Over the Fence Box Set

by Aarons, Carrie

  “So, where to now?” Miles jokes, swinging my hand back and forth in his.

  “Bed. Take me to bed.” I fall into the crook of his shoulder, brushing my hand back and forth across his abs as we walk.

  “Your wish is my command, princess.”

  And as we fall asleep in Miles’s bed, my back pressed to his giant front, I float peacefully to sleep. My last thoughts are of Miles, swaying me gently around a huge, empty dance floor.

  26

  Miles

  March 15th. The worst day on fucking earth.

  I wake with a start and a pounding headache. Looking at the clock, I almost forgot what day it is. Maybe I can just go back to sleep and when I wake up, it will be tomorrow.

  But I’m so fucking restless it’s no use now. I trace the lines of my tattoo, feeling the raised ink through my skin.

  Jason.

  His name will be running through my brain on an endless loop today, I won’t be able to think about anything else.

  I remember when the police came to our door, that Tuesday night. It was around dinner, my mother had taken her food in her room, and I was sitting at the opposite end of the table from my father. I remember the doorbell, the irritated sigh as he yelled, “Theresa, get the door!”

  I remember our housekeeper, a second mother to me, running in, a panicked look on her face. “Mr. Farriston, the police are at the door.” Her thick Spanish accent pierces my brain even now.

  My father moved, striding to the door in that usual arrogant way of his.

  I remember following him, knowing I might get in trouble for leaving the table but doing it anyway. I remember weaving myself behind Theresa’s legs, watching as the police spoke to my father.

  The words “car crash,” “drunk driver,” and “dead” imprinted on my brain forever.

  I remember my father holding the wall for support, his knees buckling under the pressure of the blow he’d just been dealt.

  I remember him saying, “He can’t be dead. Jason can’t be dead.”

  And then I remember the world going black.

  Even now, fourteen years later, I still have nightmares about that day. The day I found out my brother was dead.

  I jam the pillow over my head, ignoring my ten o’clock alarm signaling I need to get up and get my ass to macroeconomics. My phone vibrates under my hip, where I must have tossed it when I fell asleep last night.

  Chloe: Morning, baby :) we still meeting for lunch today?

  Fuck. I don’t even want to get out of bed, not even for my perfect girlfriend.

  Miles: Sorry, gonna play hooky today. Maybe tomorrow.

  My phone dings instantly.

  Chloe: What’s wrong? Do you feel okay?

  No, not at all. But I’m not physically sick.

  Miles: Yeah. Just tired. Have a great day, babe.

  I put my phone face down on the desk, silencing it and flopping back on my bed. Turning my head into the pillow, I pull the comforter over my head to block out the early spring sunlight pouring through the slits in my blinds. Damn cheery world. Can’t everyone just go into mourning with me for today? Is it so much to ask?

  I toss and turn for what feels like hours, imagining Jay’s voice and face in my head. His image is different now, warped after so many years, a vague shape with features. It’s why I hate myself so much on this day. I can barely remember his face anymore. He was the only person in my life who loved me and I can’t even honor his memory properly. I am such a shitty person.

  Looking at the clock, it’s still only 10:38 a.m. Fuck. How am I ever going to make it through this day?

  Glancing around the room, my eyes land on the mini-fridge. Alcohol. That’s what I needed.

  Sleepily ambling over to the fridge, I pry it open. Three beers, a half handle of whiskey, and an old orange juice. Well, better not pussyfoot around.

  I grab the bottle of whiskey, foregoing any kind of glass, and haul it back to bed with me. I turn on ESPN for background noise, if anything to drown out the thoughts in my head. I jack up the volume, hoping to push out the remaining thoughts of death, uncap the bottle, and take a huge, burning sip.

  The whiskey flows down my throat like searing-hot lava, scarring and ripping at my insides as it goes. It feels good. It feels numb.

  I sit there, on my bed, pretending to watch sports shows, until suddenly its 2:02 p.m. and the entire bottle of whiskey and all three beers are empty on my floor. I notice the wretched smell coming from my armpits and decide to go shower. Except that when I stand up, the floor slips out from underneath me, sending me crashing into a pile of dirty practice uniforms and worn out bats I’ve stacked in the corner. Pain immediately rips through my elbow, and when I look down, my vision hazy, I can see the blood dripping down my arm.

  “Fuck.” I shoot up, still unsteady as I trip into the hall and stumble into the bathroom, making it to the shower before I can cause any more harm.

  I strip, haphazardly climbing into the tub/shower combo. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t break my neck.

  The cut on my arm stings and pinches as I soak it under the hot spray, the pain muted from the effects of my alcohol bender. The cut is probably worse than I think, but I just can’t feel and I don’t really care. I complete the necessities, carelessly squirting shampoo into my hair and washing my armpits and balls with soap. That should be good enough.

  My buzz is still going strong when I make it back to my room, throwing on the first clothes I can find and grabbing my wallet and keys.

  The door to my room flies open, Owen holding his ears. “Dude, do you not hear that?” He stomps to my TV, manually pressing the volume button until the roar I hadn’t realized was echoing through my room goes silent. I just shrug at him, stumbling to grab my phone where I left it next to the bed.

  “What’s wrong with you, Farris?” Owen gets into my space, shoving his face close to mine. “Oh, Jesus. You reek of whiskey. What the fuck have you been doing? It’s two o’clock.”

  I push past him, way past done with this interrogation. I need more to drink.

  “Where are you going? Did something happen with Chloe?” He’s following me through the house, ghosting me as I pull on my fleece. Before I can turn, Owen grabs my arm, right on the elbow I just tore open.

  “Fuck! Jesus, let go of me!” My voice sounds like a drunk’s, I can register that much. And I’m swaying. “I’m going out. Chloe is fine, don’t go fucking crying to her either, Benedict Cumberbatch!”

  “I think you mean Benedict Arnold.”

  “No, you’re a fucking traitor! Running to your girlfriend every time I do something, tipping off my girlfriend. Just leave me alone!”

  With that, I slam the door in his face, the bright sun slapping me in mine. I shield my hand in front of my face and walk with quick strides toward downtown. I need Sammy’s now more than ever.

  * * *

  The gleaming bottles behind the bar are swimming in front of me as I pick my head up out of my hands.

  “Another!” I shout halfheartedly at the weekday guy behind the bar. He’s new and I don’t know him. Which is good, because if this was Ricky, he definitely wouldn’t have served me a drop.

  “I think that’s more than enough, buddy. How about I call you a cab?”

  Prick. I look down at the half-drunken tequila on the rocks in front of me, not remembering when I switched from bourbon to that. Fuck it. I slam back the entire contents of the glass, not even feeling the sharp, acidic burn rolling down my esophagus. I’m not sure what time it is, but it’s now dark outside, which has to be a good thing. Means this fucking day is almost over.

  The door to the bar opens with a bang, the glass windows in there rattling from the impact. I look up, my drunk-ADHD getting the better of me, to see my girlfriend standing there, a worried expression on her face.

  Fuck. I knew it was only a matter of time before she found me.

  “Hiya, toots!” I splay my arms wide, motioning for her to come join me.

&n
bsp; Chloe walks to me hesitantly, her gym bag slung around her shoulder, her dark pea coat covering her white tights. She’s been in the studio.

  “Hi, babe. Where have you been all day? I’ve been calling and texting you.” Her eyes are pure worry, her motions not as calm as I’d like them to be.

  I pull my phone out, see it light up with dozens of texts and calls. Some from Chloe, others from Owen and Clint.

  “Ah, man, sorry, babe, must not have heard it. I’ve been here. What do you want, let me buy my baby a drink!” I motion for the bartender who ignores me and snorts as he wipes down the counter.

  “Babe, it’s okay. How about we get you home?” Her voice is gentle, coaxing.

  “I’m not a fucking child, Chloe. You don’t have to treat me like one.” My harsh words slap the air.

  “I’m not saying that. But I want to spend some time with you before I go tomorrow.”

  Shit, her New York trip. I forgot about her audition in my selfishness. Shit. She shouldn’t have to be dealing with me.

  “Sorry, babe, you go on. I’ll be fine. Go sleep before your plane tomorrow.” I pick up the glass again, ready to take another sip, before realizing it’s empty.

  “No, I’m taking you home. I’m not going to sit there worrying sick about you.” Her pained expression causes me to move, to press my lips to hers. I pull back, seeing the real fear in her eyes.

  “All right, let’s go.” Chloe is the only person on this earth that I’ll do something for, even if I don’t want to do it.

  By the time we get home, Chloe is carrying me up the steps. The world is spinning, my feet slipping on every step up to our porch.

  “Jesus Christ …” Owen grabs my haggard body when Chloe drags us through the door, taking the pressure off of her.

  “I’m fine!” I push off him, standing wobbly on my own two feet. They’re all sitting in the living room, staring at me. Like some damaged puppy. “What the fuck are you all looking at?”

  I storm off toward my room, quickly followed by Chloe, who walks in and quietly shuts the door as I’m throwing random things around the room.

  “Miles, please talk to me?” She looks stricken and confused, the purple of her eyes so light that she looks ill.

  “I don’t want to talk right now … please, can we do this tomorrow?” I beg with her, plead her to just leave me. I can’t be with her right now.

  “I don’t want to leave you like this … just talk to me.” She comes for me, taking up my hands in hers. The move fills me with warmth, and all I want to do is reject it. I need to stay in my dirty, horrible bubble.

  “Don’t, Chloe.” I push her hands away.

  “Really, Miles? Really? I thought we were done with this.” Her voice spikes, anger rising in her tone.

  “Jesus, can you just get out! Can’t you see I don’t want you here right now?” I match her ire, giving it right back to her.

  “Well, I’m going to be here! Because that’s what we do for each other!”

  I run my hands through my hair, trying to calm my simmering blood. “Well, I. Don’t. Need. You.” Too late. I say this inches away from her face, deathly quiet and slow.

  “Yes. You. Do.” A fat tear rolls from the corner of her eye. “Why won’t you just fucking admit that already? You need me, and I need you. We take care of each other! That’s what people do when they’re in love!”

  The outburst knocks me on my ass, literally. I fall into a sitting position on my bed, shocked at the sudden litany coming from Chloe. Chloe, who is always calm and collected. Who never fires back at me.

  “What did you say?”

  She’s panting, her face is flushed and angry. “I said I love you, you stupid jerk. What is so wrong that you won’t just let me?”

  She’s screaming by the end of this, her face a mess of tears. I can’t even bring myself to say anything. Chloe is pulling on her fingers, trying to swallow back the worst of her tears. I still can’t speak, drunk and blindsided knocking the wind out of me.

  It seems like minutes go by before she turns on her heel, leaving me in my empty bedroom. I just let the girl I love walk out of my life without so much as a word.

  27

  Chloe

  “Are you ready, bella?” Mama squeezes my shoulders as we assess my makeup in the mirror. It’s a special type of magic that foundation and cover-up works. You can barely see the bruise-like circles rimming my eyes.

  “As I’ll ever be.” I give her a small smile, the only expression I can muster.

  I study my makeup in the mirror, the way my bun is pulled higher onto my head today to account for the hairpiece I’ve added. The bodysuit I wear is a deep, dark maroon, with a long gauzy tutu that reaches the floor. My whole body is bathed in the dark red, like I’m one big, deep stab wound. Which is also how I feel.

  I haven’t cried since I stormed out of Miles’s bedroom last night. I haven’t slept either. I really haven’t done much but sit in the airport, on the plane, in a cab. Numb, unfeeling, just staring out into space.

  I love you. How stupid could I have been? I shouldn’t have said it, not then. Miles could barely stand upright. Why he’d gotten so bombed, I’m not even sure. It shouldn’t sting like alcohol over an open wound that he didn’t return my sentiment. But it does. It hurt so bad that I feel like I can’t take a deep breath. It feels like my body is shutting down organ by organ, like the pain ripping through me can’t even be real.

  I jumped on a plane eight hours after running out of his house, headed to New York for my audition. So I have to push this to the background, I’ll grieve later. Right now, I have to go out and give the performance of a lifetime.

  Standing, I run my hands down the smooth cotton leotard, going up on my pointe shoes to stretch out my calves, to make sure my shoes are completely broken in and to my liking. I’ve burned these ones, scraped them with a steel brush, and showered in them to mold them to perfection. Ballet is an art form, and if I don’t get this painting perfect, my whole future could be in jeopardy.

  “You’re going to do great.” Mama stares at me lovingly from the corner where she sits. “You have been training all of your life for this. Ever since you were a little girl, twirling around the restaurant. I couldn’t stop you from dancing, and after you took your first lesson, I never did. God gave you this gift, this blessing. He put you here to show everyone else just how beautiful ballet is, and you do it perfectly every time you step out onto the stage.”

  She moves to me, taking my hands in hers and pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Whatever happened in the past day, you need to push it out of your mind. Don’t think about anything but this dance. And no matter what happens, remember. We are so proud of you regardless of where you end up. No matter if you’re a prima ballerina or a chorus girl. Or if you stop dancing altogether. You’re our daughter and we love you. Never forget that.”

  Her words open up my heart just the tiniest fraction, allowing some of her warmth and good to invade my body. It’s exactly what I need to go out there and take what’s mine.

  “Chloe Trabucco? You’re on deck.” The coordinator comes back to let me know. I shake out my whole body, rolling my neck in that way everyone does when they are about to head into a battle. Because that is what this feels like.

  I kiss Mama one last time and then head up for the wings of the stage. I turn my back to the big wood floor in front of me. I never watch the other solos; not at competition, not in practice, and definitely not here. I psych myself out enough without adding other dancers to the mix.

  The girl’s music was upbeat, a loud symphony beat similar to The Nutcracker. It’s too cliché. I know I need to wow these judges, to really show them what I’m made of. Soon, her music ends and she flurries past me in a fluff of white tulle.

  I push my shoulders back, take a deep breath, hold up, and point my toes as I glide out onto the stage.

  “Ms. Trabucco, yes?” The older man at the table asks. I recognize him as Simon Hutler, the program direct
or at SAB. He’s the one who makes final decisions on who stays and who goes. He’s the head honcho.

  “Yes, that’s right. Thank you so much for having me.” You have to play these auditions polite, but not too over-the-top enthusiastic. I even took a seminar on how to nail a ballet audition. This world is more cutthroat than any.

  “You come highly recommended by Madame Vivienne and have a top spot at Grover. We are excited to see what you’ve prepared for us,” Natalie Pinroe addresses me directly, and I think I might die on the spot. She smiles, and I can’t tell if it’s genuine.

  “Yes.” I nod to the person manning the stereo, taking that as my cue to go on and dance already. I get into my starting position, and wait as the first few slow, heartbreaking violin strings ring through the regal hall.

  This piece hadn’t been intentionally picked, but I’d come across this song as I was researching and choreographing, and could not get it out of my head.

  The crescendo picks up, and I begin to move, lifting up onto relevé and bourréeing across the stage, my arms loose but composed, floating on the air like sad willow tree branches. I let the music take me, the sad, lilting melody speaking for the pain in my soul.

  The room disappears, and it’s just me, the hardwood, and my pointe shoes, doing what I was made to do. I’m not even thinking, the motions just coming naturally, each turn and leap and kick a representation of my emotions, an extension of me.

  I dance out all the pain and heartache I’ve felt in the last hours; I throw my body into the jumps, willing this to soothe my soul. I’m relaxed, nowhere near nervous, I just dance and let the music take me over.

  As the song winds down, I fold my body in half, representing exactly the way my heart feels. I think I feel tears in my eyes, but I’m not sure. And at this point I don’t care. My body is humming, vibrating at another level. It’s a feeling I get only after I’ve danced my ass off. And I know I’ve done as well as I possibly can.