by Deanna Roy
“Ray?” Mom managed to say. “Is that why he’s here?”
Dad turned to her, his mouth opening and closing as if he was trying to find the right words.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I broke away from Dad then, and that time he let me go.
“What has he done?” Mom said. “What has that evil child done to our little girl?”
She followed after me, but I was well ahead and closed the door and locked it. I threw the blanket aside and grabbed clothes as fast as I could. I should have gotten dressed. I’d made it obvious what happened. I didn’t think.
Mom knocked on my door, but I ignored her, dragging on jeans and a sweatshirt, then burying myself beneath the covers.
The doorknob jiggled, then stopped. I thought she’d given up. But then I heard a sharp bang against the metal. I realized she was in. She’d jimmied the lock.
“Come here,” Mom said, wrapping her arms around me. I stayed in my ball beneath the covers. “You’ll be all right. We’ll take care of it.”
A door slammed out in the house, then a car started.
They wouldn’t find him. Nobody knew about the trailer. Surely Denham would hide out there.
Unless he thought I would tell them where he was.
I rocked back and forth beneath the covers. Denham had friends. He’d find someplace to go.
But then I realized I’d lost him. Denham. My love. My sweet, sweet love.
My emotions crashed against each other. Betrayal, anger, devastation, loss. I loved him. But we were related. It couldn’t be. I couldn’t go after him. He was gone. I sobbed and sobbed into my pillow, my body curled around it, my mom’s hands on my back.
Then I heard Andy crying, softly saying, “Livia, Livia, Livia,” over and over again.
This got to me and I shoved the blanket aside enough that he could crawl in with me. His little arms went around my neck and clutched me like he was drowning. I rocked with him, our mother wrapping herself around us, until he fell asleep.
Eventually Mom took him to his bed. The house was eerily quiet. My hair spun wild and snarled around my face. My skin was hot and damp from crying and sweating beneath the blankets. I slid to the floor, my back against the bed.
My body was still tender from the last time Denham and I were together. The last time. It was over. A cry bubbled up from my chest, but there weren’t any tears left. I was too dehydrated, too tired.
Mom came back into the room and sat on the floor next to me. She took my hand and we just existed for a while as she hummed softly.
Finally, she asked, “Did he force you?”
I shook my head no.
“Did he hurt you in any way?”
I shook my head again, although my heart was certainly in unimaginable pain.
She sighed. “Okay, so how far did it go?”
I didn’t want to answer that. That it went every way, every distance, over and over again, night after night, stolen moment after stolen moment. That I loved him completely, and had given myself over to him totally.
“I’m going to assume pretty far,” she said. “We’ll need to get you to a doctor. God, you’re so young. Did you even know what was happening?”
I let go of her and covered my eyes with my hand. I couldn’t handle those questions. It was too much for one night. Way too much.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s get you in bed. There will be time enough to face all this tomorrow.”
She stood up and took my arm to lift me up as well. I lay on the bed fully dressed, but she still covered me with the blanket.
Mom was at the doorway when I finally found the voice to ask, “What will happen to Denham?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Livia. But he won’t be coming back here.”
I buried my face in the pillow as she closed the door. I was wrong. There were more tears. So many more. A whole ocean of them, just out to tide, and now they spilled all over again.
~*´`*~
Blitz lazily strokes my hair as I finish this part of the story.
“I’m so sorry, Princess,” he says. “That is more than anyone could live through.”
I turn my face into his robe, letting the soft white cotton absorb any stray tears so that he won’t see them. I don’t want to cry about Denham in the presence of Blitz. My life is good now, perfect, full of love and dance and time with my daughter.
But the young version of me, the not-quite-fifteen-year-old with her first broken heart, traumatized and lied to, still hurts after all these years.
“Did your dad throw him out?” Blitz asks. “What happened?”
“Dad came back early in the morning,” I say. “He got Denham’s things together in garbage bags and shoved them in his car. He told us he took Denham back to his Aunt Didi. I’m guessing that he did, but his aunt must have called CPS because he ended up in foster care. At least that’s what he said.”
“I remember him saying that,” Blitz says. “That’s how he got the DNA test.” He exhales slowly. “Hell of a thing. And you had to live all those years thinking he was your brother.”
“None of us had any way to know otherwise. I guess Dad could have done the DNA test himself. I think it was available then.”
“Not easily,” Blitz says.
I nod against his shoulder. If only he had. My life would have played out so differently.
“When did you find out about the baby?” Blitz asks.
“A few weeks later. I was a pretty big wreck. Not eating. Missing school. Feeling sick. I lost a lot of weight. So nothing was obvious for a while.”
“How did you know then?”
“I was throwing up a lot. Mom got worried. She took me to the doctor. Dad was flipping out, and demanded to know when it happened. I think he thought we were still finding a way to see each other.”
“Did Denham ever try to contact you?” Blitz asks.
“No. I didn’t hear from him again until that day he showed up here.”
“You didn’t look for him either?”
“He was my brother. There was no point. And I had no way to do it. Dad pulled me out of school, got a new job here in San Antonio, and then it was house arrest until I met you. No television, no social media, no computer, very little contact with the outside world. He thought he could purify me, make me innocent again. I don’t know.”
“He chose that teeny tiny church on purpose.”
“Yes. It was an elderly church, no young families, sort of dying out. Perfect for a father who wanted to keep his teenaged daughter away from anyone her own age.”
“Jesus, Livia. It must have been so lonely.”
I shift onto my back, watching the silks on the bed flutter lightly. “I got used to it. And eventually Mom wanted us to have some social interaction, so I met my friend Mindy. She was homeschooled too and had a younger brother who could be Andy’s friend.”
“You haven’t seen her since I came along.” Blitz reaches for a long lock of my hair and twirls it around his fingers.
“She got grounded, her phone taken away. I don’t have any way to reach her unless I just storm up to her door.”
“Maybe I’ll pose as a pizza delivery man,” Blitz says. “Steal her away.”
“I do want to see her. But she is only sixteen, and her parents still control her.”
Blitz draws me back to him. “We’re going to make everything right, Livia. All of it.”
I turn in to his body, strong and stalwart beside me. I love that he says this to me, even though I don’t see how it could happen. Denham could do anything in his desperation. In this world where anybody can go viral, we’re just one Tweet away from the whole world knowing what happened to Blitz Craven’s new girl when she was fifteen.
Chapter 19
On Monday Blitz drives us across town to Jenica’s Dancery, a hip contemporary ballet studio.
Blitz is extremely pumped to have found this woman, who was classically trained and performed wi
th the LA Ballet before creating a fusion style all her own.
“She’ll be perfect,” he says. “We can learn lifts and grow in a brand-new style.”
I hug my purple Dreamcatcher Dance Academy bag to my chest and try not to feel nervous. I am barely into pointe shoes, and here we are going to a new dance space to be assessed by an instructor I’ve never met.
We pull up to a boxy, flat-roofed building. Every car in the lot looks like it has seen better days, and a half-dozen bicycles are chained to a rack by the door.
Blitz’s excitement grows as we walk up to the door. “This is perfect,” he says. “Authentic dancers, none of that Hollywood ego.” He takes my hand and pulls on the handle.
“Don’t you have your own trainers?” I ask. I remember the stilted woman on the set of Dance Blitz who was opposed to me going on the show.
“You’re thinking of Amara, the choreographer of the show,” Blitz says. “I only see her when we have an upcoming season, and right now we don’t. My trainer quit after the shit storm.”
We enter a space that could only be described as rustic. The floor is bare, cracked concrete, and the walls rough-hewn cedar for about eight feet, then the soaring ceiling is corrugated metal. A makeshift desk sits right by the door, built from wood planks and cinder blocks.
Huge photos with curling corners are tacked to the back wall, which is only about ten feet from the entrance, making the room feel smashed. There are doors on either end.
A girl in a black leotard and tights with slashes through them comes out one of the doors. Her white-blond hair is slicked back into the tiniest sprig of a ponytail. She sees Blitz and obviously recognizes him immediately, because she says, “Are you serious?”
Blitz holds out his hands and smiles. “As a heart attack!” He drapes his arm around my waist. “I’m guessing you aren’t Jenica.”
“Omigawd, Jen let you in here?” Her hands tighten into fists. “She said she would never sell out!”
My ire starts to hit a fever pitch and I want to slug her. But before I can say or do anything, Blitz simply says, “I’m guessing you aren’t going to help us find her, so maybe we’ll just show ourselves around.”
A shirtless man in dance tights and jazz shoes steps out from the door behind her and spots Blitz. “Holy hell, it’s Blitz Craven!” He hurries forward to clasp Blitz’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “It’s an honor, man, a serious honor.” He realizes he’s shaken too long and lets go, running his palms across the shiny satin surface of his skullcap. “You looking for Jen?”
“We are,” Blitz says. “Is she around somewhere?”
“She’s in the studio,” he says. “She know you’re coming?”
The girl in black lets out a huge sigh and plunks down on the exercise ball behind the desk. She jerks open a box on the floor and pulls out an iPad.
“I don’t think she’s as glad to see me,” Blitz says conspiratorially.
“Weeza isn’t glad to see much of anyone,” the guy says. “I’m Corey.”
“Nice to meet you, Corey,” Blitz says. “Lead the way.” He gestures for the door.
I flash one more angry look back at Weeza. What sort of name is that anyway? She doesn’t look up from the iPad, the screen full of colored squares like the scheduling software Suze uses at Dreamcatcher. I feel a pang of grief that we’re here and not there.
We pass through the door, which opens into a huge multi-use room the size of a gymnasium. There are high mats and ribbons hanging from the ceiling in one corner. A woman is pushing off the mat, her arms wound in the silks.
Along the back wall is a mirror and a barre that must be twenty feet long. There are two different groups using it, a half-dozen young women all dressed in flesh-colored leotards that make you look twice. And two male-female couples at the other end, stretching each other with the barre to steady them.
In the center are three small trampolines. A muscular man is doing flips between them, landing cleanly on one and bouncing to the other. And in the far corner, near the other door, a couple is dancing to the actual music that blares through the speakers, a stunning contemporary dance with very high tosses and dramatic falls.
A woman with blond-brown hair twisted into an elegant chignon directs the dancing couple. She is striking in a deep scarlet leotard and long skirt made of separate jewel-toned scarves.
Corey has paused to let us take in the space, but now he leads us over to the woman in scarlet. I assume this is Jenica.
Corey taps her shoulder. She turns and I realize she is younger than I figured, only in her thirties. “Blitz!” she says, extending her arms. “I’m so glad you made it over.”
She embraces him, then turns back to the couple. “Ferris and Gina, work on the lift in the second chorus. I’ll be back in a moment.”
The couple nods at her. The music abruptly stops and starts again mid-song. I haven’t spotted where it’s coming from yet, but obviously someone controls it.
“This must be Livia,” Jenica says, reaching out to grasp both my hands. Her skin is chilly despite the warm room. “So lovely. I saw you on the show. Have you been en pointe long? It looked new.”
“Just a few weeks,” I say. “I probably shouldn’t have done it then.”
“You were perfect,” she says. “We can get you stronger on them. Did you bring a pair?”
I pat my bag. “Of course.”
She turns back to Blitz. “And you want to learn lifts. I think I’ll pair you with Gina there.” She gestures back at the couple right as the man, Ferris, tosses the girl perilously high. “She has a lot of experience and can get you ready to work with Livia.” She pats his arm. “You’re strong, but we’ll need you stronger!”
“Weeza didn’t exactly give them a warm welcome,” Corey says. “Just so you know.”
“Oh, Weeza doesn’t welcome anyone,” Jenica says with a wave of her hand. “I’m sure Blitz is familiar with professional disdain.” Her smile makes her eyes sparkle. “Let’s dive right in. Livia, go warm up at the barre with the girls over there. I’ll introduce you. Blitz, Corey will warm you up until Gina is ready for you.”
And just like that, Blitz and I are separated, and I have a new class and instructor. I glance back at him, unsure and anxious. Dreamcatcher was the last little bit of my old life. I feel as untethered as I have ever been.
Jenica walks me over to the women in the skin-colored leotards. “This is Livia,” she says. “She just began en pointe and needs more strength and flexibility. Take good care of her.”
The girls glance over at me and continue their pliés, except for the last one, who breaks away. “I’m Ingrid. I lead this group. You can change into shoes.”
I realize none of the other girls are in pointe shoes at the moment, so I put on a pair of regular ballet slippers.
“We have a set routine for warm-up,” Ingrid says. “We’re all old hat at it now, but I’ll talk you through it. You’ll have it memorized eventually.”
She gives me commands, all traditional ballet movements that I thankfully know. I have to concentrate on staying with the other girls, so I can’t try to spot Blitz in the mirror to see how he is doing with this other girl.
Jealousy and a spot of fear burns in my belly. It was one thing when I had Blitz to myself. Dreamcatcher was mostly a children’s academy, with only a few older teen and adult classes.
But this studio is completely different. They are all beautiful young people with a passion for dance. I feel out of place, an old-fashioned wallflower in a room full of dazzle.
I force myself to pay attention. There is no place for jealousy here, only determination and drive. The other girls are sharply focused, their movements perfectly in sync, each position a flawless example of a pose.
“We have to master the basics before we can break the rules,” Ingrid says, not to me, but to all of us. “When we achieve perfection in the classics, we can give wings to our fresh approach.”
Between her encouragements, Ingrid pro
mpts me on the next move. I am not quite in time with the others, having to move into position once I hear the command. But I begin to feel their silent count, the rhythm to their pace that is independent of the music playing overhead.
“All of it, again,” Ingrid says. “Keep your form no matter how you tire.”
I begin to be able to predict the next motion, and eventually we overlap what we did before. I become more confident in the poses, and Ingrid gives me less prompting. “Good, Livia,” she says. “You are getting it.”
The work is far more challenging than the routine Betsy puts us through, and by the time the sequence begins again, many parts of me are screaming. I manage to glance into the mirror to find Blitz. He has the Gina girl in the air, with Corey and Ferris spotting her as Blitz makes a turn, his arms extended.
His hands are on the girl’s rib cage and thigh, and jealousy burns into me again. I want to be the girl he lifts.
I lose my rhythm and fall a beat behind, then have to scramble to catch back up. Ingrid’s eye flashes over to me for an instant, but she says nothing. She works alongside us, matching every move we do.
When we come to the end of the sequence a third time, she sends us to the floor. I want to groan with relief. Blitz is standing next to Ferris now, nodding as he’s instructed on a hand position. Jenica watches from the side. She sees me looking at Blitz and winks.
I quickly look down at my knee as we move into a floor stretch.
I’m not really sure how long we work out. The lights never flicker, and no hour is ever counted down. New people arrive in other corners, others leave.
Finally, Blitz comes over. “I’m apparently no longer safe to lift a ham sandwich,” he says to me, looking over the girls. “I totally need to buy you one of those naked leotards.”
My cheeks burn and a couple of the other girls laugh a little. We continue our stretch, and Blitz sits down next to me to follow our lead.
Eventually Ingrid stands. “Tomorrow, we do pointe, so bring your shoes.”
I guess we’re done.
