Sparrow

by Mary Cecilia Jackson

  Seven, eight, nine, I’m not fine.

  I wish I could find a little cupboard to hide in, where no one would ever find me. I wish I could make myself disappear.

  6

  Seventh of July

  “You ready?” Lucas asks, his voice clipped and terse. It’s three days after Delaney’s party.

  Dressed in black tights and his favorite gray T-shirt, the one with all the holes at the hem, he finishes stretching at the barre.

  He won’t look at me.

  I take off my thick black leg warmers and adjust the wrapping on my ankle. Though I sprained it years ago, this role has brought the old ache back to life, and I greet it like a long-lost friend. Pain means I’m accomplishing something. Pain means I’m alive.

  “Yep. Let’s go.”

  We begin where we always begin.

  I arrange myself on the floor, left leg bent under me, right leg extended, foot arched and pointed. I rest my forehead on my knee and concentrate on making my arms look as fluid and boneless as possible, crossing my wrists over my leg so they look like the folded wings of a bird. Lucas is supposed to walk slowly toward me, bending over my arms, lifting one wrist, then the other.

  But he doesn’t. I can hear him behind me, pacing back and forth.

  “I can’t do this,” he says.

  “What are you doing?” I straighten up and look around.

  He looks me dead in the eye. “No, Sparrow. What are you doing?”

  Sighing, I get up and walk to my dance bag. Pulling my leg warmers back on, I say, “What’s your problem? Are we going to rehearse or not? It was hard enough to get permission to be here this early in the morning. You really want to waste time?”

  “I can’t dance with you, not like this.” He walks to the barre, tugging on his sweatshirt.

  “Not like what?”

  “Sick and tired of watching you pretend everything’s fine. That your boyfriend’s a prince among men, a real stand-up guy.”

  I close my eyes and breathe in slowly, trying to center myself.

  “He is a stand-up guy. And mine is the only opinion that matters.”

  “Nope, nope, nope, not anymore. I was at Delaney’s. Is your memory that short? I saw you crying, Sparrow, all folded up in the corner. On the floor.”

  “I slipped.”

  “You’re really going to stick with that lame-ass story?”

  “Lucas, I’m not doing this with you. I’m just not. I’m fine, and it’s all forgotten. Could we please, please get through the pas de deux just once? Come on. Let’s forget everything and dance. We can talk later, if you want.”

  Leaning against the barre with his arms folded across his chest, he scowls at me.

  “I don’t want to talk later. I want to talk now. And for once, I’m not going to let you weasel your way out of telling the truth.”

  “And I want to dance, which is why we’re here, so why don’t you just get a freaking grip and stop lecturing me? I’ve told you before: my life and my boyfriend are none of your business.”

  There’s a sharp rap on the door, and Levkova peers in. “Was I wrong to give you permission to use the studio this morning? You are here to rehearse, are you not? If you want to lounge about and chat, please go somewhere else and waste your time.” She slams the door behind her.

  Her words, the slam of the door, echo all around us, and we stare at each other, unwilling to give ground. Finally Lucas sighs and pulls off his sweatshirt, balling it up and tossing it into a corner.

  “Okay, Birdbrain, you win this round,” he says. “But I’m still pissed, and I’m not letting it go, just so you know.”

  “Whatever. Dance with me.”

  “Quit bossing me around.”

  I rearrange myself on the floor. This time, Lucas is with me. He lifts one wrist, then the other. He unfolds me. At the touch of his hands, I raise my head.

  I feel Odette’s imprisoned soul deep inside me, frightened, submerged, and inhuman. Erased from the world.

  The pas de deux takes about ten minutes from start to finish, if we don’t stop. But of course we do, to move slowly through the footwork until it feels perfect, to work through the placement of Lucas’s hands, the port de bras at the end that I still can’t get quite right. We look at ourselves in the mirrors with unsparing, critical eyes, trying to figure out which angle is best when I’m en pointe, he wraps his arms around me from behind, and I rest my head on his shoulder. That’s always been my favorite moment, those few seconds when we’re mostly still, and the agony of the curse is written on our faces, in our bodies.

  By the end, we’re drenched with sweat. I can’t feel my calves, and my feet are cramping. Lucas lies on the floor, his arms and legs spread like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man—with a Deathly Hallows tattoo on the inside of one wrist.

  “It’s like we’re two old farts trying to climb a flight of stairs,” he says. “I’m going to need an oxygen tank and one of those walkers with the tennis balls on the feet just to get out of the building.”

  “Come on, old fart,” I say, holding out my hand. “You ready for some more?”

  He groans. “You really going to pull me up off this floor?”

  “No, but I thought I’d make the offer.” He takes my hand and springs to his feet, then focuses like a laser on my wrist.

  “That’s new. From Tristan?”

  “Yes,” I say, pulling my hand out of his. The bracelet, thin silver links with a heart to match my necklace, glitters in the pale morning light streaming in through the windows. I turn away before he can see the inscription.

  Forgive me.

  “Is that how it works? He’s a massive a-hole, then you get jewelry? Is the bling worth whatever he’s putting you through?”

  “Lucas, look, I really need you to stop this, okay? I know you’re going through a tough time right now, with your dad and your mom and Anna—”

  His face flushes and his eyes flare with anger. “Stop right there. I mean it, Sparrow. Don’t you dare hide behind my father. Yes, I’m going through a tough time. But that doesn’t make me blind or stupid or oblivious to what’s going on around me. Something’s not right with you and Tristan, and I saw it with my own eyes the other night. I know how you hate talking about stuff, especially anything that’s even remotely difficult, but I don’t even think you’re talking to yourself about this.”

  “Lucas, please, would you just shut up? All I want to do is dance right now. I’m in my favorite place on the planet, with my favorite partner, and we have music and it’s finally going to rain and we are seventeen and the principal freaking dancers in Swan Freaking Lake. Could we please enjoy this moment without having to argue? Because I hate arguing, Lucas. Especially with you. Come on. We have the studio for another half an hour. Let’s do something fun.”

  In the hall, the sound of preschool girls arriving for ballet class fills the air. It’s such a sweet, joyful sound, the little girls chattering and laughing, their mothers trying to hush them, telling them to behave themselves.

  Lucas cracks his back and his neck.

  “Gross! You are beyond disgusting. You know I hate that sound.”

  “Yep, I do. That’s why I did it.”

  I hit his shoulder with my fist.

  “You think I even feel that, Birdy?”

  “Shut up. Also, you reek. Just so you know.”

  “Yeah, you smell like a monkey.”

  “Rather smell like one than look like one.”

  Finally. A laugh and a high five.

  “Good one. Well played.”

  The knot in my stomach eases, and I smile at him.

  “Just play some music, Lucas. I’m tired of talking. Let’s dance, for God’s sake.”

  “What do you feel like?” He always asks, and I always let him pick. Otherwise it would be all ballet music all the time, which makes him nuts.

  “Your choice. I’m good with anything.”

  He syncs his phone with the Bluetooth speaker in the corner and thumbs
through his library. Barns Courtney’s “Hellfire” pounds into the room, and with a grunt like a feral hog, Lucas takes off, his body soaring into the air. He always needs to go super-hard and fast after the slow precision of the pas de deux. He does all of his favorite jumps, grands jetés, sauts de basque, cabrioles, and barrel turns.

  I pretend to ignore him—he gets all weird and self-conscious if he knows I’m watching—so I work on upping my fouetté count. I can do a solid twenty-seven, but I’m trying to get to thirty-six, in case I ever get to dance Odile, the Black Swan. Levkova says seventeen is too young to be that evil, but I don’t think evil cares how old you are.

  When the music stops, we walk around the room together, gathering the last of our strength, working on slowing our breathing, shaking out our arms and rolling our necks and shoulders. I repair my bun, holding bobby pins between my teeth as we walk. My hair is soaked, and the back of my neck is wet. My lips are red and salty with sweat. Lucas keeps looking at me out of the corner of his eye. His face is flushed.

  He walks over to his dance bag and takes out the tennis ball he uses to roll out the tired muscles in his feet. But instead of putting it under his foot, he hurls it, hard, at the door. It bounces back and hits a window, which rattles and shakes in its frame, then rolls to a stop at my foot.

  I pick it up and sit down, rolling it between my hands, my back to the mirrors, looking out at the gray clouds hanging low over the smoky blue mountains. “So!” I say into the thick silence. “You think Levkova’s going to be in a good mood this week or an I’m-going-to-make-them-all-suffer kind of mood?” My voice comes out all perky and squeaky, like I’ve swallowed a cheerleader. I tap my finger against my hand, three sets of three, then three more, then all over again, whispering to myself, again and again until I lose count. Lucas sees.

  He comes to sit across from me, takes the tennis ball away, and puts his hands over mine. “It’s okay, Birdy. Stop. It’s okay. I’m sorry.” We sit like that for a long moment, my hands in his. I’m still counting in my head.

  He gives my hands a squeeze and says, “Do you promise you’re okay? Pinky swear, and I’ll drop it for good.” He holds up his hand, pinky finger crooked and ready. Ever since we were kids, a pinky swear for Lucas is like a blood oath.

  “Yeah, of course I am! And I don’t need to pinky swear. I’m good, for real. My dad is coming home for dinner tonight for the first time in a long time, and Sophie’s making that pasta we love, you know, with the bacon and peas that my dad calls Pasta Carbon Footprint?” I tap the toes of my pointe shoes together, counting.

  “You know how it’s been so annoying, having all those paralegals and suck-up law clerks at the house ever since the trial started? Like they’re the ones who are going to save the perp du jour? We haven’t been able to eat at the dining room table in months. Every morning, my dad drinks coffee and checks the news standing up at the kitchen counter.” I take the bobby pins out of my bun and shove them in again, harder, tighter.

  “Sophie finally kicked them all out, told them our house wasn’t the suburban branch of the firm.”

  I’m talking way too fast about nothing, and everything sounds like a question. But Lucas is like a dog with a bone.

  “Okay, no pinky swear, so I get one more question. Does Tristan know you’re here?”

  My stomach lurches. I told him I was sleeping late this morning.

  “This is mine, Lucas. My work, my dancing, my time. Tristan knows I have to rehearse.”

  “Yeah, but he wasn’t too happy about it that day in the parking lot.”

  “Jesus, would you just once and for all stop? I can’t take it anymore, Lucas! Your hovering, your constant questions, your nose all up in my life, where it does not belong! Let me say it real slow, real clear, so even you will understand. You are not my father. You are not my brother. You don’t own me. You have no say over what I do or who I see or what my life is like when I’m not dancing with you. Got it? You think you can remember a complicated concept like that? What I have with Tristan belongs to me. Not you, not Delaney, me. It’s none of your business. It’s nobody’s business. It’s private! So shut up and back off!”

  He rolls his eyes so hard he can probably see his own brain. “Right. You guys are so private. Nobody sees how he is. Nobody notices when he gets pissed or hears him when he starts to yell. You want me to back off? How’s this? Bet you didn’t tell him you’re here alone with me.”

  I feel my face turning crimson, the heat coming into my cheeks from the pit of my stomach. “God, what is your problem today? Okay, no. He doesn’t know, and no, he wouldn’t like it. Pretty sure you’ve figured out that he’s mad jealous of you.”

  Even saying this much feels all wrong, especially in this room. Sacrilegious, like spitting in a church. All the fight goes out of me. I’m so tired.

  “Yeah, but he gets that we don’t really have a choice, right?”

  I let out a long breath. “Only in an abstract kind of way. Like when you know in your head that you have to go to the dentist, but actually walking into the office and hearing the drill makes you want to barf.”

  “You want me to talk to him? I promise I’ll be chill. I’d love us to have another little chat. I think we had a real connection the other night.”

  My mouth goes dry. “No, Lucas. Don’t you dare.”

  I stand up and grab onto the barre, and Lucas stands up beside me, staring into the mirror. My skin is all blotchy and red. He rests his arms on the warm polished wood, and I busy myself with the lukewarm bottle of water I left on the floor. Lucas runs his hands through his damp curls, then stretches his hips out, first one side, then the other. He bends double, touching his nose to his knees, all tucked into himself. He breathes deeply, inhaling for a count of three, holding it for a count of three, then exhaling in a long, whooshing sound, like the night wind rushing through the trees.

  He straightens up and gives me a look.

  “Lucas,” I say, “I’m serious. I swear to God, if you say anything to Tristan, I will never, ever speak to you again. Promise me you won’t.”

  His eyes are super-intense, like he’s trying to pull the words he wants to hear out of my throat. When I stay quiet, he throws up his hands. I’m not sure if it’s surrender or exasperation.

  “Yeah, okay, sure. I promise I will not say a word to your douchebag boyfriend. But that doesn’t mean I won’t flip him off next time I see him. Just so you know.”

  The sky has darkened, and rain patters against the windows. Inside, the air still feels charged, but we have to finish.

  Lucas takes out his phone and turns up the speaker in the corner. We move to center floor to practice the most difficult, most romantic part of the pas de deux. It’s hard, because we’re both angry dancing, but we manage to get through it.

  When we’re finished, we’re exhausted. Lucas grabs two towels from his bag and throws one to me.

  “Look,” he says, “I’m sorry. You’re right; you guys are none of my business. I’ll stop with the interrogations. I don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all, but I’ll stop. I was out of line. I’m sorry. Come on, let’s do the Last Thing.”

  He turns up “Devil’s Backbone” by the Civil Wars.

  “No.”

  “You have to. It’s fish-dive time.”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “You know it’s the law of the land. If we don’t do the fish dive, the planet will tilt on its axis, birds will drop out of the sky, and sad little chickens will howl at the moon.” He sucks in his cheeks and makes a fish face. “Fish dive, Birdbrain. Fish dive.”

  I bite my lip, trying not to smile.

  “You’re a total idiot. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, because you keep telling me. Come on. Fish dive.”

  I toss the towel aside, and stand in front of Lucas, moving slowly into arabesque. Lucas lifts me high over his head, counts to three, and lowers me crazy fast, so that my head and arms are only inches from the floor. A fish d
ive, thrilling and unbelievably beautiful.

  I hold on to his hips with my legs, and he opens his arms in triumph. “Look at this, people,” he crows. “Are we beasting it or what? Bow down and worship, peasants!”

  I can’t help it; I laugh. Lucas laughs with me, and I start to fall. He grabs my hips to keep me from hitting the floor.

  I gasp and cry out, stepping awkwardly out of the dive and crashing to my knees. I’m breathless with pain. There’s a loud roaring in my ears, and I feel like I’m going to pass out. I put my hand on my chest and count my heartbeats. By threes. I make it to twelve before I hear Lucas.

  “Oh my God, Birdy! Say something! Please!” His face is stricken, his eyes wide. He’s standing completely still, frozen, like he’s afraid to move.

  I try to steady my breathing. My hip is sending blinding bolts of pain all the way around my back and up to my ribs.

  “I’m fine, I promise. It’s just a little bruise. Give me a second, okay?”

  “Sparrow, you’re not fine! Oh my God, why won’t you tell me the truth?”

  7

  Early August, a Saturday

  Nora brings my latte in a heavy white ceramic cup, a perfect foam heart in the center, sprinkled with cinnamon. She pauses to watch the rain pounding against the big picture window, the wind lashing the trees in the town square across the street. Today she’s wearing my favorite apron over her denim wraparound skirt, the pale green one embroidered with strawberries.

  “It is a vile and wretched day, my love,” she says in her lilting Scottish accent. “It reminds me of Scotland. And not in a good way. It has rained every day for nearly a month!”

  She bustles away as the door opens and Sophie blows in, laughing, along with a shrieking gust of wind and rain. The mirrors on the wall rattle. She hangs her dripping raincoat on the rack near the cash register and makes her way over to our table in front of the window. “Nora! I’m sorry I’m dripping all over your floor! Give me a mop, and I’ll clean up after myself!”