Jayla has a life and a schedule and I do not. While Netflix and vodka might be her fix for any and all existential crises, they really do nothing for me. I feel like a ghost, haunting Jayla’s apartment, drifting from bedroom to kitchen to sofa and back again in a listless daze.
I should be thrilled.
I know this. Still, no matter how many times I tell myself I’m lucky, it just never seems to stick. I try to tell myself that I am myself, I am me, that I can’t look at the lives of other people and think that’s gonna be me too . . .
I feel ashamed, guilty. For judging those people. For judging myself.
All these thoughts swirl around inside my head, but before they drag me down completely an idea comes to me. I wake up one morning, and I know what I will do with myself as I wait for my job to begin.
I will knit something. For Jayla. For Christmas.
* * *
It’s been forever since I’ve done any knitting . . . but you never entirely forget how to knit one purl two. It all comes flooding back to me before I know it.
I go on the Internet and I find a pattern that I like, and then I go to Jo-Ann Fabrics and get myself enough yarn. I go bold, high-contrast — black and pink and purple. I even bite the bullet and get some of that stuff with those frustrating-but-funky metallic threads running through it. Something quintessentially Jayla.
Can I have it done and wrapped up under the tree by Christmas morning? I try to figure out how much I’ll have to do per day. When I look at the calendar it looks tight, no question . . . but I realize that if I really buckle down and knit my fingers to the bone, I should be able to make it.
So I do. Whenever Jayla is off at school or Mirages, I crank up the stereo and I get to work. It’s wonderful to have something to do — and I’m suddenly focused so intently that I don’t have time to worry about anything else.
Jayla comes close to catching me once. She comes home early and surprises me, and I have to shove the knitting into the space between the sofa cushions and give her a not-very-innocent face.
“What are you doing?” she asks, jangling her house keys and looking at me sitting by myself.
“Just . . . listening to . . . some music.”
She gives me a smirk. “Why do I get the feeling that there’s more to this story? You look like you got a secret.”
I shrug, close my eyes, and give her a soft smile. “I have no idea if I have a secret or not — but if I do have a secret, it’s a secret.”
She laughs. “All right, fine. You and your secret have a real good day.”
Then she is gone. And I’m knitting again.
* * *
Before I know it it’s Christmas morning. I finish the gift in the nick of time, late on Christmas eve, while Jayla is snoring in the bedroom. I hold it up to admire my handiwork.
It looks truly bizarre, but I have to admit that it does scream Jayla. It’s a Polar Bear Hat with floppy mitten-paws attached to the sides.
Kind of.
At least, that’s what the original pattern was. The colors are a total mish-mash of inspiration, though . . . instead of white I’ve used black, and I’ve used pink and purple for the ears and the eyes and the paws.
Jayla falls in love with it instantly — she gives a little scream as soon as she sees it, plops it right down on her head and over her ears.
“You are kidding me, girl! You are kidding me!”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it! Is this why you’ve been doing all this 007 mystery shit around here?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Damn, now I just feel bad,” she says, grabbing under the tree for a red-ribboned box with her newly-knitted panda paws. “I mean, I got you something and all, but it’s not like a Lunatic Panda Hat or nothing . . . ”
“Lunatic Panda! That’s the perfect name for him,” I say, smiling and taking the gift from her.
“You think so? Well then . . . this is from me and L.P. For the new job. And to welcome you back to the old neighborhood.”
She gives me the box. I tear off the paper.
It’s a pink mug, a large insulated travel tumbler, perfect for hot coffee on cold morning commutes. It’s much more than that, though — Jayla’s taken the time and effort to make it personal. There’s a clear plastic ring circling the tumbler around the middle, and beneath it a whole collage of photos has been arranged for me.
Come to think of it, Jayla’s been waving her iPhone in my face more than usual these past few weeks. There’s a photo of bed-headded me on the sofa with Domino; a burst of self-shots of Jayla making indescribable faces at the camera. There’s one of us together at the sushi shop, one of us at the Chinese place . . .
And then I see the one that makes me freeze.
It’s a photo I haven’t seen for a long, long time, but there’s no mistaking it — I recognize it instantly. It’s the group shot of me and the other girls on that night at Mirages. It seems like it was taken years ago . . . or lifetimes ago.
I can only hold the mug in my hand and stare at it in dull, hurt silence.
“Where . . . where did you get this . . . ” I begin, my voice faltering.
“From one of the other girls that was at Mirages that night,” Jayla says slowly — this obviously wasn’t the reaction she’d been expecting. “She told me she’d been meaning to send it to you, but the way things ended that night she never got the chance, so I . . . hey, are you okay?”
I don’t say anything. I just stare at the mug in my hand, at the photo, at the other girls and myself, and it’s like I’m suddenly back there with them. We were Goddesses that night. Beautiful, confident, wearing our sex like an invincible shield against the desperation in that club . . .
I can’t say anything, so I just keep staring — like my gaze will burn away the photo, like I can melt it away with the heat of my glare . . . and then I feel the hot sting of tears in my eyes, and then I’m sobbing, hard and fast and uncontrollably.
Jayla is stunned. “Oh baby — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I mean, I know that was a tough night for you. It’s just that you looked so great in that photo. I thought . . . I don’t know, I just wanted you to remember that some good things happened that night, that’s all. I mean, look at you . . . just look at you . . . ” She wipes at her eyes, and through my tears I can see that Jayla is crying now too — something I realize I’ve never seen before. “Damn it, I am terrible at giving gifts,” she says.
I reach out to hold her, and she holds me, and we just cry for a bit together, neither of us trying to hold back, just letting the tears come, and we let ourselves cry out the pain.
“I’m an idiot . . . ” she says, her voice shaking with sobs. “So fucking stupid . . .”
The tears are a beautiful dark release, and I don’t want them to stop — but I force myself, make myself, because Jayla is my friend, my perfect friend, and she needs to know why.
“It’s not you. It’s not,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut, willing the tears to stop washing down my cheeks. “It’s just . . . when I look at that photo, it’s like seeing a person I couldn’t become. I remember . . . oh, God, I remember what it was like. To feel like I could take on anything that night. And for a couple of seconds on that stage I felt it. It actually felt right — it felt real. Like I could handle myself. Take care of myself. For the first time since my mom . . . since my mom . . . ”
It’s becoming harder, and my crying is threatening to block out my voice, but I won’t let the tears beat me . . . I refuse to let them win. Jayla holds me tight, and her warm strength gives me all I need to continue.
“I felt like I was in control. Finally, for once in my life. And it wasn’t about the dancing or the club or the routine. It was about doing what I wanted, being what I wanted for one moment . . . and then . . . then . . . oh Jayla, then HE wrecked everything . . . ”
Jayla squeezes me tight. “Shh. I know, I know . . . ”
The tears break through the last of my resolv
e, and I let Jayla hold me as I cry uncontrollably in her arms. I don’t know what is left of me — who I am, what I am any more. I’m a stranger to myself . . . as much a stranger as the girl in the picture on that coffee mug.
Jayla takes me over to the sofa, then gets me a box of tissues and a cozy fleece blanket. I cry until I can’t cry another drop.
And then, even though I’ve just woken up, I am truly and utterly exhausted.
I close my eyes.
Chapter 20
Everybody dreams, I suppose.
I just don’t usually remember mine. Maybe I sleep too soundly, or maybe some part of me doesn’t want to remember the dreams when I wake, and I just let the images slip into the ether.
This time I remember, though.
I’m back.
I’m back on stage at Mirages. It’s the same pounding circus of rhythmic chaos as on that first fateful night — the noise, the lights, the insistent strain of Britney’s voice over the speakers.
Everything is the same . . .
Except that the club is nearly empty. Empty, save for one solitary figure sitting by the stage.
Xavier.
He’s looking at me this time, fixing me with one of his piercing stormy gazes. I ignore it, I ignore him . . . I just go into my routine, smoothly and perfectly and naturally, just as I’ve practiced.
He speaks — and somehow, with that very strange logic you sometimes find in dreams, his voice cuts cleanly through the din of the club and the music, and I hear him perfectly.
“I’m here,” he says.
I keep dancing — beautifully, flawlessly.
“Nobody asked you to come,” I say, not pausing, not stopping — knitting the music and movement together with my body, seamlessly weaving a tapestry of erotic motion.
“But I’m here,” Xavier says, his voice insistent.
I look at him, careful not to lose the count — you must never lose the count, you must never never lose the count . . .
“Why did you come?” I ask.
Xavier opens his arms. “To catch you. When you fall.”
I glare at him for the briefest of moments, my eyes just barely flicking over his face. “And what makes you think,” I ask, never missing a beat, “that I’m going to fall?”
Xavier opens his mouth at that . . . but no sound escapes his lips. There is only the voice of Britney now, her song growing louder and more insistent than ever, and my dancing is gorgeous, stunning, perfect, and the room is full now, everyone is here, and the crowd explodes in a staggering roar of lust and desire and twenty-dollar bills . . .
* * *
And then I’m awake.
I’m awake on Jayla’s sofa, and I know what I have to do.
* * *
TO: Bob Sorrows
FROM: Alice White
Thank you for meeting with me the other day.
I regret to inform you that I am unable to accept employment with Rogers at this time. While I very much appreciate the generous job offer, I feel that I might benefit from additional work experience in a different capacity. I wish you the very best of luck in filling the position.
Sincerely,
Alice White
sent from my phone
I tap the SEND button on my new iPhone and send the email into the electronic ether.
That’s it.
No turning back now.
I take a look at myself in the mirror. The person looking back at me is familiar . . . and she isn’t, somehow.
My hair is an overflowing ringlet waterfall of raven-black tresses. My makeup is a stunning, confident composition that’s been applied by my very own fingers — an adventurous symphony in lip liner and artistically-applied mascara.
I’m back at Mirages for another try. And this time, I’m ready.
“You’re sure now?” Jayla asks, coming over to check on how I’m doing. Her beautiful brown eyes are full of concern, but I can see that there’s excitement for me there, too.
I look at her in the mirror, then give a stomach-full-of-butterflies smile and a nod. “Definitely,” I say, checking my face for the umpteenth time. “As sure as I’ll ever be.”
“Good to hear!” says Billy, poking his big bearded face around the corner. “I’ve got you on first, just like you wanted. You really sure about this, Veronica? One of the other girls can warm up the crowd if you like. I mean, this special routine you talked me into . . . we don’t usually do anything so fancy, you know? I just wanna make sure that . . . ”
I shake my head. “No thanks, Billy. I’m sure.”
Billy smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. “It’s all yours, then. And listen — I’m proud of you. It takes a whole lot of guts to get back up there! Most girls, if they have some kinda mishap their first night, they’re gone from this place for good. Something about all the public humiliation, and . . . ”
Jayla rolls her eyes and pushes Billy’s head back out the door. “You’re not helping!”
I laugh. It’s classic Billy — and I know he doesn’t mean to be mean. In reality, he’d been completely and totally sweet when I’d told him that I’d wanted another crack at the spotlight.
Except this time it would be on my own terms. I’d left Kiki and her kinky schoolgirl routine on her DVD. Instead, I’d planned out nothing less than a vintage burlesque for my comeback — my own loving tribute to the classic slinky moves of Zorita in the 40’s. It had taken hours and hours of practice in Jayla’s apartment; days of getting myself back on the 8-count, clomping around, and scratching up Jayla’s floor with my heels.
And now . . .
Here I am. Back for revenge.
It’s me and three other girls, the same as the first time. Two of them, Kayla and Jasmine, chat as if they already know each other — they’re friends from college, I gather, like me and Jayla. The other girl is a shy-looking Asian girl with a purple streak in her hair named Lauren, and when I introduce myself she whispers a small Hello.
Nobody else seems to make the first move, so it’s up to me to suggest a group photo this time. Jayla takes the shot with the little digital point-and-shoot she’s brought for the occasion, and we all gather around to have a look. It’s another beautiful shot — but the woman I am tonight is so far removed from the girl that stood here a year ago.
“Um . . . Veronica, right?” says Lauren. She’d been sending sideways glares in my direction, like she’d been trying to get up the nerve to say something. Apparently her mind is finally made up.
“Yes?”
“I just . . . was wondering,” she says, and it’s like a floodgate opens — she suddenly blurts out exactly what’s on her mind. “Is this really your first night? Because this is Amateur Night, or whatever, and I’m really sorry, and I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t really seem like an amateur to me. And your costume is different from the rest of us, so . . . uh, yeah. Just wondering.”
The look in her eyes couldn’t be more plain. She’s obviously sizing me up, and her words sound like an accusation. Part of me wants to say something cutting — give her a nice wilting dose of sarcasm, or . . .
And then I remember how I’d felt, on that night a year ago.
Lauren doesn’t need a dose of Bitch. She needs a dose of Baby.
Baby . . .
Or maybe just a dose of Veronica.
I look at her. She’s a little shorter than me. Her body language is closed-off. Guarded.
“Trust me, I’m an amateur,” I say. “I’m here tonight because last time I fell right off the stage.”
She looks up at me, surprised. “No way!”
“Yup. Right onto my ass.”
She gives a stunned little laugh. “Shit, really?”
I shrug. “So it’s still strictly amateur for me tonight. Same as you. If you want my advice — no matter what else you do up there, just keep the count.”
Lauren laughs at that. “You sound like that Kiki woman on that DVD they made us watch.”
I flash her a grin. “
She’s a smart woman. Anyway, good luck out there,” I say.
She looks a bit . . . well, not relieved, exactly, but possibly a little less nervous.
Then it’s time. Billy’s head appears in the doorway, and he looks right at me, and before he can even open his mouth I’m already strutting on my platforms toward him, toward the stage, toward the lights and the music and the noise and the crowd . . . he doesn’t really even need to say it, I know what comes next —
But he does.
“Veronica, you’re up!”
* * *
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.
I realize that Perfection is a very strange thing.
At best it’s a fiction — a dream that you run after, arms outstretched, trying to grab before it slips through your fingers. And it’s always out there, always in front of you, and you never quite catch it . . . but you run after it anyway, you run, and no matter where you end up it’s taken you somewhere, and somehow you’re better for the journey.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.
At worst, Perfection is a ghost. It curses your days, haunts your nights — laughs at you from your bedroom mirror, spits jokes at you from the mouths of people you love.
So — better to let it go. Leave Perfection alone. Let Perfection do its own thing. Learn to love yourself.
That’s what they say, anyway.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.
Still . . . .
Sometimes you feel it, a little. You get just a little tiny taste. You’ll be doing something totally and utterly mundane. You’ll be cutting up veggies for a salad, maybe, and you’ll cut that one cucumber slice juuuuuuuust right, somehow. Or you’ll be singing along in the car to a song you love, and your voice will rise along with the one on the radio, and you’ll nail that one clear high note at the end of the key change, long and impossible and loud, and you’ll suddenly know just how damn good you can sound.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.
Maybe if Kiki had seen me that night, she could have told you every tiny thing wrong with my routine. Maybe there was a little wobble in my step, maybe my hip went left first instead of right as I came around the pole.
More Than A Maybe Page 23
