Dark Turns

by Cate Holahan

  She liked his hair loose. It gave him a reformed grunge vibe. He looked like a cleaned-up Kerouac: educated and artistic but still a bad boy. Who didn’t like a bad boy?

  “What’s the restaurant like?”

  “Nervous?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I heard ballerinas are picky about food.”

  “Nope. When you dance for six hours a day, you can gobble up anything.”

  He smirked. “That so?”

  “Steak, chicken nuggets, a Big Mac—I’m game. As long as it’s not a Blimpie’s.”

  “Got something against footlongs?”

  She eyed him. Did he intend the sentence to have a sexual connotation or did he find the addition of “sandwich” unnecessary?

  “I worked there in high school to pay for whatever the ballet scholarship didn’t. We ate for free. Let’s just say too much of a good thing.”

  They had the kind of conversation that didn’t require eye contact, sharing generally favorable opinions about Wallace and life in the dorms. Mostly, Nia talked. Peter seemed comfortable enough in his own skin to listen to the air barreling through the windows without additional commentary. Nia couldn’t relax into silence. Each quiet moment criticized her conversational skills. She admonished herself for failing to fill the space with some opinion certain to create a connection between them. She only knew of three things Peter liked: writing, his students, and driving. They had already discussed driving.

  She yelled over the wind. “What’s your novel about?”

  Peter dragged his bottom teeth over his top lip like a bulldog. “Ah, the dreaded question.”

  “Oh. If you don’t want to talk about it, I—”

  “No. I do want to talk about it. It’s just that’s part of my problem—arguably the problem. I’m shit at condensing it for discussion.”

  “I understand.” She didn’t. Didn’t storytellers tell stories? If he wrote it, why couldn’t he talk about it?

  “It’s about class differences, I guess, and what American society values . . . How people are able to overlook poor qualities in pretty packages.”

  His explanation didn’t sound like a story. Stories—even those in ballets—had a framework. Who was his hero? What was the plot? What happened to his characters?

  “Who’s telling the story?”

  “A wannabe options trader.” Peter laughed. “But it’s not really about the narrator. It’s like . . .” He smacked his lips together. “Imagine American Psycho told by The Great Gatsby’s Nick Carraway.”

  She’d read the latter in high school. She didn’t know the former. Stories about serial killers never interested her. Too violent. Too removed from her reality. In Nia’s experience, the biggest threats were people you knew and your own limitations.

  “Sounds interesting. I’d like to read it.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie. If Peter’s book proved brilliant, she could justify her attraction to him as about more than good looks and availability. If it was horrible, well . . . How could someone who landed a job at one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the country lack talent?

  Peter smirked. “My ex read it and that didn’t turn out so well. I’m not sure my book does me any favors in the romance department.”

  The highway suddenly widened into four lanes. A blue glass building pointed above the trees like a trapped glacier. The road curved. As the pavement straightened out, she could see the building in its full glory: a miniskyscraper in the middle of nowhere. Nia couldn’t decide whether the monolith was a beautiful surprise or a blight on the bucolic landscape.

  Peter pulled into a semicircle driveway. He killed the engine. Her door clicked open. Nia stepped onto a slate walkway as Peter handed his keys to a man about her age and color.

  The man slid into the driver’s seat. As they walked into the restaurant, Nia felt Peter’s fingertips on her bare back. She pressed against him, coaxing his palm to stay without words. Body language worked so much better for her than banter.

  *

  Blimpie’s couldn’t hold a candle to the casino’s restaurant. The Wapasha “Red Leaf” Trattoria was located on a separate floor from the casino, away from the smoky blackjack tables and dinging, whistling slot machines staffed by elderly ladies. A tinted glass exterior belied a cozy interior filled with old world Italian decorations and smells. The designers had retained intimacy by tucking tables beneath archways and in corners rather than putting them right against one another in order to fill the place with as many patrons as possible. The menu was expansive and reasonably priced, enabling Nia to order the branzino without fear of breaking Peter’s bank.

  He selected an $80 bottle of red wine to accompany the meal. Her palate wasn’t sophisticated enough to parse the flavor difference between the pricey wine and the far cheaper bottles she’d sampled after opening night shows, but she could tell the texture seemed smoother and dangerously easy to swallow. The glass she sipped while they’d waited for dinner filled her head with warmth. It settled her down and allowed her to enjoy relaxed conversation. By the time they exited the restaurant, at least one more glass of wine had slipped down her throat, sneaking past her first-date defenses thanks to Peter’s habit of topping off her drink each time he refilled his own.

  She snuggled into his side as they approached the elevators. “Thank you for dinner. I’ve had a really nice time.”

  “The night’s not over yet.”

  Was he assuming she would return to his place? She couldn’t exactly blame him, given all the gazes and giggles that had bubbled from her during dinner. She blamed the wine and his good looks, not to mention a year of pent up sexual energy. Still, she didn’t want him thinking her easy. It was just the first date.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want to see you dance.”

  They took a glass elevator up to the top floor. A burly bouncer in a black suit stood outside an onyx wall beside a velvet rope. There wasn’t a line. There wasn’t even an indication that there would ever be one. The casino crowd Nia had glimpsed on her way to the restaurant hadn’t seemed like clubbers, though maybe one or two had a grandchild that listened to house music.

  The bouncer grasped the rope as they approached, as if debating whether to let them in immediately or make them wait as advertisements to passersby. He scanned the elevator bank. Apparently not seeing anyone to impress, he checked her ID and unhooked the rope.

  Techno music battered her ears like a jackhammer. She gripped Peter’s hand as they made their way through a near-black hallway into a dim open room. The club appeared about a third full, which was more than Nia had expected. Women gyrated in the center of a black floor. Men watched at a clear-glass bar, illuminated by blue LEDs and adorned with blown glass spikes to resemble something deep sea and threatening—part bar, part anglerfish.

  Peter weaved through a group of men clustered near the exit, ensuring last licks at whoever caught their attention. Some of the dancing women watched as they approached, breaking the illusion that the music had entranced them past the point of noticing the men on the sidelines. The women checked her out. They ogled Peter.

  He seemed not to notice. He pulled her to him as they reached a clearing. The beat consumed her body. She pressed her pelvis against his and dipped back until her ponytail grazed the ground. She popped up and rose to her toes. His arms wrapped around her waist. She slipped from his embrace, gyrating to the floor in a modified grand plié, more Beyoncé than ballet. She slinked back up toward him.

  His blue eyes shimmered, wide and wild. He pressed his lips to hers.

  One techno song blended into another. Nia didn’t like the second one: a clunky remix of a current pop star’s hit with a sped-up country song. It never settled into a rhythm. After trying to gyrate to a few bars, she stopped in the middle of the floor and pulled Peter toward the bar. Water would help ward off any foot cramps.

  Peter misread the tug. “You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”

 
His hand cupped her side as they walked past the men watching them leave the floor. He strode with one arm propped out, as if ready for a fight. One of the men shouted.

  “Wow, look at that.”

  The group’s attention snapped toward the bar. Instinctively, Nia and Peter followed their head tilts, rubberneckers beside a car crash. A girl stood on top of the glass counter, her leg stretched out behind her in an arabesque. Long, blond hair hid her face, but it fell away as she tossed her head back to swallow the shot in her hand. Aubrey.

  Men hollered for the kid to have another drink, unaware or unconcerned that the contortionist was only sixteen. Aubrey tossed her head like a teenager asking for daddy’s wallet.

  Peter turned away from the bar. His hand pressed against her side, urging her to keep walking.

  “That’s one of my students.”

  “No. Wallace kids can’t get in here. They check ID.”

  “No, it is.” She stepped toward the bar. Aubrey dipped into a grand plié that exposed whatever she wore beneath her mini dress to the crowd of guys sitting below her. The men howled.

  Nia knew she had to do something. The girl didn’t have involved parents, and she’d already had to deal with the fallout from a sex tape. Nia didn’t want to stand by while Aubrey put her safety at risk.

  Her student took another shot to loud applause. Nia slipped into the crowd. Peter followed.

  They pushed through the cheering men. At first, the group parted to let them through. When it became clear they were headed toward Aubrey and not the bartender in the corner, elbows shot out. Openings filled with flesh. Peter bumped against her as some guy shoved him.

  “Get back to the cheap seats, dude,” the man snarled. Puffy, veined biceps protruded from the stranger’s short-sleeved black shirt.

  “That girl is a minor, dude.” Peter mocked the man’s Long Island accent. “You touch her, you’ll be notifying everyone within a mile of your house for the rest of your life.”

  The man sneered. “Might be worth it.”

  Peter tensed beside her. He faced the man, hands curled into fists. Nia pulled his arm and his attention back to the bar.

  “Aubrey!” She yelled over the crowd. “Aubrey!”

  The men towered over her. Body heat clouded the air above. She turned to face Peter.

  The music and hooting forced her to scream. “I need you to lift me!”

  She turned her back toward him. Hands pressed into her armpits. She grabbed his wrists and pushed his grip down to her hipbone. Fingers tightened around her pelvis. She jumped as he lifted, helping him raise her torso above his head. She lowered herself onto his shoulders. He gripped her legs. Aubrey performed a deep backbend to pick up yet another shot. Nia waved frantically. “Aubrey!” The screams cut into her throat. “Aubrey!”

  The girl made eye contact. She pointed to the door and then dismounted from the counter, wisely choosing to land behind the bar rather than in the arms of the crowd. The men whined for her to return. She pointed at Nia.

  The crowd parted for the strange man with the other woman on top of his shoulders. Perhaps they believed Aubrey’s fellow performers were coming to join in.

  When they hit the bar, Peter reached above his head to her waist. He placed her on the counter. A few men whooped, anticipating a second act. She quickly hopped down to where Aubrey stood. Backlit shelves of bottles cast a blue hue across the girl’s fair skin.

  “What are you doing here? This is a night club.”

  Aubrey slapped her palm against her forehead. “Shit. I thought it was book club.”

  “We’re taking you back with us.”

  Aubrey smiled. “That’s awesome. I took the shuttle bus here and thought I would have to bum a ride with one of these assholes. You two are much better.”

  Aubrey grabbed Nia’s arm like they were BFFs. She skipped while Nia strode around the bar toward the safety of her six-foot-plus date. Peter grasped Nia’s free hand and led them through the mix of awed, bewildered, and pissed-off faces. They burst outside and past the doorman.

  “The car is this way,” Peter said.

  “Nee-aaah.” Aubrey cooed her name as if it were a piece of juicy gossip. “Dating Professor Andersen. Nice. The female contingent of the poetry club is going to swallow a box of aspirin and disappear into the lake.”

  So much for avoiding the rumor mill. Nia dropped Peter’s hand. “We’re two colleagues who met for dinner.”

  Aubrey stopped walking as if she had slammed into a wall. She released Nia’s arm. “I saw you two on the dance floor.” She winked.

  Nia ignored her. “Those men are much older than you.”

  Aubrey laughed.

  Nia wanted to slap the stupid, smug look off of Aubrey’s face. Didn’t she understand that she’d put herself at risk performing on a bar for a bunch of drunken men twice her age? Did she have an alcohol problem?

  “Aubrey, you have to be more careful. When we get back, we can get together with your mom and some people.”

  Aubrey kept laughing. “Are you kidding me? I don’t need an intervention. Ask your ‘colleague.’” Aubrey scrunched her fingers into air quotes as she said the last word. “I’m Wallace’s superstar student. I just like to have fun. Right, Mr. Andersen?”

  Peter cleared his throat. “This isn’t fun.”

  Aubrey yawned. “I’m tired. Can we just go to the car? You guys can debate disciplining me on the ride back.”

  The girl inserted herself between Peter and Nia. She wrapped her arms around their waists and walked lock step, like they were all pals headed home from a night of partying. “I vote for spanking,” she said.

  Nia wrenched from the girl’s embrace. “That is not an appropriate joke for—”

  “What I saw you two do on the dance floor wasn’t appropriate either.”

  “You don’t seem to realize how serious this is,” Nia said.

  “Yes. Sex is very serious business.” She giggled.

  Peter touched Nia’s arm. “She’s drunk. Let’s not stand here and argue.”

  Nia marched back to the valet station, Peter trailing her. Aubrey chuckled and skipped behind like they were all on some hidden camera show where only she had glimpsed the boom microphone.

  Nia watched Peter pay the attendant to avoid seeing Aubrey’s underwear as the teen climbed over the front seat into the back. Aubrey lay down.

  Nia dipped her head into the car. “Are you going to be sick?”

  “Just relaxing. Leather feels so good.”

  Nia settled into the front passenger seat and waited for Peter to start the car. A streetlight glowed over the parking lot attendant station. Peter stood beneath it, looking handsome, far away, and totally unavailable. Aubrey had killed the mood.

  “The leather feels sooo good,” Aubrey repeated.

  Nia refused to take the bait.

  Peter jumped into the driver’s seat and sped out of the lot. He leaned over to Nia. “We’ll be home in ten. No traffic.”

  “Thanks.” She placed her hand over his. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

  “It’s not your fault.” His eyes rolled toward the backseat where Aubrey gyrated to mental music.

  Peter sped through farm country as if fleeing a crime scene. If a drunk teenager hadn’t been sprawled in the backseat, Nia might have believed he wanted to get back to tear her clothes off. But Aubrey’s presence had shifted them both back into work gear. She guessed he simply wanted to return home.

  She understood the desire. The lack of sexual anticipation sapped her energy. The wine weighed on her eyelids. Still, she wished Peter would pay some attention to the speed limit. She didn’t want to explain why a teacher and an assistant were racing home with a scantily clad minor that smelled like lime and liquor in the backseat. She also doubted Aubrey would back them up with the truth.

  Peter turned the air conditioning to full blast. He either needed the cold to stay focused on the empty road or the hoped the rush of air would drown out Aubrey’s str
eam of inappropriate chatter. The girl moaned every time the car hit a pebble. She made kissy faces at the rear-view mirror.

  Nia whirled to face the backseat. “Enough. Stop it.”

  “Stop what?” Aubrey scoffed. “Don’t tell me what to do. You really think that our five- or six-year age difference makes you so much more mature than me? In a couple years, it won’t matter at all. Why don’t you let me enjoy myself?”

  “Because you’re hurting yourself.”

  “I didn’t know you cared.” Aubrey leaned forward, shoving her head between the seats.

  “You want to save me? There are all these sad girls in our school that cut or regurgitate their food or snarf Adderall because they can’t take the competition at Wallace. Why don’t you save one of them instead of bothering me?” Her arms jutted into the space between the front seats, palms out as if praying. “Go ahead and touch. No scars. I’m just fine.”

  Nia returned her attention to the darkness enveloping the car. She folded her arms over her chest. Aubrey slunk into the backseat.

  Maybe Aubrey was right. Her tragic past hadn’t stopped her from achieving considerable success. Still, Nia was Aubrey’s RA and teacher. She couldn’t stand back while the girl sneaked into clubs and got bombed.

  Peter turned his attention from the road. He whispered. “Let’s just get her to the dorm. I’m tired. I really don’t feel like spending the night explaining anything to Stirk.”

  Nia swallowed her protest. Turning Peter into an unwilling witness before his boss might squelch whatever burgeoning feelings he had for her. And for what? Finding one dead teen didn’t mean Nia had to go around trying to save people who didn’t want saving.

  Nia again twisted toward the backseat. Aubrey’s face peeked into the glow from the dashboard. Nia met her fierce blue eyes.

  “Telling you to respect yourself won’t make you do it. You’re going to have to want that. Someday, you will. I just hope that day comes before you run into the wrong guy.”

  Aubrey’s lips spread into a smile. “The wrong guy better hope that, too.”