by Alisa Valdes
The entire eastern wall of our modern house was made of thick modern glass; it was slightly steamed in the kitchen at the moment from the coffeemaker. Beyond the glass, there was nothing but the foothills: nature, awash in the blue-pink tones of winter sunrise; boulders, piñón trees, cacti, yucca, rabbits and - I thought with a shudder - coyotes.
My mother knew better than to try to cook for me anymore. I liked my independence. I made myself a toasted cinnamon-raisin bagel with cream cheese and tried to calm my nerves enough to eat it. I poured some orange juice, but the acid made my stomach turn. I sat at the table with my mother, looked through the neglected local paper for the weather page, and tried not to appear distracted and nervous. I smiled too much. Fatal mistake.
“You okay?” she asked, worried. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look pale. M’ija, look at me. Look at me.”
“I’m fine, mom.” I did not look at her. Rather, I read the weather page. Snow again, soon. Great. Another storm.
“I made an appointment for you with Doctor Bergant, per our conversation yesterday,” she observed a few minutes later, as she stuck her nose in her Carlsbad Caverns coffee mug. She had an annoying way of slurping her coffee in that particular mug that bothered me, but now was not the time to say so.
“Okay.” I didn’t feel like talking about it, but I did in fact think it a good idea for me to see a therapist about the possibility of trauma and delusional thinking.
“After finals, on Friday afternoon. I’ll give you the address and trust you’ll find it on your own.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I barely looked at her, and had to avert my gaze.
She looked tired, worried, and sick about me. Still, she was kind enough to say no more about it, other than, “I’m always here if you need to talk.”
“Thanks. I’m okay.”
“Any idea what you’d like to do for winter break?” she asked. “It’s next week.”
“I don’t know. Skiing, maybe?”
“That’d be fun,” she said, unconvincingly, as she was one of those people who preferred talking about skiing to actually doing it. “Good idea.”
“Whatever you want. I don’t care.”
Mom’s mouth scrunched up on one side for a moment before she forced herself to say, “You’ll be spectacular dancing today.” I gave her an E for effort. She really did try to be an understanding and supportive parent. A lot of my friends didn’t have parents like this.
I looked at the clock. It was nearly six, the time she usually went to a private Pilates lesson on Sunday mornings. Given her outfit, I knew she was hoping to attend today.
“Go, stop worrying, get your Pilates on,” I said as though I hadn’t a care in all the world, congratulating myself for doing such a fine acting job.
“You sure? I’m happy to stay home with you if you need me to.”
“I’m fine. I’ll be leaving in about an hour anyway, to get to Highland for the competition.”
“I’ll be there at eight on the nose to see you perform,” she said, tapping her own surgically reconstructed nose.
“Okay.”
“And good luck, honey. You don’t need it, of course, you girls have been working hard, but still.”
She grabbed her keys and purse off the table, kissed the top of my head, and left.
I went to my bedroom, and found Buddy whining, bumping himself into walls and furniture, excited by having heard - and likely smelled - my return, but unable to find me. Poor thing. He couldn’t see where he was going with the big plastic cone tied around his neck. I shivered with recognition.
I stood in the center of my luxurious room, which seemed absurdly overboard after seeing the way people lived in Golden, and I realized that everything I had - this house, my parents, my school, my life - all of it was my own little Elizabethan dog collar. Both things were designed, supposedly, to protect us from ourselves; but in the end, all they seemed to do was make us dependent, clumsy, blind and alone.
♦
The bleachers in the gym of Highland High School were packed and abuzz with kids and parents from nearly two dozen public and private high schools in the city. The cavernous room smelled of wood varnish, school lunch, with the rubbery hint of new sneakers thrown into the mix. It took me a moment to find my team from Coronado Prep, but as soon as I did, I made a beeline for the comforting familiarity of their faces.
Our coach, Amy Stern, was a perky freckled brunette in her mid-thirties who had danced on Broadway and for the Phoenix Suns. She smiled and waved me over. I found a spot on the bleachers with a few of the other girls. We huddled together, excited and nervous, and aware, in our own slightly ashamed, slightly arrogant way that we were the team from the most elite school in the state - and as such, we’d won this competition for the past five years running.
“Pure hooch,” Amy said to us under her breath, indicating the costumes worn by a couple of the other teams. Indeed, those schools had opted for the “hoochie” look favored by professional dance teams associated with sporting teams - short-shorts with panty hose and sports bras, basically - our team had gone with a look our coach assured us was pure artistry and elegance. We, by contrast, wore black dance pants, slightly flared at the ankles, with glittery red and white tank-type tops whose collars were designed to look like tuxedo jackets. With this we wore red jazz shoes, sparkly like the ones Dorothy wore in the land of Oz. We were worlds removed from the other teams, and we smugly knew it.
Kelsey came in shortly after I did, with Victoria and Thomas, and they came to sit in the row behind mine, with hugs and well wishes for me.
“This will be an excellent exercise in Verstehen for me,” babbled Thomas.
“A what?” asked Kelsey.
“An exercise in Verstehen. It’s a German word, used by sociologist Max Weber to describe sociological positivism and economic determinism in analyzing social action. But for my uses today, I use it in the anthropological sense, to mean I feel I’m steeped in a moment of cultural relativism.”
“Meaning?” asked Kelsey, concentrating in an ironic sort of way.
“Meaning that as an outsider to the whole dance-team culture, I’m going to try, in other words, to relate to the indigenous population - aka the ‘dancers’ - on their own terms, from their point of view, without judgment.”
Victoria rolled her eyes, even though they contained traces of admiration. “I think what my annoying boyfriend is trying to say is that even though he’d rather be home memorizing something a dead German guy wrote, he’s agreed to come cheer you on in spite of his initial misgivings about the value of dance teams in general.”
“In that case, thanks,” I told him. “I think.”
“You’re welcome,” said Thomas.
A minute or two later, my mom surprised me by showing up early, and sitting directly next to Kelsey, who sat directly behind me. You don’t hope your mom will sit quite so close at these things, but oh well.
Moments after the first team began their predictable hip-hop routine at 9 a.m., I felt Kelsey’s fingernails bite into my shoulder.
“Ow!” I turned to look at her, annoyed.
With a look of pure panic on her face, she pointed discreetly across the gym, to where Demetrio stood against the wall near the emergency exit, in baggy jeans and a hoodie sweatshirt, watching me the way a lion might watch a gazelle. Victoria and Thomas noticed, too, and looked to me for an answer.
“What? I have no idea.”
“What is he doing here?” she hissed.
I shook my head and shrugged to let them know it wasn’t my fault.
“Maria’s a homie magnet,” said Thomas.
“Seriously, Maria, this isn’t good. That guy is following you now.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.” I tried to speak in such a way as not to draw my mother’s attention, but failed. One look at my mom revealed that her dog-cone instincts had already kicked in; she knew we were looking at Demetrio. She stared
him down, and sprouted a line of worry between her eyebrows, looking quizzically at me.
“Did you invite him?” Kelsey asked me.
“No!” I bit my lip for a moment. “But I did tell him about the competition, the day of the crash. I was worried about my ankle. Any reasonably smart person could find it. He has every right to be here. It’s open to the public.”
“It’s sweet he remembered,” Kelsey said.
“Sweet and stalkery,” said Victoria. “Sure. Sweet like a 40-ounce.”
Coach Amy shot us a nasty look to try to quiet us. I realized how rude we were being, talking during the performance. I looked over at him again, and Demetrio waved, subtly, flashing me a gorgeous, mesmerizing smile. Unfortunately, my mother caught this, and grew rigid. She lifted a brow accusingly at me.
“I can explain,” I told her.
“You better.”
“He’s the guy who called 911 when I crashed,” I told her. “He’s really nice. While we were waiting for the ambulance I told him about his competition, just small talk. I think he’s just here showing support.”
“Well, I don’t like the looks of him,” my mother said snootily. “And I don’t think you should be telling strangers where to find you. Honestly, I raised you better than that. Sometimes I don’t think you’re very smart, Maria.”
I looked at him again, and felt a strange peace and warmth come over me. There was no way the beautiful boy smiling at me was dead. Or bad. Or anything my mom thought of him. He was totally faking it to escape the gang, and that was admirable.
I felt the phone buzz with a new text, and looked at it, expecting something from Kelsey, but it was from “unknown number”. I clicked the message open.
Unknown number: cool I’m here mamita?
Me: hey! you have my #!! u saw grandpa!
Demetrio: itunes gift card rocked. thku.
me: r u gonna eat my soul, d?
Demetrio: WTF u talking bout now, loca?
I looked up at him, and he shrugged at me in annoyed puzzlement, but he also cracked a grin to show he was amused by my continuing (and, one presumed, cute) stupidity. My mother, horrifyingly, watched this exchange, her lips growing thin and white with suspicion.
“Maria,” she hissed. She motioned me toward her with her finger. I leaned over, and awaited whatever she was about to say in my ear. “Did you give that delinquent your phone number?”
“Yes.”
She seemed ready to strangle me. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t encourage him.”
“Mom, he’s fine. He’s actually really nice.”
“Shh,” said Coach Amy, her annoyance growing. My mother put a finger to her lips as though I were the only one talking, and scowled at me.
I settled down, and tried to focus on the competition. The teams from the other schools were all very good, but predictable. I began to grow excited about my team’s routine, which was very hardcore and break-dancey, and not at all what anyone would expect from us. My adrenaline began to flow as I anticipated our performance. The judges for this contest always appreciated the unexpected, well executed.
A few minutes before ten, Coach Amy directed the team to the hall outside the side door that led to the performance area, meaning I’d have to walk past where Demetrio leaned against the wall on my way out. I got up, squeezed Kelsey’s hand, and nodded my appreciation to Victoria and Thomas, who wished me luck, and, accepting a blown kiss from my still simmering mother. I glanced at Demetrio as I passed by. He gave me a supportive fist-pump; my body reacted with adrenaline and blushing.
As soon as I got out into the hall, I heard a familiar male voice call my name, cheerfully.
“Maria!”
I spun to look behind me, and was astonished to find Logan trotting toward me down the hall, in his ski parka, jeans and duck boots.
“Logan! What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“Came back early. I wanted to surprise you.” He grinned gorgeously, healthy and strong as always, and held out a beautiful bouquet of pink roses. “For you.”
“I can’t, I mean, thank you, they’re beautiful, but I can’t hold them just now. We’re about to go on.”
“Miss Ochoa,” barked Coach Amy. “Information, please.”
“Go,” said Logan. “I’m glad I didn’t miss it. Break a leg, babe.”
I gave him a quick peck on the lips, and joined the team in line.
Moments later, the applause died down for the team that had gone before us, and the announcer said, “Now, ladies and gentleman, please welcome the reigning champions for eight years running, the Lady Chargers from Coronado Prep, under direction of award-winning choreographer Amy Stern. They’ll be performing to ‘Starstruck’ by Sterling Knight. Put your hands together!”
The crowd went wild as we danced our way to the center of they gym floor, smiling and waving to the audience as we’d been trained, and took our positions. I had mixed feeling about the song, but Coach Amy thought it was just the right mix of edgy sound with family-friendly inspiring lyrics. To my horror, I now saw that Logan had taken a spot along the same wall where Demetrio leaned; even worse, they were looking awkwardly at each other, then trying to ignore each other to watch me.
With my heart pounding, I told myself to ignore the men who were here to see me, and to focus on finding my spot and waiting for the music. I remembered the words my mother had told me so many times, about no man being worth losing your own dreams for, about women having to make their own way and have things they were good at and proud of on their own. I scanned the crowd for her face, found her sitting attentively and proudly with the rest of Coronado Prep parents, and smiled. She smiled back, and for a moment, I felt like everything was going to be just fine. And the music began.
Every girl every boy they got your posters on their walls, yeah
Photographs autographs when you step out the door you will meet the applause, yeah
Paparazzi’s hiding in the bushes trying to make a dollar, dollar
Wanna be you, when they see you, they scream out loud
Starstruck, camera flashes, cover of magazines
Starstruck, designer sunglasses, living the dream as a team...
I leapt to life, lost in the heavy pop beat, swiveling, shimmying, ponying, kicking, head-banging and shaking my way through a complicated, athletic, elaborate popping routine that Amy thought was street-meets-sweet. The crowd screamed as we moved in perfect synchronicity. For three short minutes that I wished could last forever, I danced, lost in my own world, without a worry. For that small speck of time, I was safe.
Then it was over, as quickly as it had begun, and Coronado Prep parents and fans were on their feet, screaming. I saw my friends, my mom, Demetrio, Logan, everyone united in their support. The score was announced, and, as we expected, we were now in the lead. We strutted off the floor, back to our spots in the bleachers, high-fiving and whooping. Then we settled down to watch the rest of the competition.
Logan used the brief break between performances to stalk across the gym, away from Demetrio and the wall, toward me, his previously loving expression tainted with a touch of confused jealousy now. He hugged me, kissed me, then hugged and greeted my mom, who could not have been happier to see him if he’d been her own boyfriend. She loved him. Of course she did. His father was one of her staunchest campaign supporters and donors.
Logan squeezed onto the bench next to me, dumped the flowers in my lap, and put his arm around me a bit roughly, pulling my ear in toward his mouth as the announcer introduced the next school.
He spoke through a clenched jaw. “What. The hell. Is that lowlife. Doing. Here.”
“I don’t know. I told him about the competition when I crashed. We made a lot of small talk.”
“You’re going to end up in trouble if you’re not more careful, babe.”
“He’s not that bad. Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
He released me and stared balefully at me. I ignored him, turned my eyes to
the team on the floor. There was no way they were going to beat us. Unable to stop myself, I glanced at Demetrio, who was staring hard at Logan with a calm authority and intelligence.
“What’s the deal, huh?” Logan asked me, in close, aggressively close.
“He’s a friend,” I replied. “You have a problem with that?”
“Yeah, I have a problem with that,” he said, as though I was crazy. “And so will everyone you know. Guys like that are never out to be friends with girls like you. Are you crazy or just stupid?”
“How do you know he doesn’t want to be my friend?”
“It’s ridiculous. Look at him! He’s a common thug. What’s really going on here? You have something with him? Did he touch you after the crash? Is he blackmailing you? What is it you’re not telling me? I’ll kill him if he touched you.”
I felt my phone vibrate with a text message, and looked at it. Unknown number.
Demetrio: u ok?
I stuffed the phone back into my jacket pocket, and felt tears well up in my eyes. This wasn’t how my life was supposed to go. Kelsey watched with worry, and tapped me on the arm.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she shouted at me, over Logan. “Come with me?” To Logan, she added, “You know us girls, we can never go to the bathroom alone!”
I agreed, and together we walked out, past Demetrio, who gave me a look as if to ask if everything was okay. I shook my head and smiled for him not to worry, even as a tear spilled over and ran down my cheek. Kelsey and I found the girls locker room and decided Logan was completely out of line.
“What is Logan’s deal?” she asked me.
