by Weston, Dani
“I bought new booty shorts. They sparkle.” Bea laughed.
I nodded. “I approve of new dance clothes as motivation. Especially if they sparkle.”
“I hope they help. Dancing, the way they want us to, is harder that I thought it would be. It’s all kind of hard, really, this level of performing.”
I paused for a drink from my water bottle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy behind us stop, too, to examine his shoes. “You’ll succeed, Bea. Just stay focused.” The guy tied his shoelaces, stood up again, and stretched his arms. I practiced being a good witness, just in case. White, about six feet tall, brown hair, maybe, under his hoodie?
“Easier said than done. I get rattled too easily.”
“You’ll do great,” I repeated. We walked on. After a minute, I peered over my shoulder. The guy was walking again, too. “Hey, don’t look now, but do you know that dude behind us? In the red sweatshirt.”
Bea waited a few beats, then looked. “Nope. Why?”
“I think he’s following us.”
Bea grabbed my arm. “What if he’s the crazy fangirl? He’s close. He could kill us right now.”
My heart thudded. “Bea! I was thinking paparazzi, but now you’re freaking me out. Just walk…normal.” But our steps increased speed, automatically, until we were practically running. My breath struggled. I struggled to remain level-headed. My brain flew over the possibilities: stalker, kidnapper, ax murderer. “Oh my God,” I whispered.
Bea dared a look over her shoulder. “He’s gone.”
We slowed. Stopped. I bent over and grabbed my knees. “Oh my God,” I repeated. I felt stupid. Bea and I shared a look. “He was probably going to class.”
“Same direction as us.”
“We’re so paranoid.”
“But the note and the missing stuff…”
I released a nervous laugh and grabbed Bea’s arm. “Let’s get to the studio and dance the weirdness away.”
12.
The dance classes Duncan had arranged for us weren’t as bad as I thought they were going to be. I was actually having fun shaking my groove thang, all thoughts of a potential stalker fled my mind, and Thierry, the instructor, was generous with his compliments. To me, at least.
“Yes, those legs go on for days. I just love seeing the way you spin. So tall, so elegant.”
I grinned and spun again, twisting my ankles together, then letting my body twirl quickly. Having played the bass so long had given me a good sense of rhythm, and it was easy to stay with the beat no matter what song we were practicing to. Kaitlin surprised me with how good she was, too, flinging her hair and shimmying like it was second nature. She was always so nonchalant, preferring to play things cool, but now she was hot, as though dance had been a passion of hers forever.
Bea, though, struggled.
“My legs are too short,” she complained. “And my hips don’t have that thing.”
“What thing?” Thierry asked.
Bea pointed to my ass. “That thing. That rounded thing.”
“Sex appeal?” Thierry said.
“Fat?” Bea countered, folding her arms across her chest and glowering at all of us.
I snorted. She had more curves than me or Kaitlin, so I didn’t know what she was talking about. “Hilarious, Bea.”
Her words were harsh, we both knew it, but I chalked it up to stress. Thierry sighed.
“Any body type can be a great dancer. You just have to have soul. Close your eyes. Feel the music course through your limbs. Become one…”
“Oh my god, really?” Bea spun away from us and adjusted her leg warmers. “Please don’t get all woo-woo on me. I don’t need a Dirty Dancing moment, I need concrete teaching. Tell me which muscles to engage and which to relax. Where my bones are supposed to go. I don’t need to love dancing, I just need to not look like a fool.”
Thierry popped his lips. “Yes, good. We can take that approach. If you stop pouting.”
Bea tucked a few hairs that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “Fine. I can be cool. Just…teach me. From the top.”
The three of us lined up and waited for Thierry to start the music. He joined our line and counted us in. I watched myself in the tall mirrors, fine-tuning my steps. When I glanced at Bea’s reflection, I noticed her jaw set in a hard line, her eyebrows drawn together with frustration, and her steps not quite lining up with mine and Kaitlin’s.
She caught my look in the mirror. I tried to adjust my line of vision quickly, so she wouldn’t know I was assessing her efforts, but I wasn’t quick enough. Bea’s mouth twisted in a grimace and she glared at me.
I avoided her for the rest of the dance class, and she walked out of the studio alone, before either Kaitlin or I had changed into our street shoes.
“Something needs to give,” Kaitlin said, slinging her gym bag over her shoulder. She adjusted her bangs in the mirror and rubbed at the smudged mascara under her eyes.
I sighed. I knew Bea wasn’t happy and her constant struggles were wearing on me, too. I felt like I had to keep her steady and push the whole band forward. Not just that, I also had to manage my own crazy life.
“What should we do?” I asked Kaitlin, as we left the studio and walked down the short hallway to the main dance school entrance. She pushed the heavy glass door open and let me walk through first.
“Hard to say.” The door slam closed behind us, rattling my nerves. “I want us all to be happy, Court. And I don’t care if you’re seeing him. But I’m not Bea, and I think she’s a little worried that if she screws up, she’s out. But you have Jimmy as insurance, you know?”
“It’s not like that. Bea isn’t going anywhere, no matter what. None of us are, even if it means…I mean…oObviously I want us more. Obviously.”
Kaitlin nodded. “Okay.”
Her word was soft, but I was left with the distinct feeling that she wasn’t entirely sure she believed me. Or maybe the problem was that I didn’t entirely believe myself. Jimmy Keats was not the first man who’d treated me well, who turned me on, who challenged myself or who made me laugh. But he was the first to do all of those things at the same time. Plus, he felt a lot like home.
I waved at Kaitlin as she took a left toward her apartment. I continued straight to the DG house. When I got in, I made a beeline straight for the kitchen, grabbing a half-stale bagel and then headed back to my room. I had an hour until my afternoon class, and I needed to cram as much studying in as possible.
I dumped my dance bag on my bed and plopped into my desk chair. My muscles were slowly tightening, after all the movement I’d done today, and I grabbed my foot to stretch my thigh. My eyes closed, my whole body sinking into the stretch. It felt so good. I changed legs, breathing slowly, then dropped my foot and opened my eyes.
Right in front of me, was another letter.
The same plain, white envelope. The same writing across the front. The same stamps. The same Los Angeles postmark. It was mailed yesterday.
I picked the letter up and flipped it over, my pointer finger pausing under the edge of the flap. My heart raced. I bit my lip, hard. I knew I shouldn’t open it. I knew I should take it straight to the police station, along with the other note, to be studied. But curiosity was too great of a force and it compelled my finger to rip the envelope.
The card inside was the same as before, the swirling writing too familiar. The words, this time, were a little different:
If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from Jimmy Keats. Trust me.
A chill crept its way up my spine. I caught a glimpse of myself in the little mirror on my desk. My eyes were too wide, my nostrils flaring with worry. The first note bothered me. This one scared me: the not-subtle threat in the phrase if you know what’s good for you, the familiarity in the phrase trust me. As though the person sending the notes was someone I know well. Someone I had a history of trusting. I couldn’t imagine anyone I knew well doing this to me.
I grabbed my phone and called Local Jackso
n.
“Courtney Dreger public relations,” Local answered, in his gritty, laughing voice. “Where we only got good things to say about Miz Dreger.”
“You’re hired!” I said. Hearing Local’s voice helped some of the stress and fear subside. He was someone who always had my back.
“Does that mean I’m going to get paid for all the phone calls I’ve been fielding?”
I flicked the flap of the envelope. “What phone calls?”
I heard Local shift his position. His chair creaked. It was probably the rocking chair on his front porch. He liked to sit and watch the world go by, his old guitar at his side so he could pick it up and strum a tune whenever the inspiration hit.
“I got a couple calls this week from reporters wanting to know more about you. Talking ‘bout you and Jimmy Keats. Them places all want a juicy piece of gossip.”
“What did you tell them?”
Local chuckled. “I ain’t telling them nothing, girlie. I may not have ever been big time, but I remember those flies buzzing around, sniffing for scandal and heartbreak, making their home in the stinky piles of poo. Anything like that makes a good story, but nobody wants it to be their story. I’ve seen that firsthand.”
“Sounds intriguing. What happened to you, Local?” For a moment, I forgot about the notes I’d been getting. I forgot about trying to catch up with my homework. I forgot about Bea and about Jimmy Keats. I only wanted the dish on Local Jackson’s old romance. I was as bad as those reporters.
“Can’t tell you all that story, girlie. It ain’t all mine to tell.” His voice dipped a little, scooping up some sadness to serve with his words. “But there were broken hearts and there was bitterness. Probably still is some bitterness, to this day. Some women got a talent for holding on to their broken hearts. And some men…well, you just make sure you’re picking yourself a good one, is all.”
“I’m working on it. But I don’t know if it’s going to work out, for me.” I told Local about the letters I’d been getting. How the writing inside didn’t match the writing on the envelopes. How they were sent from L.A. I even told him I was worried someone really dangerous was sending them. Or maybe Julia Wood.
“You’ve taken them to the cops?” He asked. “Don’t you mess around with crazy people. It’s probably nothing, but you never know. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I didn’t take the first one in, but I’m going to take this one, right after class.”
“If they still come, don’t open them. Take them in and let them handle everything. And keep your doors locked.”
“You think it’s that bad?”
He grunted. “I don’t. Not really. But then again, love makes fools of us all.”
“We’re all a little foolish, lately.”
“How’s that?”
I told Local about Bea. How stressed she’d been. How I wasn’t sure she approved of me and Jimmy. How crazy everything was making me.
“Look, I know everyone’s got their codes. Boys stick together, girls stick together. Don’t date your friends’ exes. That whole thing. But the other part of it is that y’all are grown-ups. People gotta be happy for their friends when they’re happy. If they can’t manage that, it means something’s wrong with them that needs to be figured out. All you girls got a lot on your plates, but Bea’ll come around. That girl loves you. And there ain’t nothing wrong with her that a little time and practice can’t fix.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Look, I have to run. I have so much work to do.”
“You go on and get your work done, then. And then you take that note in and push past it. Keep up with your dream, girl, no matter how many letters come, you hear?”
“Will do, Local.” I hung up the phone, stuffed the letter in my bag, and opened my laptop. I only had fifteen minutes to study before class and I needed to make the most of every single second.
*
It was the quietest week I’d had since Duncan Prospect came huffing and puffing to our car that fateful night at Filth. Thank goodness, because that quarter was racing toward midterms and my brain felt like mush. I subsisted mostly on caffeine and band-aids, for all the paper cuts my flashcards were giving me. The whole DG house had buckled down in anticipation of exams and papers. Hell, the whole of sorority row was quieter than usual. Even Bea and Kaitlin were scarce, although I couldn’t tell if that was due to midterms, or to other things.
Jimmy texted a few times each day, just to say hello or share an encouraging thought. He told me how much he admired my big brain, how much he missed kissing me, how cold his bed was at night without me in it. The texts never failed to bring a smile to my face, but my happiness faded quickly as I dove back into my work again. On Friday, he asked me to come up for a breather and join him for dinner.
I knew I didn’t have the time. Not really, but I also was going on day three of wearing the same yoga pants and thought a bit of fresh air and a good reason to put on some make-up would perk me up. I relented. Dinner, only.
I’ll come by at 7. I know a great Italian place.
I showered. Worked my hair into shape. I needed to go back into the salon for a touch-up, but there definitely wasn’t time for that, right now. It would have to wait until after midterms. I swept silver and lavender shadow over my eyelids and coated my lashes with mascara. As I lined my lips, I wondered about the Italian place Jimmy Keats knew. Was it well-known? A celebrity hot spot? What would Bea see on the gossip sites, tomorrow? I puckered and popped my mouth, tamping down the nerves that rose up, creating a fine mist of sweat over my arms.
Would I get another letter if I was seen out with Jimmy? The police hadn’t said much when I dropped off the second note. They’d just reminded me to stay in well-lit areas, to lock my doors, to trust my instincts when I was out and about. I took their advice seriously, but I’d mostly been holed up in my room or at the library during daylight hours, anyway, and hadn’t felt particularly unsafe. Now, worry crept up on me again. I hadn’t told the police about my missing tablet or planner. Something made me think they wouldn’t take it seriously. Would think I’d just misplaced it. Like a silly woman. I knew I shouldn’t have felt that way, but I did.
My gaze went to my window. I never left it open, anymore, even when I desperately wanted a breeze in my room. Even when my skin was shimmering with sweat, as it was now, thinking about my things going missing. About the notes. About how unfair it was that I even had to take the measure. To worry.
I swallowed back my nerves.
Thought about staying in. Hiding away until the notes stopped.
But I wasn’t going to hide away in fear. That’s how “they” won.
When Jimmy arrived, I let my gaze linger on him longer than was necessary, taking in his smooth skin, his deep brown eyes, and the dip in his v-neck shirt that I knew led to a gorgeously muscled chest. He flashed a bright, easy smile at me and reached his hand out for mine. We threaded our fingers together and I waved to my sorority sisters, with their half amused, half envious expressions.
“How did you learn about this Italian place?” I asked, once we were buckled in his car and pulling away from the UCLA campus.
Jimmy brought his fingers casually up to my cheek for a little caress and laughed. “Just like everyone else finds out about things. Online.”
I adjusted the sheer overlay on my skirt. “So it’s not busy or popular or…”
“Full of prying eyes?” Jimmy faced me for a moment, his smile softening with concern. “I want our time together to be our time. There will be lots of time to be barreled down by paparazzi in the future, I can promise you that.”
“Good.”
I meant the word to be more of an acknowledgement of what he said. An agreement that I, too, just wanted privacy when we were together. But there was so much more in my voice—fear, worry, relief—that it came out forced and loud in the car.
Jimmy picked up on it immediately, as though we were tuned into the same frequency. “Everything okay?”
<
br /> I thought about telling him everything: about the letters and the article, about Bea struggling, about falling behind in my classes. It felt like every component of my life outside of Jimmy was a disaster. But what could he do about it? If I complained it was all too much, he might suggest cutting back on classes or even the band. He might even call everything off until the source of the letters was discovered. For a little while, at least. If I did that, all the sacrifices I’d made over the past weeks would have felt like they were in vain. There would never be a good time to juggle all the things on my plate, so I might as well do it now.
Local Jackson had said it was normal to get weird correspondence. That was just a byproduct of living in the public eye, even if I knew it was wrong and unfair.
So I kept my mouth shut on all of that and nodded my head.
“Everything’s perfect.”
He glanced at me a couple more times, the worry in his eyebrows slowly fading under the persistence of my smile, until finally, he sighed.
“I want all of this to be okay. And I want you to stay safe and be happy.” One last, hard look. “I really want that. It matters to me, your happiness. Okay?”
I nodded again. All the doubt and uncertainty fled to be replaced by a sweet warmth over my skin. “You know what makes me happy?” I looked at him from under my lashes, glad to be flirting with him again. To be lightening the mood.
His expression changed, too. He knew we were playing a game, once again.
“What makes you happy?”
I leaned over, my lips barely touching his ear, and whispered the things I loved most about the night on the roof and about the first night at his place. His hands, his music, his confidence. Teasing him, touching him, riding him. I finished with a tiny kiss on the bottom of his ear and watched as he swallowed slowly. I could tell that I affected him from the way his body tensed up and, the part that made me smile most, from the growing bulge in his pants.
“Maybe I should turn the car and head the other direction,” he said, pointing his chin toward the hills where his house was.
