by Mary Pagones
He’s not sweating, as if a force field of coolness and disdain has permanently lowered his body temperature. “Keep Calm and Read Jane Austen?” he asks, looking at my chest, reading my t-shirt slogan.
“I try,” I say. “To read Jane Austen every day. The calmness bit’s more challenging.”
“I haven’t seen that version of Keep Calm before. I’m looking for Catherine Fitzgerald, the owner,” he says, gesturing with his head towards The Academy of Movement. “I’m her nephew.”
“I didn’t know Catherine had a nephew,” I say. “Despite the fact I’ve been taking classes with her for many years. Any reason she’s been keeping you a secret?”
He laughs. “Not that I know of.”
“Are you the black sheep of your family? Do anything shameful?”
Come to think of it, I vaguely remember Catherine mentioning that her brother and sister-in-law had children. I’m not part of the inner sanctum of bunheads she hangs out with outside of class, so my knowledge of her personal history remains spotty.
“You have no idea how difficult it is to squeeze a body bag into this suitcase,” he says.
“I’m from New Jersey, try me.”
He laughs. “The Sopranos is my favorite TV series,” he says, referring to the famous show about the Mafia set in New Jersey.
“It’s no Pride and Prejudice. Keep Calm and Don’t Tell Where You’ve Hidden the Bodies works, though.”
“I’ll be staying with Catherine for the next year. Hugh Fitzgerald,” he says.
“Elisa Tennant. You can call me Liss.”
“My father’s on annual sabbatical from Columbia University. He received a grant to do research in the United Kingdom. Since it’s my senior year, he thought I should stay and finish high school here in the States. I don’t know why I’d be kept a secret. Other than the fact I’m a terrible dancer. Total lazy white boy.”
“My father is also a professor, a professor of English.” I don’t mention that my dad doesn’t even have his own office, and he’d kill for a few unpaid weeks off, forget a sabbatical year with a grant. Right now, he’s probably getting ready for his morning class, Introduction to Public Speaking, maybe setting up the room so he can explain how to use body language or props while giving an informative speech. “Were you upset to have been left behind here?”
Hugh shrugs. “I’ve been to the UK more times than I can count. My dad teaches econ. He’s always going to different places to interview people and collect data. Hopefully, the sabbatical will give him the time he needs to finish his project. I’m getting kind of sick of hearing about his upcoming book; he’s been working on it for years.”
“That’s so interesting!” I say. I’m worried I seem too excited about his connection with the United Kingdom. Hugh’s going to think I’m a total weirdo. I guess I am an Anglophilic weirdo, but it’s a bit early in our relationship to let him know. “I’ve never been to England. I’m hoping when I get into college I can do a study abroad program in the UK.”
He shrugs. “It’s a country like any other country. It’s not New York City.”
“I’m the biggest Jane Austen fan,” I gush.
“So I see. You bought the t-shirt. Unusually well-read for a bunhead.”
“If you’re trying to get a rise out of me, bunhead isn’t very creative. So do you want to go to Columbia if that’s where your dad teaches?”
“I want to go to film school, the best possible film school I can get into.”
I’m about to mention my dream of becoming a writer—novels, plays, screenplays, everything. But I hear, “Hugh!” and see Catherine slamming the door of her car. She doesn’t look happy to see him.
“I had the taxi drop me here from the train station, like you said, since you wouldn’t be home,” explains Hugh.
I’m pretty sure Catherine has a boyfriend she stays with sometimes, which is probably why she wasn’t at her house first thing in the morning to let Hugh in. Her boyfriend’s not a dancer; I’ve only seen him lurking in his car every now and then when he picks her up after she finishes teaching her last class. Her boyfriend’s older than I’d expect of a man she’d date. But he drives a little sports car even I think is cute, and I don’t care much about cars as long as they start.
Catherine opens the studio. “I’ll give you a ride to my place after I’m finished teaching this class. I’m sorry I’m running so late.” But Catherine is always running late, especially in the morning, and doesn’t sound that sorry.
As she stands next to her nephew, I can see the resemblance. Both are tall, pale, with nearly-black hair and slightly too-sharp aristocratic noses and cheekbones. Only what looks haughty on Catherine looks appealing on Hugh.
“If you like, I can drop him off on my way home.” I have no idea where Catherine lives. I’m a bit curious, I admit, although obviously, that’s not the main thing I’m curious about.
“That would be a great help, Liss,” she says.
Hugh, true to his word about having no interest in dance, sits in the waiting room and immediately begins to interact with his phone. He makes no eye contact with anyone. When Jacqui’s warming up on the floor, I lay down in front of her, splay out my legs and say, “Check out the guy in the lobby. Catherine’s nephew, he’s staying with her for the year.”
She does. “He’s scruffy.”
“Scruffy? Scruffy?”
“Scruffy and pale,” she says. “Your type.”
“I offered to drop him off on my way home,” I say.
“You move fast,” she says.
“Just being charitable,” I say. Class is about to start, so I stop sniggering and begin to genuinely warm up, kicking the muscles of my legs to life.
I wish I had worn something nicer. I look in the mirror. My tangled hair is pulled back in yes, a bun. I’ve been dying it for so many years I’ve almost forgotten its natural color, but I can see my lighter brown roots in the harsh light of the studio. A nude-colored bra strap is visible under my dark-blue leotard, now that I’ve taken off my t-shirt. Only the head of my raven tattoo can be seen.
I approve of my tiny sparkle of a nose stud—a sapphire today, to match my dance clothes—and my three diamond sparkles of silver in each ear. My face is almost as pale as Hugh’s and my hazel eyes, speckled with green and light brown, are thrown into sharp relief by the black eyeliner I apply, no matter what I’m wearing. My eyes are small but distinct. My appearance is why, of course, like so many girls, I treasure the idea of Elizabeth Bennet’s “fine pair of eyes” snaring my Mr. Darcy. As much as I love and swear by Jane, I know most guys need more of a turn-on than eyes. But this is who I am, so it will have to do.
I knew I needed to be bold. Like Elizabeth Bennet’s calculating friend Charlotte Lucas says, “In nine cases out of ten a women had better show more affection than she feels.” I love that line so much. It’s like Miss Lucas did a survey on men, marriage, and toothpaste.
“I just realized I’m starving,” Hugh blurts out after I lead him to my car. He looks hungrily back at the sub shop and I take the hint. I wait for him to order one. Ham, cheese, extra oil and vinegar.
“Sorry if I’m going to stink up your car,” he says. “We call them heroes where I come from.”
“Heroism is probably too much to expect of these sandwiches, they’re just okay.” I say. My car’s still rattling, but now that it’s warmed up, the rattle is less obvious. “Excuse my car. It’s kind of a beater.”
“No offense, but I noticed.”
“Paid for it myself, though,” I say, proudly. Birthday and Christmas money. My tiny salary from helping Catherine during the summer camp she runs for the little kids and the minimum wage I get as a part-time attendant at the shelter. All carefully squirreled away.
“I guess you don’t eat, bunhead.”
“I do eat,” I say. “I’m just a bit of a carb snob. I’ll introduce you all the best bagel, pizza, and sub shops after you’re settled. I’ve lived in New Jersey my whole life, so I
know them all. Any other stereotypes about dancers you’re tempted to trot out?”
“Sorry, we always make fun of Aunt Catherine for being a bunhead. She’s the only dancer in the family. She’s the real black sheep.”
I defend Catherine. “She’s a dedicated teacher.” Even though she’s not fond of me, I know she’s the best in the area, quality-wise. Not the most expensive, and probably if she had a warmer personality and more patience, she could charge more and we couldn’t afford her. “It’s not easy to keep a dance studio running. It was nice of her to offer to put you up for a year.”
“Nice? My dad’s paying her rent and board to let me stay.”
“Well, it’s still nice of her to help out her brother and put up with an annoying teenage boy. You couldn’t pay me enough to tolerate one of those.”
“I take it you don’t have any brothers.”
“Just a younger sister. Are you going to Rosewood South, then?”
“Yup,” he says. I dance another jig inside. I was worried his parents might send him to prep school, but I guess not. Rosewood South has an impeccable reputation, there’s no reason not to go there.
“I’ll decide how generous Catherine is after I see my room. I think you turn here.” I look up and see that he’s right—we’ve reached the street name Catherine told me. I help him unload his things, take his carry-on and bag of food to the door, make sure that he can get the door open. He tells me not to, but I insist.
“Thanks,” Hugh says. “I’m exhausted, I’m going to unpack and then crash. I was up late last night and had to catch the earliest train.”
“See you in school,” I say, cheerfully.
“See ya, bunhead.”
“Give me a call if you need a ride anywhere, until you get a car. I’ll give you my phone number.” He enters it in his phone. I say, “Catherine has done so much for me over the years, I’m happy to help out her nephew.” This is, in fact, a total lie. Catherine’s never done a thing for me. She’s given me fine instruction, like she has all of her pupils, but she’s never offered encouragement or praise, even at the types of dance I’m best at, like modern.
“Thanks. I’m used to the city where you just need to hop on the subway,” he says.
“That must be handy. Sadly, it’s not like that here,” I say.
“Very decent of you to offer.”
I didn’t know I could flirt like this! So much for living like a nun, er, ballerina, for years and years. I’m so used to courtship taking at least a hundred pages, like it does in a Regency novel.
Chapter 5
My Good Opinion Once Lost Is Lost Forever
The last day of summer vacation, I’m out of my leotard and comfortable in Docs, another Jane Austen t-shirt, and ripped jeans rather than tights. I’m working all day at the dog shelter. They have a new border collie cross ready for me to exercise when I arrive. Calvin, my friend from school who also works here, gets a cute little lab mix to start.
Last year, Calvin’s boyfriend, Mark, sometimes helped us out. Now Mark is Calvin’s ex-boyfriend. Mark’s at Stanford University freshman orientation, so we’re going to be shorthanded. It seems like every week, more dogs come to the shelter. While some of the younger, cuter dogs get adopted pretty quickly, it’s not enough to keep up with how many people abandon their animals.
I say as much to Calvin, and he responds, “That’s just how nine out of ten people are. Assholes.”
I can’t help wondering if Calvin is feeling a bit abandoned himself. Mark got recruited by Stanford University as a tennis player. Although he did seem to care about Calvin, he was always going off to these clinics to improve his backhand and to tennis camps—plus he often had practice and tournaments. I guess it’s impressive Mark got a scholarship to such an awesome school with just a 3.2 GPA and relentlessly average SATs. But it’s hard for me not to think, wow, so he can hit a ball super-hard? I wish I could suddenly become talented at a sport and get a scholarship. Novel-reading, writing, and literary irony aren’t spectator-friendly.
Calvin doesn’t play a sport. Ever since Mark dumped him because Mark doesn’t “do” long-distance relationships, Calvin’s been even more disdainful of the idea of organized physical movement and is smoking way more than he usually does.
I know the dogs will miss Mark’s ability run them around. Calvin looks like he’s not making much of an effort, now that Mark’s not here. He’s not just totally phoning it in in terms of how slow he’s walking, but also in the way he’s dressed: he’s wearing jeans in worse shape than mine and mud-stained combat boots. His t-shirt is a freebie from a dog walk-a-thon we participated in to raise money for the shelter. Like me, he favors black nail polish, but it’s so chipped it’s at the “what’s the point” stage. He’s got a silver chain around his neck that looks like a harsh choke collar we’d never use on a dog, silver rings on almost every finger, and plenty of silver piercings in his ears.
Still, even when Calvin is wearing stuff that looks scraped off of the bottom of a laundry basket and from a heavy metal music video from the 1980s, he’s striking. He has blond, sun-streaked hair, and he’s very tall. Despite all his whining about how much he hates sports, crew work for theater and dog-walking keeps him lean and muscular. He has these high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes, but not crazy-blue like the eyes of the dog at the end of my leash right now. You can’t not look at Calvin when he’s around; he just has that quality.
There’s a Gay-Straight Alliance at my school. Calvin and I are both members. The club doesn’t do as much as I’d like. It holds meetings every two weeks after school, sponsors fundraisers, and puts up anti-bullying posters. But at least Rosewood South has a club like that, which is more than some high schools.
You might assume that because Calvin and I are both members of a club that supports gay rights, he’s out, loud, and proud. Of course, he is out to me, to Jacqui, and to all of our mutual friends. But because Mark was closeted, so was Calvin, sort of. I mean, it would be pretty obvious that Mark was gay if he was hanging out with Calvin all of the time and Calvin was out. Or so Mark said. I’m hoping now Mark’s no longer around Calvin won’t need to have one foot in the closet and one foot out.
I pick up a trot because the border collie mix I’m walking is straining at the leash. Calvin lights up a cigarette and I frown. Catherine says that all dancers used to smoke, but I’ve never been curious enough even to try. I like breathing clean air. And even if I didn’t, I couldn’t afford the habit. I’m glad smoking’s expensive, because Calvin has less spare cash than I do. If cigarettes were cheap, he’d smoke us both to an early grave. Calvin started to smoke a year or two ago, copying the adults in the summer community theater group he joined.
“Take it easy on me today. I just got some more bad news. The musical this year is Camelot,” he says.
“Oh, I love Camelot! The Knights of the Round Table! How romantic!”
“They’re not going to cast me as Lancelot,” says Calvin glumly. Just like my thing is writing, for Calvin, it’s acting. I’m not just saying this because he’s my friend, but he’s incredible. Watching most high school actors, there’s this weird awkwardness because you know they’re saying their lines, not thinking the character’s thoughts. There’s a tiny part of them that would rather not be looked at, no matter how much they whined and begged and pleaded for leads. I think most of the drama geeks want a big part because of the social prestige it offers, even if only in their small circle of friends. Calvin doesn’t care; he just wants to be someone else in some other world. Weirdly, he seems more sincere when he’s playing a character. Even though I’ve spent so much time with Calvin over these past three years, in some roles I’ve hardly recognized him on stage.
“Why not Lancelot?” I ask. “You have a strong singing voice and you’re a great actor.” I give him the once-over. “I think you could swash some serious buckle.” Lancelot is the very noblest of all the knights and Queen Guinevere’s champion and lover.
“
They never cast me as a romantic lead,” he says. “They never have, not in any of the plays they’ve put on at the high school. Not even at the community playhouse over the summer.”
I give my dog a bit more leash. He strains the thin nylon web taunt and whines.
Calvin continues. “You remember I was Captain Hook in Peter Pan last year? Hook’s like, the gayest villain ever.”
“I didn’t realize there were degrees of villainous gayness.”
“I only get gay roles. Or villains or psychopaths—sometimes all three wrapped up in one character. I swear, in my first elementary school play on the subject of dental health, I was cast as a cavity. Since then, I’ve been typecast.”
“I could also see you in the role of a canker sore.”
“Camelot will be my last school play ever.”
“Drama queen.”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Liss.”
Calvin claims he doesn’t have the luxury of picking a major that won’t result in a clear career path; studying acting is too risky. It’s sad, because acting is all he wants to do. Just like I want to be a writer. Unlike me, though, Calvin is not resistant to majoring in business or something practical. He’s the oldest of four children. He’s not going to get much merit-based money from Rutgers because his grades and test scores are borderline, even though he’s in some Advanced Placement (AP) classes. He can just hope because he’s poor he gets financial help.
His family is another reason why Calvin might be a bit reluctant to be out. His family is religious—not Bible-thumping, scary religious, but religious enough I have to watch what I say around them, so I don’t blurt out something irreverent or swear. Of course, the minute his parents aren’t around, Calvin curses like a (fucking) sailor. Or a stagehand, to use his preferred metaphor. Because of his parents and annoying younger sisters, we avoid spending time at Calvin’s. It’s awful enough he has to babysit all the time.
