Pointe (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SUMMER INTENSIVE AUDITIONS ARE A TYPICAL BALLET CLASS
with
barre and center work, combinations across the floor, and a focus on pointe work for the girls, jumps for the guys.

A typical ballet class that also happens to be the most important class of your life.

I stay late to practice at least a couple of times a week, and usually more than that. The thought of my auditions makes my body hot and my head too light, but the extra time in the studio gets my mind off the trial, and that's the most I can hope for at this point. Only two weeks until Christmas, so the trial is just six weeks away.

I'm in an empty studio on a Tuesday night when Marisa walks in. I've just moved to the barre and I look over, hold my breath, wonder if I've done something wrong. She's only ever checked on me a couple of times when I practice solo, and even then, she comes in at the end of my session, not the beginning.

Her hair falls around her shoulders in loose, coffee-colored waves and she's dressed in street clothes. Dark jeans, a long-sleeved white V-neck, and a pair of buttery gray boots I've been eyeing for a while now.

“I just thought I'd sit in with you today,” she says as she closes the door behind her. “Lead you through a class, like at your auditions. Is that okay?”

“It's fine,” I say, and hope she doesn't spot the apprehension in my tone.

Actually, once I get over my initial nerves, I'm glad she's here. I work best when Marisa is in the room, because she always expects the best from me.

She walks over to the stereo and I adjust my leotard while her back is turned. I feel like I'm shrinking inside this one, which means none of the others will fit me well, either. I can't ask my mom to take me shopping again so soon; we just stocked up on new leotards and tights and two new pairs of pointe shoes at the beginning of autumn. It's too soon to ask for more, and if I tell her how loose this one is, she'll be suspicious.

I wonder if Marisa noticed when she walked in, but all she says when she turns around is, “Full out, no marking.”

She leads me through the barre work, assesses my turnout, and studies the movement of my port de bras as I work through the steps. I push myself harder than I have in weeks, maybe even months. I want her to see how much I've grown, that she didn't make a mistake when she said I should audition.

When I move to the center, Marisa tells me not to get too tripped up on the fouettés, but this is the moment I've been waiting for: to prove that even with everything else going on in my life, I can focus on what matters most. She says not to get too caught up in them, but I know she's dissecting every move, examining how I rise from plié to relevé en pointe, how my working leg extends in fourth position before I pull my foot in to touch the back of my knee. I do this again and again and again. I am in total control, taking charge of these fouettés like the first Odile I ever saw.

I'm gearing up for my tenth fouetté when I see him. When I remember that for the first couple of years after we broke up, the sound of a pants zipper still made my breath hitch in my throat. I stop keeping count of my turns when I recall that the first few times I was too aware of everything: the blood pounding in my ears, the random movement of my arms because I didn't know what to do with my hands.

I got used to it, eventually. The pressure from his palm as it pushed down on the back of my neck. The little moans that escaped when he was close and the blank look in his eyes immediately afterward, like I could be anyone.

It didn't
seem
wrong. Chris was my boyfriend and it made him feel good. All I ever wanted was to make him happy, so I never let on that every single time, it made me want to wash my mouth out with bleach afterward.

My ankle gives out and I lose my balance. Crash down from relevé and nearly tumble to the floor before I catch myself. So damn stupid to let him in my head like that when I have Marisa's undivided attention, when I'm so close to auditions, I can practically taste the nerves. I take my time righting myself. Look down at the ankles that failed me, at my anxious reflection in the mirror, and finally at Marisa, whose face is a mixture of confusion and sympathy.

“I'm so sorry,” I say in a whisper, my eyes dropping to the floor again.

She sighs. “I know you're tired, sweetheart, but you've got to keep pushing.”

“I am. I mean, I was trying.” I stand in place as I cross one foot over the other and back again. “I'm just a little nervous with this . . . and the trial. It's a week before my first audition.”

I still don't understand how two of the biggest moments in my life are barely a dozen days apart. I thought trials like this took months, sometimes years to go anywhere, but that's not the case with Chris Fenner. It's sort of ironic. He was never good at waiting and now the one thing he must be desperate to postpone is moving faster than anyone can grasp.

“I'd be worried if you weren't.” Marisa pauses. “Sometimes these things don't run on schedule, so you know if there's any conflict with your auditions and the day you have to be in court, we can work around it. I have no problem explaining the situation to the heads of the programs.”

I force myself not to pull at the loose fabric of my leotard, clasp my hands in front of me instead. “You don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't have to. I want to.” She steps closer, though the studio is so empty, our voices echo off the walls. “And I wanted to tell you that a couple of the schools already have their eye on you.”

I dig the heels of my pointe shoes into the floor, lock my knees so I won't fall again.

“I'm guessing this comes as a surprise.” Marisa smiles big, like she's been waiting to say this to me for a while now.

“Just a little.” I wipe my sweaty palms on the front of my thighs. “But they have their eye on me . . . What exactly does that mean?”

“It means I have friends who know that I count you as one of my top dancers, so they're looking forward to your audition.” Marisa puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. “You were one of my very first students after I opened the studio,” she says, looking at me with eyes as kind as her words. “Back then, I knew you would go far and I've never stopped believing in you, Theo. Not for a minute. If anyone can do this, it's you.”

• • •

My toes are throbbing as I walk back to the dressing room a half hour later and when I sit down in front of my locker, lower myself to the floor so I can stretch, I see it. I sit with my legs straight out in front of me and push my fingers to the end of my feet, to the crimson blemish on the box of my pointe shoe.

Bleeding feet are no real cause for concern around here. It's impossible to avoid when you're on them all the time, when the skin across your toes is a canvas of ever-present blisters. It's nothing new for someone who dances this much. But I haven't bled
through
my shoes since I first went on pointe. I stroke the satin and look at my thumb, now stained a faint red. The smell of metal courses through my nose.

I'll never forget the day I was rummaging through my dance bag and Chris saw my pointe shoes again. But by then, they were almost dead; the satin was dirty and starting to rip, and the platforms were nearly too soft to support me. Dried brown spots decorated the toe, and when I waved the shoe jokingly in front of his face, he pushed it away from me, told me not to be gross.

I unlace my right shoe and slip it off carefully, followed by the padding. My toes sting as I run my fingers across the top of the open blisters, wipe off the blood caked into the crevices around the nails.

I used to have nightmares about
The Red Shoes.
The fairy tale, not the movie. I imagined myself dancing to exhaustion but unable to stop. But I was never like Karen, the girl who wore the enchanted shoes. I didn't beg for mercy from an executioner; I was so captivated by my red pointe shoes that I couldn't stop, wouldn't stop under any circumstances. I always woke up before I saw what eventually happened to my feet.

Looking down at my bloody toes now, I wonder: if those magical shoes existed, would I slip them on? I used to think I would, if the alternative meant never dancing again. A year ago—even six months ago—I would have laughed at anyone who said I might not pursue a career in dance. Now I know anything can happen, that life can change so quickly, the plans you thought were set in stone can crumble into nothing. That I could be stuck here for another year, then apply to colleges like everyone else.

There are plenty of wonderful dance programs at regular universities, even public schools.
That's what Marisa tells the people who aren't good enough to go pro.

Sometimes I think it would be easier if Donovan
had
chosen to run away with Chris, and never come back. I'd be able to practice in my spare time without the guilt, kiss Hosea without the nagging memories of Chris. I don't know how I'd ever get over that kind of betrayal, but at least I wouldn't have to ruin my life in the process.

If Chris
kidnapped
him—well, then of course I'm happy he's back. Safe. But if I told people about our relationship, I know what they'd think every time they looked at me. They'd never be able to read an article about Chris or see his picture without thinking of
me.

Marisa raps on the dressing room door ten minutes later and I'm still staring at my toes. She asks if everything's okay because she needs to lock up soon, but all I can do is look at the rust-colored smears where my thumbs brushed away the blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I WAKE TO THE AROMA OF PIES TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

Sweet potato and pecan and key lime, too. My stomach rumbles and I think about how I used to race downstairs as soon as the smell of pies wafted up, needling my mother for a breakfast sample before she'd taken them out of the oven.

Now, I lie in bed for a few minutes. Awake but with my eyes closed, savoring the smell because that's as close as I'll get to the pies. I don't know why she makes so many. We always have leftovers because there are only three of us and I never take dessert if I can help it. Of course we don't have to worry about food going to waste with Phil so close by, but it seems a bit decadent.

Still, I can't help but breathe in and remember the taste. The buttery crusts and the tang of the limes and the richness of the pecans. I pinch my side hard and think about the costume fittings in my future. Then I get out of bed.

Downstairs, Dad is sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop blatantly open in front of him. I look around for Mom because no way is she putting up with this, but she's nowhere to be found. The three beautiful pies cooling on racks at the end of the counter are the only indication she was ever here.

“Morning.” I lean in to kiss Dad's cheek. “Where's Mom?”

“Delivering Christmas baskets with her coworkers,” he says, looking up long enough to flash me a smile.

I stick a piece of bread in the toaster and dig around in the fridge until I find an egg from the stash Mom boils each week. “On a Sunday? Aren't most people around here at church?”

Not us. We're very much the Easter Sunday/Christmas Eve type of Christians, and even then we visit the closest nondenominational church and leave as soon as the service is over. I used to think it was weird since most people I knew went somewhere on Sunday, whether it's a temple or mass or the AME church in the city where Donovan's family used to go. Then I met Sara-Kate. Her parents are atheists, and in the Midwest, that clearly made them the weirdest people in town.

“The baskets are going to the shut-in,” Dad says, pushing up the sleeves of his flannel robe. “You're up awfully early for someone on winter break.”

“You're being awfully bold about doing work at the table. And the day before Christmas Eve? Mom has eyes around here, you know.” I blink at him with an exaggerated gaze.

He laughs, holds up his hands in defense. “I'm not doing work, I swear. Just reading the news.”

I peel the egg as I wait for my bread to toast and scoop out the round yolk over the garbage disposal when he's not looking. Then I sit down with my slice of toast and hard-boiled egg whites, which I chop into tiny pieces. The toast would taste better with butter but so would a lot of things.

“Don't forget we're meeting with Donovan's lawyer next week,” Dad says, looking up from his laptop. “He wants to brief you on the questions you'll be getting, from him and during the cross-examination.”

I push cubes of egg whites around my toast. “What's he like?”

“Mr. McMillan?” Dad looks off into the distance, squints his eyes as he thinks. “He's nice. Professional. Really passionate about what he does. Donovan's in good hands with him.”

Mr. McMillan is going to ask me about Chris and unless I can talk to Donovan by then, I'll have to lie.

“He keeps saying how much he's looking forward to meeting you.” My father takes a sip of his coffee, sets the mug carefully on the table as he looks at me. “He knows how close you were to Donovan.”

My eyes land on the pies again and I sit up with a start. I have an idea.

“We should take one of those pies over to Donovan's house,” I say. Nonchalantly, so it sounds like something nice I thought of and not a ploy to get him alone.

Dad glances at them over his shoulder. “We can ask your mother when she gets home. I'm sure she won't mind.”

“We should do it while they're still warm. It's a nice gesture.” I make one last halfhearted attempt at my toast, swallow hard around the dry crust, and stand up to take my dishes to the sink. “He's been back for two months now. And it's the holidays.”

“I guess it wouldn't hurt.” He's distracted by something on his computer. I love it when he brings the laptop to the table. He doesn't notice as I dump half my breakfast into the sink. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“I can do it.” I turn my back so he won't see the smile splitting my face. “I'll go over after I brush my teeth.”

Ten minutes later, I'm standing on my front porch, holding a foil-wrapped pie and sweating profusely. I can't believe how easy this was. Stars aligning. Fresh-baked pies. Preoccupied Dad, who won't overthink it like Mom would. We'd still be sitting at the table, making a pro-con list for leaving a pie on the neighbor's doorstep if she were here.

I walk down my steps and start heading over.

The day is winter-wet. The kind of damp that hangs in the air from morning to night, when old snow melts into slush under the sun and cools into ice after dark.

I walk down the driveway and the sidewalk, stopping to look at Donovan's house from the street before walking up the path. The welcome-back debris has been cleared off the porch, but it still stands out from the others. Every other house on the street is draped in strings of twinkly lights with tasteful holiday decorations dotting the yards. The Pratt house is nothing more than dark windows and a desolate lawn. The porch sits like the empty, ominous mouth of the house, waiting to swallow up anyone who comes too close.

I keep walking.

I'm cloaked in déjà vu as my boots take me up the path to the porch. Is it déjà vu if you're not reminded of one particular time, but thousands? Walking to Donovan's house was a regular part of my day when I was a kid—like going to school or brushing my teeth. Still, my heart thumps faster the closer I get.

I wonder if they're watching. If
he's
watching. If he's happy I'm coming to see him. If he wonders why I've waited so long. Or if he'll refuse to talk to me, if he's angry because he didn't really run away and I was the one who let Chris get so close to him.

I balance the pie on the edge of the neglected wooden swing to the left of the door, take a deep breath, and push the doorbell. I lick my lips and practice a smile, wait for the familiar tread of footsteps on the way to the door. Actually, it's weird, waiting. I barely ever had to ring the doorbell at this house before.

But I hear nothing. So I ring it again. I stare at the windows, try to look through the dark curtains to see if the Christmas tree is in its old spot. Every year in the same position with the same ornaments, winking its rainbow of lights through the glass. Now all I see is black.

Still nothing. I guess my great idea wasn't so great after all. Maybe my mother was right when she said we should give them time. She indulged me with those first couple of phone calls after he came back, but I haven't told her how many times I've tried to call since then. That I've been staking out his house when I'm home, hoping for even the smallest glimpse of life behind these curtains.

I place the pie on the dirty welcome mat and turn to go back home. I need a Plan C.

Then a click and a latch and:

“Theo?”

Mrs. Pratt's voice is music.

I turn around. She stands behind the screen door, but I can't discern any part of her except her silhouette. She is very thin, that I can tell. Her elbows stick out like bird legs in sharp points. Her head looks smooth, like it's wrapped in a scarf.

I retrieve the pie from the mat, stand in front of her with my arms outstretched like a peace offering. “My mom made pies,” I say. “We wanted you to have one. Pecan.”

“Oh, that's very sweet of you, honey.” She steps closer to the door but makes no move to open the screen. I think she's wearing a bathrobe. “Your mother's pecan is so good.”

“I . . . I wanted to say hi, too.” I bring my arms back to my chest, holding tight to the pie tin. “It's been a long time.”

“It has. You're almost grown up now. A beautiful girl.”

I'm glad she can see me well enough to make that statement, because she's just a shadow to me, stuck behind the screen. The house is dark. I keep expecting Donovan to poke his head around the corner, but no. It's silent.

But I think I heard a ghost of his mother when she spoke. A bit of that smile that always started in her eyes.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat, breathe in fast so the cold air hits the back of my throat with a sharpness. “I was also wondering . . . Is Donovan home?”

“He is, honey, but I don't think he's up to having visitors right now.” Her voice is kind, but generic, like she's repeated this sentiment hundreds of times. Maybe she has, but not to someone like me.

“Are you sure, Mrs. Pratt?” My own voice is pleading. Pathetic. Desperate. “I know it sounds silly, but I just want to see him with my own eyes. It feels—it feels like he's not really here if I don't. Could you ask him? Please? It's just me. I promise I won't stay long.”

As vital as it is to talk to him, to ask him what I'm supposed to do when we go to trial in four weeks, my plea is sincere. Vague news updates and estimations from my parents aren't enough. I need to see the Donovan who came back. I'll feel so much better if I can just see that he's okay now.

Mrs. Pratt sighs, but her silhouette turns away for a moment as if she's looking behind her. Looking at someone. Considering. “Just a minute,” she says, and closes the door instead of asking me inside.

The street is empty but I feel like I'm in a one-woman show. It's so conspicuous, standing on the Pratts' front porch. The paparazzi and news vans have been gone for a while now, but it's impossible to not look at the house when you leave or enter your own. I know because I do it every time, and I've seen my neighbors do it, too.

The pie has cooled, and my hands are cold. My fingers crinkle uncomfortably around the foil. I should have worn gloves. I should have thought of a more eloquent way to ask for Donovan.

The big door swings open again. My knees jiggle and I lock them, plant my feet firmly beneath me.

The outline of Mrs. Pratt's head is moving back and forth. His answer is no.

“Not now, Theo. I'm sorry. He's not ready yet.”

She really does sound sorry, so it must be him. Donovan doesn't want to talk to me. Our history is useless.

“Don't take it personally,” she says, running a hand over her scarf-clad head. “And please don't give up on him. He's getting better every day.”

I want to ask if he'll pick up the phone if I call and he knows it's me. If he'll write me back if I bring over a letter or send an email, but I can't. I simply nod because there is no good way to respond to that, nothing I can say that will ever make this better for her.

“Here's your pie.” I hold it out awkwardly, as if she can grab it through the screen.

She unlocks the door, opens it just wide enough for me to slip it into her hands. I catch a flash of red terry cloth, a glimpse of brown skin and taupe slippers before the door shuts again.

“You'll tell your mother thank you for me?”

“Of course.”

“You're a good girl, Theo,” she says softly, her face already halfway hidden by the big door. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

I turn before she can see the tears in my eyes.

Doesn't he know I want to help him? Doesn't he know I'm flipping my shit, wondering what he and Chris were doing all that time?

I descend the porch steps. Walk down the path. Up the sidewalk and back to my house. Kick off my boots when I step inside. Pass Dad on the way up to my bedroom.

He's holding his closed laptop under one arm and a fresh cup of coffee in the other hand. Steam billows from the top in playful curlicues that fade in the air.

“How'd it go?” he asks, pausing where I'm standing by the bottom of the stairs.

“He's still not talking.” I slide my hand along the banister. I can't wait to go back to bed. It's the only way I'll stop thinking about this.

“I'm sorry, babygirl.” He sighs as he looks at me. Throws a hesitant smile my way. “This won't last forever. He'll come around and I bet you'll be the first person he calls.”

I used to think that was possible. But he's not the same, and neither am I. There was a time I wouldn't have been able to shake Donovan if I tried, and now that everything depends on talking to him, he can't be bothered with me for even a minute.

I run my index finger along the side of my rib, exhale silently as I find that familiar oval of tender, bruised skin hiding beneath my shirt.

• • •

Hosea calls in the afternoon.

I nearly drop the phone when I see that it's him. We've only texted until now; an actual phone call seems like a step forward. I smooth down my hair before I answer, as if he can see me through the phone.