“Oh, hush,” Nora says. “Nobody mops my floor but me. Go sit down, and I’ll bring you a towel.”
Sophie blows her a kiss and scoots into the booth across from me. Her jasmine perfume wafts over me like a benediction. Nora returns and sets a steaming cup of green tea in front of Sophie, along with two laminated menus and a fresh tea towel for her hair.
“You are an angel, Nora. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome, darling. I made split-pea-and-ham soup today. It’s delicious, if I do say so myself!”
She heads back to the kitchen, stopping to chat at every table along the way.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, sweetie,” Sophie says. “It was murder finding a parking space. She squints her eyes at me and leans closer. “Honey, you’re so pale! Are you getting sick?”
“No, I’m just exhausted. My feet won’t stop cramping. Also, the swan arms are killing me. And you know, the whole thing with Lucas.”
“What whole thing with Lucas?”
“Remember I told you we had an argument? After the Fourth of July?”
“You guys still haven’t patched things up?”
“No. We’re barely talking to each other.”
“That’s so unlike Lucas. I mean, that boy could talk the ears off an elephant. He’s always so open and honest about everything. And he hates for people to be upset with him. Especially you.”
“Yeah, well, not so much lately. I mean, we talk about dancing when we’re in the studio, but that’s it. And because he’s not talking about anything else, and I feel so terrible about the nasty, ugly things I said to him, we’re dancing like crap. Levkova is totally pissed off at both of us. Like today, in front of everybody, she told us if we couldn’t stop acting like ‘petulant children,’ she’d find two other dancers who were worthy of Swan Lake. So that sucked.”
I unwrap my silverware and put the spoon in my coffee cup, dead center, careful not to touch the sides. I wreck the heart, stirring the foam three times clockwise, three times counterclockwise. If I touch the sides, I have to start again.
Sophie reaches out and takes hold of my wrist. “Sparrow, honey,” she says quietly. “Enough. Stop. Tell me more about Lucas. Tell me how I can help.”
“I wish you could, but you can’t. I mean, we don’t even text each other anymore, and I know it’s stupid, but I miss that most of all. I texted more with him than I do with Delaney. Every day he’d send me funny cat videos and pictures of baby goats, and if I was in a crappy mood, he was always the one who could make me laugh.”
Sophie squeezes my hand. “Oh, sweetie. You really are having a bad day.”
I sigh. “The whole thing is just this huge nasty ball of suck. It’s not just today; it’s everything right now. Lucas, Swan Lake, everything. I just want to eat and go home and take a hot bath. I’ll get over it. I always do.”
“Well,” she says, scanning her menu. “You stop talking about it, which isn’t exactly the same thing, but okay. When we get home, I’ll find you some lavender to put in your bath. It will help you relax. Come on, let’s eat. You must be starving, and I know I am.”
Nora comes back to take our order. My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed jagged rocks, but I’ll get unending grief if I only order toast and a boiled egg.
“How about the chicken salad sandwich? And could I please have some sliced tomato instead of potato salad?”
“You got it, Missy. Soph?”
“I’ll do the split-pea soup and the flatbread, please. And I’d like some sweet tea, too, now that I’m all warmed up. With lime, please.” Nora finishes writing on her little pad and grins at me.
“I’m coming to the gala in March. I already bought my ticket and paid for the sixth row, center orchestra. Be sure to wave at me.”
“Nora, are you kidding? Levkova would kill me.”
She chuckles and heads back to the kitchen.
I dig my phone out of my purse and set it carefully on the windowsill, beside the planters filled with bright yellow calla lilies and African violets. Two seconds later I change my mind and tuck it under my right thigh, so I’ll be sure to feel it vibrate.
Sophie is not amused. “Do we not have a rule about phones during meals?”
“Yes, we do, Sophie, but I don’t want to miss Tristan.”
As if he can hear me talking about him, my phone buzzes. Sophie gives me a dark look. “Don’t you even think about it.”
“Sophie, I have to. It’ll just be a second.”
Where are u?
Lunch with Sophie. <3
Where?
Nora’s.
K. Call me when you’re done.
When I look up, Sophie’s playing with her favorite bracelet, twisting it around her wrist and fingering the charms like beads on a rosary. A lighthouse, a dinosaur, a star. An angel, a paintbrush, a key. She does this when she’s thinking. Or when she’s irritated. “Are you done now?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I just hate to miss him, especially when I’ve been at ballet all morning.”
“Dancing is your passion, your gift. At this point, it can hardly be a surprise to your boyfriend that you have to work hard at it.”
Nora comes with our food, and the air is filled with the warm fragrance of basil and cheese, tomatoes and red peppers. Maybe now Sophie will stop talking.
I peel the bread off my sandwich and scrape the chicken salad onto the plate. My stomach turns over. I cannot possibly eat this. The grapes look like eyeballs.
Sophie watches me silently, then takes my hand in hers. “Honey, can we talk about something?”
Under my thigh, my phone vibrates, buzzing like a wasp.
“Don’t, Sparrow. Turn it off if it’s going to distract you, because I would seriously like to have all your attention right now. Tristan can wait until we’re done with lunch.”
I put my phone back on the windowsill. I do not turn it off.
I take a sip of water and cut a slice of tomato with my fork. It bleeds onto the plate. “Okay. You have all my attention. But could you please not talk to me about ballet or Lucas or school starting soon? I’m wigged-out enough about that stuff. Wig me out about something else.”
She gives me a faint smile. “I’m not trying to wig you out, honey. But I need to say something, and I need you to hear me.”
My phone vibrates again, and I put my hand over it. Maybe he’ll feel me reaching out to him. Maybe he’ll know that I’m trapped. That I’m sorry.
Sophie swallows a bite of flatbread and takes a sip of sweet tea. She pushes her damp curls off her forehead and adjusts her long, dangly earrings. “Here’s the thing. I’m wondering—and honestly, I’m really not trying to intrude here—but I’m a little concerned that this thing with Tristan has gotten way too serious, way too fast.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh my God, Sophie, don’t even start.”
“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, Miss Crabbypants. It’s unkind, and it makes me feel that you think what I’m saying is stupid.”
“I’m sorry, Sophie. I don’t think you’re stupid. But I love Tristan. He loves me. We want to be together as much as we can. That doesn’t make us too serious. That just means that what we have is, you know … real.”
Sophie squeezes more lime into her tea and stirs in two fake sugars. Sweet tea is never sweet enough for Sophie. “I hear you, and I understand what you’re saying. I still remember Jesse, my first boyfriend. I was fifteen, and he was all I could think about, every minute of every day.”
I smash the chicken salad with the back of my fork and look out the window at the rain. It just will not quit.
“But I want to make sure that things are okay, that there’s nothing bothering you.”
My phone buzzes seven times. A phone call. It stops, then starts again.
I rest my hand on the phone, willing it to stop. Sophie sees.
“Are you okay, Sparrow?”
I’m so tired. All the way down in my bones. It exhausts me, walking around filled up with word
s I cannot, will not speak. Sometimes I imagine them overflowing, leaking out of my eyes and ears, lifting the skin from the palms of my hands, roaring out of my mouth like a tsunami, muddy and filled with debris.
“Sophie, yes, I promise. Everything is still good. Tristan is a wonderful boyfriend. You know how sweet he’s been to me. It’s like I told you, everything right now is kind of crazy. I’m super-stressed about Swan Lake. Learning the White Swan is hard, and everybody’s on edge. Plus, I’m nervous about senior year and all those AP classes and, you know, if I’m really good enough to be a professional dancer. Tristan’s applying to colleges, so that’s no fun. It’s just a lot right now.”
Sophie doesn’t respond, just steeples her fingers and looks at me thoughtfully. Though this always makes me nervous, I’ve learned to wait her out. It’s like she believes her silence will eventually make me spill my guts. It never does.
She sighs. “Honey, I know it’s a stressful time for you both, but something’s changed since March. You’re so quiet. The only time I know you’re in the house for sure is when I hear you banging out fouettés in the middle of the night.”
“I can’t get them fast enough for Levkova. And I’m still traveling a little. If I do them over and over again, I’ll get better.”
“Not if you’re losing sleep doing them in the middle of the night. You’re not eating, either. Something is going on. I love you, and I’m worried about you.”
“Sophie, I’m telling you. It’s all good.”
My phone buzzes.
“For the love of all that is good and holy, will you please turn off your phone while I’m trying to talk to you?”
“Sophie, I can’t. Please don’t make me. He gets really—itchy—when we’re not together.”
Her eyebrows rise almost to her hairline, like startled little caterpillars.
“Sweetheart,” she says. “You realize how controlling that is, right?”
I can’t answer. All my energy is focused on staying calm, not showing her the panic that’s coming at me like a dark wave.
“Sparrow,” Sophie says quietly. “Honey. I wish you could see your face right now. You’re kind of proving my point here.”
“You’re kind of making a big deal out of nothing. I can handle Tristan.”
“Can you?” she says, pushing her plate away.
“Look.” I hold up my phone and grab my purse. “See? I’m putting my phone in my purse. He’s not controlling. I didn’t realize I was committing some godawful crime by wanting to stay in touch with my boyfriend, but if it bothers you so much, I’m putting my phone away, and I’ll pretend he doesn’t exist. Okay? Happy now?”
I throw my phone in my purse and put it beside me so it’s touching my hip. I turn and look out the window.
Sophie takes my hands in hers, running her thumbs gently over mine, like she used to do when I was little. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says softly. “Please don’t be angry with me. Do you remember the first words I said to you when I moved in with you and your dad?”
“Of course I do.”
“Tell them to me.”
I don’t want to go back there. I try so hard not to remember.
The harsh sound of my father’s weeping on the last day. The wintry echo of glass shattering as he threw every picture of her into a box and carried it to the attic. The crackling of her paintings, burning in the backyard. Seven night-lights to banish the nightmares. And Sophie’s voice, reading to me every morning just before dawn, for two years.
My eyes fill, and my voice cracks. “You said, ‘Fear not, little bird. All will be well, all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well. I am here now. I’ll always be here.’”
My aunt Sophie squeezes my hands. “I’m going to tell you something, Sparrow, and I want you to listen, okay?”
“Okay.”
She smiles at me, and I feel her love all around me, enveloping me like a warm cocoon.
“Here it is. Sometimes in a relationship, especially one that’s so new and intense, it helps to take a step back … and it’s okay to walk away if you feel uncomfortable or anxious or disappointed.
“But, sweetheart, here’s the most important thing. It’s also okay to walk away just because you want to. You don’t need to explain or justify anything. You don’t have to have a reason. You can just want out.”
My phone vibrates inside my purse. I can feel it against my hip. Fear rises in my throat.
I know Sophie’s talking to me, because I see her lips moving, but all I can feel is the vibration against my hip, traveling up to my rib cage and into my chest. Sophie’s voice fades away. I look down on my body from far away, frozen in this booth, the roof above me, the walls around me disappearing, the rain pouring into my eyes, my nose, my mouth, while my phone vibrates on and on.
The crash of a plate shattering on the floor brings me back. I take a deep breath and focus on Sophie’s face. “Sophie, I swear, you’re totally overreacting. There’s nothing wrong, nothing I can’t handle. Tristan and I are just figuring stuff out. You know, relationship stuff. I promise, if I get worried, I’ll talk to you. But I’ll handle things my own way. I’m an adult.”
“Oh, honey.” She sighs. “No, you’re not. You’re only seventeen, my sweet baby girl, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I won’t. I promise.” I try to eat a bite of chicken salad just to make her happy, but I spit it into my napkin when she’s not looking. Outside, the rain has stopped, and there are patches of deep blue sky over the lush green mountains.
Nora brings the check, along with a white box filled with pumpkin muffins.
“These are on the house,” she says, handing them to me. She gives me a peck on the cheek.
While Sophie pays, I check my phone. There are fifteen new texts, six missed calls, and four voicemails. All from him.
Where are you? Why is lunch taking so long?
Can’t wait to see you tonight. Wear that pink sweater I love, okay?
Why aren’t you answering? I worry about you when we’re apart.
You’re not with him, are you?
I need you to answer me now.
Right now.
He loves me, I tell myself. He loves me more than anything. He tells me every day. It’s okay for him to go a little nuts when we’re not together. I’m lucky that he wants to be with me all the time, that he worries about me, that he feels bad when his temper flares. He would never hurt me. Not really.
Fear not. I pull my necklace out from under my leotard, adjust the bracelet so that the charm sparkles in the growing sunlight.
Everything will be okay, I tell myself. All will be well, all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
* * *
“You aren’t seeing Tristan tonight? Has the Earth stopped spinning? Has Mercury entered retrograde? What terrible cosmic forces have conspired to keep you lovebirds apart?”
My dad is sitting in his favorite Adirondack chair, reading glasses perched on his nose, yellow legal pad in his lap. He’s wearing a faded Jethro Tull T-shirt and baggy jeans that have grass stains on the knees. His feet are bare.
“No cosmic forces. We had a date, but his father’s making him stay home and work on his college essays.”
“Having to write those things in the first place is bad enough. Being forced to do it practically guarantees lousy work.”
“For real. He texted me a few minutes ago. He wanted to know if writing about running as a metaphor for life would be stupid.”
“What did you tell him?”
“What he wanted to hear. That it was a brilliant idea.”
He laughs. “And so original. I’m sure no admissions officer anywhere on the planet has ever read an essay comparing athletics to life.”
“Well, he’s a good writer. Maybe he can pull it off.”
“What’s his dad like? I know he’s a neurosurgeon, and I see him every now and then at school board meetings, but that’s about it.”
; “I’ve only talked to him a couple of times, but he’s kind of scary, to be honest. I mean, he’s nice enough to me, but he’s super-hard on Tristan. Like when he shows up at track meets with a clipboard and a stopwatch and yells at Tristan from the sidelines if his time is off by even half a second. It makes me so sad, the look on Tristan’s face when that happens, like he knows he’s disappointing his dad, even when he’s doing his absolute best. It makes me just want to hug him close and tell him how wonderful he is.”
I nudge my dad’s leg with my foot.
“But I guess we all can’t have awesome dads like you, right?”
He switches off the lamp on the table beside him. It’s almost full dark, and for a second all I can see is the gray at his temples that makes him look so distinguished, the streaks of silver in his dark brown hair. When I was little, I’d sit on his lap on summer nights, and we’d watch the fireflies flit through the yard. He told me they were fairies, and if he wasn’t around to protect me, they always would. I wish I still believed it.
“Sparrow, my love,” he says, so quietly I have to lean forward to hear him. “I think we both know that I’m pretty far from an awesome dad.”
Not going there. Not now, not ever.
“Dad, you’re probably the only person in the world who sits around barefoot, in dirty jeans and a T-shirt, writing with a Montblanc fountain pen.”
He clears his throat. “You know me, sugar bear. Always trying to keep it classy.”
“What are you writing?”
“Just some notes. Closing arguments are coming up, and you know how I love to be eloquent.”
“Do you think you’ll win this one?”
He sighs, takes off his glasses, and rubs the bridge of his nose.
“Well, court is always a crapshoot, especially when a jury’s involved. You’ve heard me say that all your life. But I think we’ve presented a good, strong case. It doesn’t hurt that the prosecutor is an arrogant, pompous ass who has pissed off the judge a few times. We may prevail.”
“Did your guy do it?”
Sparrow Page 7
