Up to This Pointe (19 page)

“Me too.”

She pulls at the grass, plucks tiny white daisies from the lawn. “I heard from New York.”

“Oh.” My voice is suddenly high, constricted. “Who?”

“New York City.”

“Oh God. Wow.”

“And ABT.”

New York City Ballet. American Ballet Theatre.

My head is spinning.

“That's—Kitty. That's amazing.” I hate myself that the words are nearly impossible to say with genuine enthusiasm. “As a student?”

“Positions,” she says quietly. “Apprentice. In the company.”

“Wow,” I whisper again.

“I mean, just corps, but it's…I don't know what to do. I have to decide by next week because I'll start the following at either one. They want to know.”

“You'll start the following week—so in two weeks you'll be in New York.”

“Yeah.”

“Professional ballerina.”

She draws circles on the dirt with a stick. “Yes.”

We sit in silence.

“Hey, ladies,” Owen calls, materializing at the side lawn. “Hiding from the heavy lifting?”

Kate stands. Smiles. “Maybe.”

Owen reaches down and pulls me to my feet.

Kate's smile falters.

We get everything up the stairs and into Luke's room, and then Dad tries to be cool by offering an Igloo chest of beer, which Luke can't drink physically
or
legally, and Owen also underage, politely refuses. I take one, and Mom snatches it from my hand, whacks Dad on his arm for plying children with booze, and gets on her phone to order pizza.

Luke gives Mom and Dad and Kate the official tour. Owen hangs back with me in the sun on the front steps.

“Where are the other two Jedis?” I ask.

“Surfing. You'll meet them later.”

I nod. “Break Luke in easy.”

“He'll be fine. Excited to have your own bathroom?”

“Hell yes. Tossed his Axe spray and foot-fungus cream already. It's all potpourri and fancy soap up in there now.”

He smiles. “You're gonna be okay, Harp.”

“Did I say you could call me Harp?”

“Dude. It's one less syllable. Everyone else does it!”

“Everyone else knows me.”

“Not the way I do.”

“Oh my God,” I sigh, smiling.

“How's that?” Kate says. She steps around us to stand on the path at our feet.

“How's what?” Owen asks.

“What
way
do you know her?”

“He doesn't,” I say. “He's joking.”

“I'm not,” Owen says. I give him a small shove and a
look.

Kate's smile is strained. She looks from me to Owen. “What's up, Harp?”

“With what?”

“Come on.”

“Nothing! Nothing's up!”

Owen frowns.
“Nothing?”

Kate's smile flattens.

“He's just kidding,” I say again weakly.

“I'm not,” he says, looking directly at me. “Why would you say that?”

“I only mean, there's nothing
bad
going on, there's not…”

“Wait, hold on,” Owen says, “Is there a
thing,
like some conflict of interest happening that I don't know about?”

Holy crap, guys can be dumb.

“I don't know,” Kate says, kind of…mad? At me? “Is there?
Harp?
”

What the—
what?

My gloom and anxiety are turning to anger as my addled brain assesses this screwed-up situation. “Wait,” I say. “Everyone just…Kate—did Owen ask you out?”

She stands there for a while. “No.”

“I told you,” Owen says. “
She
asked me.”

Kate's eyebrows and vocal pitch are up. “You
told
her that?”

“I didn't know it was a secret!”

Kate stands. “Harp, can we take a walk?”

For some stupid reason, my heart starts thumping in my chest. This is
Kate
—why am I scared? She is my
sister.

“I don't think Harper needs to go anywhere with you right now, Kate,” Owen says.

Kate's perfectly pink cheeks flush bright.

“Please don't speak for me,” I say, low.

“People!” Dad calls from the door, “We ready for pizza?”

“In a minute!” the three of us yell in tandem, which is kind of hilarious. I wish I could laugh.

“Harper,” Kate says, my full first name and in a voice I've never, ever heard her use. “I'm sorry. Honestly. I'm sorry I'm a better dancer than you.” Her voice breaks. “I'm sorry I can't stay in San Francisco with you and live in a crappy apartment, waving a flower around in the chorus forever. I'm too good for that. It's a waste of my talent. I can't give up my entire life for you.”

“Jesus, Kate!” Luke says, standing behind us in the doorway.

“Jesus
what
? It's true! I'm sorry, Harp, I love you. Enough to tell you the truth.”

“Okay,” I say. I push myself up off the step.

“Okay what?”

She's…God, she's so
mad.
How did this turn so fast—how am I the villain? She wants a fight. I'm too tired to give her one.

“I'm sorry, too,” I sigh. “I'm sorry I held you back. I'm sorry I don't have the money you do. I wish I didn't have to work so much, because maybe if I'd had the money for private lessons and more time to take luxurious naps, maybe I could have been better—but let's be honest, never as good as you. I'm sorry a boy you like doesn't like you back. I'm sorry he's slumming it with your sidekick instead. I'm sorry for everything.”

I cannot believe these words are coming from me. Neither, clearly, can Kate.

Kate,
my mind clamors,
I don't mean it. Forgive me.
But those words don't get spoken. Just the mean ones. I turn and walk toward the ocean. My MO as of late.

“Where are you going?” Mom calls. “Harper, what's happening?”

“I don't know,” I call back. “Home. Antarctica.” A bus passes me. I wave and run ahead to the stop, and catch it just in time.

Thank God for babysitting money and refunded, un-danced-in pointe shoes. (Except for the Maltese Crosses, still in their box in my closet.) Because REI does not hawk subzero winter gear for cheap. I pull an enormous parka over my bony arms, and my phone buzzes.

Owen.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hello. Where are you?” he asks.

“Hiking.”

“Meet me tomorrow. Union Square at two. Can you?”

“Owen.”

“Just be there. Where are you? You're not hiking.”

“Maybe I am! You don't know!”

“Tomorrow. Five o'clock in front of Tiffany.”

“Tiffany? Barf. And I can't.”

“Why not.”

“I'm packing. I'm leaving.”

“Not for five days!”

“It takes a long time.”

“Look, I'm not going to beg. I'll see you there. At two.”

He hangs up.

This parka is ridiculous.

The Muni is so crowded I nearly have a panic attack, get off three stops early, and walk fifteen blocks in cute but uncomfortable shoes to Union Square, which is also packed, and Market Street is blocked off.

Chinese New Year. I'm so dumb.

I fight through the crowds to stupid Tiffany. He's not here. I should've stayed home and watched Mom cry some more. She and Dad have forgiven Hannah, but Mom is heartbroken I would do this—go to The Ice without telling her, not ask her for help—mostly just sad I'm leaving.

“Six months,” I tell her over and over. “I'll be right back.”

It doesn't help.

A hand is on my arm.

“You're here!” Owen says.

“Tiffany?”

“It's an easy landmark. Now let's go in and pick out a ring and get it over with.”

My hands go cold.

“I'm
kidding
!” he says. “You really
are
depressed. Come on.” He takes my hand. I hold on tight in this crush of people. He navigates through the crowds. “So explain to me,” he calls over the noise. “How exactly does this work? Where do you get the money to fly to…where do you go?”

“New Zealand first. I don't. I'm an employee and also it's a grant. For students. They send me.”

“Okay.”

“And they've got the hard-core cold gear. I get paid practically nothing, but there are no living expenses, so I can save a little stash. And then, when it's over, I get a one-way ticket around the world in either direction. That's it.”

“Huh.”

We make our way into Chinatown, which I cannot believe we're going into. Belly of the beast.

“Is this the best idea right now?” I shout.

“Only option,” he shouts back. “Hang on!” We maneuver through the sea of people and music, vendor carts and craft tables. The festival is in full swing. He pulls me out of the crowd, down a small side street, into a dark hall, and up an even darker stairwell.

“Listen, if you're going to murder me…”

“I would have done it already. Here.” He rings an apartment doorbell. “Take off your shoes.”

“Why?”

The door swings open. “Owen!”

“Dad!”

A smaller, older version of Owen grabs his younger self and kisses his head, then frowns at me.

“Oh, this is my friend, Harper,” Owen tells him. His dad smiles, gesturing for us to enter.

We take off our shoes.

“Sorry to shanghai you,” he whispers.

“That's racist,” I whisper back.

“Well,” he says, “you can't change a nation.”

“Dude.”

A roomful of people greets us. Afternoon winter sunlight streams into a huge room from picture windows that look down on the street. The party is going on directly below us.

“Gung hay fat choy!” everyone calls, and hugs and kisses.

“Mom,” Owen says, “this is Harper.”

His mom, taller than his dad and with a head of salon-styled curls, glares openly at me. Owen rolls his eyes.

“Harp, these are my cousins. This is my aunt, my uncle, Grandpa. This is Harper.” His grandpa looks like he's around a hundred and three years old. He gives me his cool, papery hand. He smiles and nods. I do, too.

“It's so nice to meet you all,” I say. Everyone else smiles and nods, too.

There is a long table in the dining room piled with food. Owen's mom tries to get him to eat. He speaks Mandarin to her. Or Cantonese. One of the two, and I think he's telling her we came by to say hello but that we are going to the parade now.

“Is Josie already gone?” he asks a girl cousin.

“Hours ago,” the cousin says, dipping some food thing into a bowl of some sauce thing.

“Okay,” Owen says. “See you after!” There's more shouting and hugging and then we're back in the dark hall.

“Thanks,” he says. “That was fun!”

I follow him down the stairs back into the alley.

“Who's Josie?”

“Jealous?”

I stop walking. “Who is Josie?”

He sees my face, walks back, and whispers close, “I
like
you jealous.”

“I'm
not—
” I begin, but he kisses me.

“Josie's my sister,” he says casually. “She left the party early.”

“Jackass.”

“I'm not the one with a jealousy complex!”

“Okay. So one sister? That's it?”

“And a ton of cousins.” We're back out on the street. “I grew up in that apartment.”

“Your mom looked mad.”

“Oh, she was.”

“Why?”

“Because you're white. Cross here.” He runs, against the light, across the street and back toward Union Square.

“You can't have white friends?”

“Not white girlfriends.”

“So she needs to chill. There's no problem.”

“Oh, there's a problem,” he says. “You like egg rolls?”

“No. Sorry.”

“You've deeply offended my culture. How about dim sum?”

I shrug.

“Is Luke right? Do you really not eat?”

“No, it's…complicated.”

“Not really; it's just food. Hold on. Don't move. At all.” He leaves me on the sidewalk and runs to a food cart, takes a paper bag from the guy, ducks into a bakery, comes out with a pink box, and takes my hand again. We go up some narrow backstreet. He pulls down a fire escape ladder, we climb up, and we're on a roof patio. Grass. Flowers. Adirondack chairs.

“My dad's friend's house,” he explains. “They're out of the country and said we should use the roof. Have a seat.”

From the chairs we can see the avenues below us, lights and talking and a bright hum of music.

“The parade goes right past here,” he says. From the bags he pulls cartons of stir-fried vegetables, plain white rice. Pink box of almond cookies. “So, now, what's your deal with Chinese food? Which, this isn't even—this is American Chinese food.”

“It's not the Chinese part; it's the fried part.”

“Thought so.”

“Not sure how to navigate food. Lately. Or ever.”

“Okay. Well. It's here if you want it.”

“Thank you.” He tosses me a bottle of water and breaks apart disposable wooden chopsticks.

“Talk to Kate lately?”

“She's gone.”

“New York?”

I nod.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“No, I mean sympathy. I'm sorry. For the loss.”

“I'm not like that,” I say. “What I said to her.”

“You were sticking up for yourself. She wasn't being the nicest.”

“She's not like that, either,” I say. “Not at all. Something's wrong.”

“What is?”

“I don't know. Her parents are kind of awful, but I'm too wrapped up in my own stupid tragedy to pay attention to anyone else's and offer help. So.”