a tassel and freed Peter’s slicked back strands.

She liked his hair loose. It gave him a reformed grunge vibe. He looked like a cleaned-up Kerouac: educated and artistic but still a bad boy. Who didn’t like a bad boy?

“What’s the restaurant like?”

“Nervous?”

“No. Why?”

“I heard ballerinas are picky about food.”

“Nope. When you dance for six hours a day, you can gobble up anything.”

He smirked. “That so?”

“Steak, chicken nuggets, a Big Mac—I’m game. As long as it’s not a Blimpie’s.”

“Got something against footlongs?”

She eyed him. Did he intend the sentence to have a sexual connotation or did he find the addition of “sandwich” unnecessary?

“I worked there in high school to pay for whatever the ballet scholarship didn’t. We ate for free. Let’s just say too much of a good thing.”

They had the kind of conversation that didn’t require eye contact, sharing generally favorable opinions about Wallace and life in the dorms. Mostly, Nia talked. Peter seemed comfortable enough in his own skin to listen to the air barreling through the windows without additional commentary. Nia couldn’t relax into silence. Each quiet moment criticized her conversational skills. She admonished herself for failing to fill the space with some opinion certain to create a connection between them. She only knew of three things Peter liked: writing, his students, and driving. They had already discussed driving.

She yelled over the wind. “What’s your novel about?”

Peter dragged his bottom teeth over his top lip like a bulldog. “Ah, the dreaded question.”

“Oh. If you don’t want to talk about it, I—”

“No. I do want to talk about it. It’s just that’s part of my problem—arguably
the
problem. I’m shit at condensing it for discussion.”

“I understand.” She didn’t. Didn’t storytellers tell stories? If he wrote it, why couldn’t he talk about it?

“It’s about class differences, I guess, and what American society values . . . How people are able to overlook poor qualities in pretty packages.”

His explanation didn’t sound like a story. Stories—even those in ballets—had a framework. Who was his hero? What was the plot? What happened to his characters?

“Who’s telling the story?”

“A wannabe options trader.” Peter laughed. “But it’s not really about the narrator. It’s like . . .” He smacked his lips together. “Imagine
American Psycho
told by
The Great Gatsby
’s Nick Carraway.”

She’d read the latter in high school. She didn’t know the former. Stories about serial killers never interested her. Too violent. Too removed from her reality. In Nia’s experience, the biggest threats were people you knew and your own limitations.

“Sounds interesting. I’d like to read it.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. If Peter’s book proved brilliant, she could justify her attraction to him as about more than good looks and availability. If it was horrible, well . . . How could someone who landed a job at one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the country lack talent?

Peter smirked. “My ex read it and that didn’t turn out so well. I’m not sure my book does me any favors in the romance department.”

The highway suddenly widened into four lanes. A blue glass building pointed above the trees like a trapped glacier. The road curved. As the pavement straightened out, she could see the building in its full glory: a miniskyscraper in the middle of nowhere. Nia couldn’t decide whether the monolith was a beautiful surprise or a blight on the bucolic landscape.

Peter pulled into a semicircle driveway. He killed the engine. Her door clicked open. Nia stepped onto a slate walkway as Peter handed his keys to a man about her age and color.

The man slid into the driver’s seat. As they walked into the restaurant, Nia felt Peter’s fingertips on her bare back. She pressed against him, coaxing his palm to stay without words. Body language worked so much better for her than banter.

*

Blimpie’s couldn’t hold a candle to the casino’s restaurant. The Wapasha “Red Leaf” Trattoria was located on a separate floor from the casino, away from the smoky blackjack tables and dinging, whistling slot machines staffed by elderly ladies. A tinted glass exterior belied a cozy interior filled with old world Italian decorations and smells. The designers had retained intimacy by tucking tables beneath archways and in corners rather than putting them right against one another in order to fill the place with as many patrons as possible. The menu was expansive and reasonably priced, enabling Nia to order the branzino without fear of breaking Peter’s bank.

He selected an $80 bottle of red wine to accompany the meal. Her palate wasn’t sophisticated enough to parse the flavor difference between the pricey wine and the far cheaper bottles she’d sampled after opening night shows, but she could tell the texture seemed smoother and dangerously easy to swallow. The glass she sipped while they’d waited for dinner filled her head with warmth. It settled her down and allowed her to enjoy relaxed conversation. By the time they exited the restaurant, at least one more glass of wine had slipped down her throat, sneaking past her first-date defenses thanks to Peter’s habit of topping off her drink each time he refilled his own.

She snuggled into his side as they approached the elevators. “Thank you for dinner. I’ve had a really nice time.”

“The night’s not over yet.”

Was he assuming she would return to his place? She couldn’t exactly blame him, given all the gazes and giggles that had bubbled from her during dinner. She blamed the wine and his good looks, not to mention a year of pent up
sexual energy. Still, she didn’t want him thinking her easy. It was just the first date.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I want to see you dance.”

They took a glass elevator up to the top floor. A burly bouncer in a black suit stood outside an onyx wall beside a velvet rope. There wasn’t a line. There wasn’t even an indication that there would ever be one. The casino crowd Nia had glimpsed on her way to the restaurant hadn’t seemed like clubbers, though maybe one or two had a grandchild that listened to house music.

The bouncer grasped the rope as they approached, as if debating whether to let them in immediately or make them wait as advertisements to passersby. He scanned the elevator bank. Apparently not seeing anyone to impress, he checked her ID and unhooked the rope.

Techno music battered her ears like a jackhammer. She gripped Peter’s hand as they made their way through a near-black hallway into a dim open room. The club appeared about a third full, which was more than Nia had expected. Women gyrated in the center of a black floor. Men watched at a clear-glass bar, illuminated by blue LEDs and adorned with blown glass spikes to resemble something deep sea and threatening—part bar, part anglerfish.

Peter weaved through a group of men clustered near the exit, ensuring last licks at whoever caught their attention. Some of the dancing women watched as they approached, breaking the illusion that the music had entranced them past the point of noticing the men on the sidelines. The women checked her out. They ogled Peter.

He seemed not to notice. He pulled her to him as they reached a clearing. The beat consumed her body. She pressed her pelvis against his and dipped back until her
ponytail grazed the ground. She popped up and rose to her toes. His arms wrapped around her waist. She slipped from his embrace, gyrating to the floor in a modified grand plié, more Beyoncé than ballet. She slinked back up toward him.