Fuck. “Old injury, okay? Flared up when I broke my leg and started using this leg more. Then the change in the weather didn’t help.”
“Knee injury? What kind? And how old?”
Of course Rafe would ask. He can figure this out. He knows. He’s the one training us every Tuesday night at the neighborhood gym. I used to go before I had the shit beaten out of me—twice—and finally ended up with my leg in a cast.
I open my mouth to tell him the truth and to hell with it all, but the nightmare returns full force, sucking the air from my lungs, and ice washes down my back. A violent shudder rocks me, and Rafe grabs my shoulder.
“Look at me, Seth. Hey, l said look at me.” He’s, like, an inch from my face, our noses almost touching. “What the fuck happened to you today?”
“Got a call this morning,” I whisper. “From my mom’s lawyer.”
Silence stretches between us. Long seconds pass.
Then Rafe draws back. “Fuck. I thought she was dead.”
Yeah. Me too. And worst of all? It was easier then.
“Is she here? In Wisconsin?”
“No. She’s… in Indiana. In jail.” My heart is hammering again, so hard I think I might break a rib.
“Okay.” Rafe rubs a hand over his face, then rakes it through his hair. “It’ll be okay, buddy. Just take it easy.”
I wish that were true.
PART II
Monday is quiet. Tuesday is made of sunlight. Wednesday kinda drags but is good. Thursday is peaceful. By Friday there’s an itch between my shoulder blades, an unease in my mind. Friday rolls by, bright and perfect.
I should know better. Quiet is an omen of disaster. The quiet before the storm, and when it rains, it pours.
Chapter Eight
Manon
It’s cold inside the dance academy. The heaters haven’t kicked in yet. A place where dancers exercise all day needs to be cool, or we’d all die of heatstroke.
Not we. They.
I hang my head and curl a little into myself on the hard chair outside the advisor’s office. It’s the cold, I tell myself. Not the fact I’m already an outsider in the place I’ve lived most of my days for a year now. I remember like it was yesterday, my joy when I found out I was accepted, my excitement as I packed my stuff and told my dad goodbye. When I attended my first class. Such a high.
Can’t believe it’s ending. Feels like a nightmare.
Which reminds me of Seth. His nightmare scared me so badly I shiver just by remembering. The way he fought with the covers, calling for someone, calling for help. Grimacing in pain. Desperate to escape from the grip of something terrible.
And I couldn’t help him.
I sigh and lean my head back against the wall. It was just a bad dream. He was okay when I left. Well enough to snap at me and tell me not to touch him.
That stung. It hurt.
It shouldn’t have. I don’t understand why my chest aches thinking about it. I wanted to be friends with him. Like I told him, I like him.
I was hurt, but he’d just woken up from a nightmare. Maybe I should have stuck around a little longer, made sure he was okay. Maybe he didn’t mean to snap at me.
Yeah, too late now. Besides, he’s a grown man. He can survive the aftermath of a nightmare without me holding his hand. Doesn’t need me to brush the sweat-soaked hair out of his face and bring him water. Doesn’t want me to, probably. Doesn’t need it. Or me.
And I don’t need him. I guess I wanted to be friends to erase my guilt for hitting him with my car. That’s why I went over to his place and watched over him all night long. Just making sure I paid back my debt. So that I don’t owe him.
As the door opens and my name is called, as I get up and smooth back my hair before making my way into the office, I tell myself that’s the truth and the end of this story. Seth will be fine. And so will I. Time to put this behind me—the accident, Seth, the way he was able to hurt me as much with his snappish tone as with his pain.
Time to get my ducks in a row and make some decisions about my future.
***
Continuing my training would be dangerous for me, the school director explains to me, holding up a medical report about my ankle. She gives it to me and waits until I read it through.
“This isn’t only about the school’s reputation,” she tells me. “This is about your health, and your future. Another break and you’ll be out anyway, but with more problems. Dancing on pointe isn’t advisable anymore for you, Ms. Torres. You can check with your own doctor if you like, but it seems pretty clear another career path is the way to go.”
I wander the school, my thoughts a jumble. This is it, then. Nothing to do, nothing to discuss.
Wow.
I manage to reach the advisor’s office on time for my appointment. He’s a gentle man, obviously trained for this thankless job—or maybe it’s only thankless in my case. Maybe on most days he guides young dancers through the steps of applications for theaters and dance competitions, not the “many options” they have outside of dancing.
I can become a dance teacher for children, the advisor tells me. I could design ballet clothes and shoes, or become a dance photographer. Perhaps I could become an actress.
No, I can’t. I don’t want to be an actress, or a photographer, or a teacher. If I can’t dance, can’t be the star in Swan Lake and the Sylphides, then I’d rather do something completely different.
Nobody promised I’d become a prima ballerina anyway. Not everyone can cut it, and let’s face it, with the physical issues I have, I’d be the least likely person to make it.
As I turn this over in my mind, a thought hits me: I want to help people. Take care of them. Heal their injuries. Support them. Like I did with Seth.
And there I go again, thinking about Seth when I made up my mind to stop.
The advisor tells me I could also teach yoga, but I stop him, forcing my mind to focus on the conversation.
“I want to be a physical therapist,” I tell him, startled to hear the words coming out of my mouth.
“Well, Ms. Torres, this is wonderful.” He beams at me, and I try not to cringe—because this isn’t a magical transformation where I finally find out this has been my calling all along.
No, this is a retreat. A compromise.
A failure.
I listen as he explains how that works, that I need a bachelor’s first, because PT is a post-graduate degree. I’m looking at a couple of years of study at least, but it’s a good thing I’m starting young. I have all my life ahead of me.
He makes it sound like I’m lucky I was kicked out of the school of my dreams. As if this is a fantastic turn of events I should be thankful for.
I might be sick. Yes, the idea of treating people, helping them appeals to me. But it’s really sinking in, the fact I’m leaving this school, this dream behind, and it’s like a kick to the stomach.
Hurriedly I take my leave and all but run out of the office, clutching the brochures he gave me to my chest and my purse to my side. I should put them in my bag before I throw them away in rage.
This is unfair. This is unjust. I worked hard to be here, and now… I thought I’d accepted the fact I’ll change directions, but deep inside I’m still fighting it. Hoping there was a mistake. That there is a loophole. That I can convince them to take me back.
I want to talk to someone, tell them about my hopes, my doubts, my fear, my anger. Seth… I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, not when he was so sick and so tired. Not when he thought his mom was dead, and she’s now back, when in his nightmare he was calling for her like a child.
That had struck me straight through the heart, even more so knowing he’d thought her dead. Maybe in his dreams she still is.
But I didn’t talk to him, and I won’t be doing so, either. We’ve established that, and why are my thoughts circling back to him again? This is ridiculous.
Fred is the one I’ll talk to. He’s the one I want, the one I desire and the one in whose arms I want to hide. The one who’s practically my boyfriend, apart from the fact we haven’t kissed yet, or done anything more than hold hands from time to time.