by Cate Holahan
“There’s an outdoor sculpture garden about an hour north of here. It’s a beautiful place to see all the changing leaves, and there’s a nice bed and breakfast in the town. It’s too late to book this weekend, but maybe we could go up next Friday after classes. We could spend the night, take in the scenery the next morning.”
Guilt pulled at the corners of her smile. Nia lifted her mug and took a long swallow. “I actually have plans next Saturday. That friend of mine at the New York City Ballet landed a soloist part in Agon and asked that I come see the opening.”
“Oh.” Peter set his cup on the coffee table. He brushed his hair back. “So, how are you getting to Manhattan?”
“I was thinking I’d grab a bus to Claremont and then take the train.”
“The buses don’t run that late.”
Nia had considered that problem. The last bus from Claremont back to Wallace ran at 10:00 p.m. Dimitri’s show didn’t even start until 8:00, and there was no way she’d make it to Claremont in time. But if she stayed in the city until the following morning, she could get a 5:00 a.m. train into Claremont and then grab an 8:00 a.m. bus to the school.
“My mom’s in Queens, not too far from a station. I was thinking I could crash there and then get the first train out in the morning. I’d be back in time for rehearsal.”
“You’ll be exhausted.” Peter relaxed into the couch. He put one leg on top of the other.
Nia tried to interpret his body language. She wouldn’t have been happy if Peter had made Saturday night plans with an ex-girlfriend. But he seemed fine. Then again, he didn’t know that Dimitri was anything other than a fellow dancer.
Nia kept her movements casual. She didn’t want to alarm Peter by making it clear how much she wanted to see Dimitri dance. “I feel like I have to go. Landing a part in Agon is a kind of a big deal.”
“Well, if it’s helpful, I’ll pick you up from the train Saturday night.” Peter reclaimed his tea mug. “That way you don’t have to wake up crazy early the next morning.”
The last train from New York City to Claremont left at 10:00 p.m. Agon was only a half hour. But Dimitri wouldn’t make it from backstage right away. She wanted to have a little time with him.
Peter sipped his tea. He stared at her, trying to read her expression, or waiting for an answer.
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
He brushed her hair behind her shoulder. His palm cupped her neck. “You could never put me out.”
They kissed. When they broke apart, Nia saw a sad smile on his face.
“I love you,” he said.
The three words stuck in her throat. She hadn’t felt this strongly for anyone since Dimitri. But did she love Peter? She enjoyed being with him, she missed him when they were apart—which wasn’t often. She found him funny and handsome. Her feelings for Peter didn’t consume her the way her feelings had for Dimitri, but the lesser intensity didn’t mean she wasn’t in love. She’d fallen for Dimitri as a teenager. She was older now. She’d been hurt. And she knew that I love you didn’t mean forever.
She kissed him, covering her pause with passion. Peter was a handsome, educated, kind, thoughtful man. He loved her. And part of her did love him—the part that wasn’t reeling from Dimitri’s latest change of heart.
Peter brushed her hair from her face. His steel-blue eyes demanded a reply.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
They fell onto the couch, intertwined. His mouth devoured her neck, her shoulders, her stomach. He pulled at her jeans. She lifted her butt up, pressing her pelvis against him. He yanked the pants past her behind.
A scream shot through the room like a stray bullet. Footsteps thundered above them, all in the same direction. Peter sprang backward.
“Damn it.”
Nia grabbed his discarded shirt from the foot of the bed. She pulled it over her head.
The scream sounded again. “Oh, God!”
Marta’s voice? No. Teenage girls just sounded alike. She shimmied the jeans over her butt as she followed her shirtless boyfriend out the door. Shouts ricocheted around the corner. They ran toward them. Several girls, each wearing a slutty version of some occupational uniform, peppered the stairwell. Their eyes pointed toward the floor.
A petite girl lay on her back at the base of the steps. Dark hair tumbled around her delicate shoulders. Lean, defined legs extended from a short, black minidress. A peep-toe pump dangled from one foot. The other appendage lay naked and twisted on the ground, as if in fifth position.
Nia pushed past Peter. She fell on the floor beside the body.
“Lydia. Lydia. Wake up.”
Nia pressed her fingers into the girl’s neck. Something sticky coated them. A red smear ran down the girl’s face. Blood? No. Too bright and shimmery for blood. Paint. Lydia’s tan face was powdered white. She’d dressed as a zombie.
A pulse beat against the pads of Nia’s index and pointer fingers. Lydia was alive. She was breathing. Why wasn’t she waking up?
A large red bump swelled above Lydia’s eye. Nia tapped her cheek. “Lydia. It’s Nia.”
Lydia moaned.
“You’re going to be okay. You fell.”
Peter knelt beside her. “Is she all right?”
Nia examined the length of the girl’s legs. They appeared straight, unbroken—until the ankle. A red welt carved the leg, just above an askew foot. The joint was fractured, if not worse.
“I need ice. And an ambulance.”
Nia slipped her palm behind Lydia’s head, supporting it like a pillow.
“Is she going to be okay?” The slurred words fell from the steps above her. Marta leaned on the railing like a crutch. A white tunic with buckles flopping from the sides hung around her body. A sexy straightjacket?
“What happened?”
“She had, like, a couple drinks, totally not much at all. The upstairs bathroom was occupied, so I went downstairs and I saw her lying there. Is she going to be okay?”
Tears welled in Nia’s eyes. Dancers recovered from broken ankles, often with surgery, months of rest, and a lot of rehab. But damaged joints were never really the same.
Nia’s fists flexed against her side. “Where is Aubrey?”
34
Battement [bat-MAHN]
Beating. A beating action of the extended or bent leg.
The IV bag hung from its metal hook, a strange hourglass ticking away the moments Nia spent at her student’s bedside. Lydia slept sideways on rumpled sheets, matted brown hair pooled behind her head. Orangey-green spots freckled the corner of her pillowcase, remnants of vomit that hadn’t made it into whatever container medical centers used for that kind of thing. The room’s fluorescent lights jaundiced Lydia’s tan skin, yellowing everything except the dark purple bruise on her forehead.
Lydia’s foot rested atop the blanket, mummified in cotton and gauze. The swelling enlarged the appendage into an archless club, far larger than anything Lydia’s thin leg should carry. Nia wished the hospital had put on a cast. Once on, it would hide the misshapen foot, allowing her to concentrate on Lydia’s recovery rather than the career-damaging—possibly career-destroying—injury. Lydia needed to audition next year for companies. If the girl didn’t land somewhere after high school, she would end up on the sidelines, struggling to recuperate while teaching younger replacements, praying for a triumphant return to form that would somehow erase her sabbatical.
Nia peeled back a clump of dark hair from her student’s cheek. An acrid mix of sweat and sickness oozed from Lydia’s skin, yet she looked parched. Dead skin and what was left of the Halloween face powder clumped into a thick white line atop the girl’s cracked bottom lip.
Why hadn’t Lydia listened? She couldn’t have believed Aubrey wanted to be a real friend. When Lydia fell, Aubrey was nowhere to be found.
Lydia hadn’t explained. She’d regained consciousness moments before the EMT’s arrival, shaken awake by violent convulsions that expelled a green, foamy liquid f
rom her stomach.
Footsteps clicked on the linoleum floor. Nia whirled around to see a woman, a few shades darker than herself, in navy scrubs.
“Is she going to be okay?”
The nurse unhooked the IV. “Springfield hospital wouldn’t have sent her back to us if there were real problems.”
“So they did a CT scan or something? She was unconscious when I found her.”
The nurse examined her patient’s face. She tilted her head, as if noticing the large bruise on Lydia’s forehead for the first time.
“I’m sure Springfield hospital did a toxicology screen. But judging from that hematoma, my guess is she got fall down drunk and knocked herself out.” The nurse pulled the plastic IV tube from the blue port protruding from Lydia’s hand. “Don’t worry. Faces bruise easy. If she had done real damage, that bump would be a lot bigger.”
“What about her ankle?”
“She’ll need an appointment with an orthopedist. There are some good ones in New Haven.”
The woman pulled the tape from the back of Lydia’s hand. She plucked out the IV and pressed a cotton ball to the spot it had occupied. “Such a nasty fall. Kids always end up here after drinking. They think they’re just having fun, acting grown, but they don’t know how to handle liquor at this age.”
“She went to a party. She probably didn’t realize how strong the drinks were.”
The nurse shrugged. “Well, if all that vomiting didn’t teach her not to drink, then I’m sure that injury will.”
Profanities bubbled in Nia’s throat. She didn’t have an intelligent retort. Lydia had done something stupid. But people did stupid things all the time. It wasn’t fair that Lydia’s mistake had cost her the fall show and possibly her dancing career. Aubrey’s underage drinking hadn’t cost her anything.
Nia reached for Lydia’s bandaged hand. Her student would need comfort when she saw her ankle, and there was no one else to give it. The campus medical center had undoubtedly alerted her parents, but the call wouldn’t have gone out until Springfield had discharged her. Lydia’s parents lived in Manhattan. Even if they’d jumped in a car while still on the phone, they might not arrive before their daughter woke.
Lydia’s hand moved beneath Nia’s own. The girl rolled to her back.
“Water?”
Nia scanned for a bottle. Damn it. She would have to call the nurse.
“Lydia. It’s Nia. I’ll get the nurse to bring you some.”
Lydia’s eyes opened like her lashes contained lead. She squeezed them shut almost as soon as her dark irises became visible. She turned back onto her side toward Nia, away from the overhead fluorescent lights.
“What happened?” The teen spoke with the raspy tenor of a chain smoker.
“I think you had some drinks at a party and then fell down the stairs.”
Lydia fought her eyelids open. “How? I don’t drink.”
“You don’t remember?”
The girl squeezed her eyes shut again. “I went to the party and there was beer, but I didn’t have any. I had a Sprite or something. Maybe a Mountain Dew? It was, like, green.”
“Marta said you had a couple drinks.”
Lydia struggled to sit up. She pressed her hands into the bed and pushed back. Her swollen foot dragged the sheets as it slid upward. “No. Aubrey got a soda for me. It was just lime soda. I told her I wasn’t drinking. It tasted just like soda.”
Tears fell from beneath Lydia’s closed eyes. She chewed the dead skin on her bottom lip. “My ankle. It’s broken. I can’t believe it’s broken. I just . . .”
Lydia’s shoulders shook. Nia patted her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“I just don’t understand how this happened.”
“It will be all right. You’ll see a good orthopedist. The doctor will fix you good as new.”
Tears dribbled down Lydia’s cheeks and fell from her jaw. She nodded slowly, unconvinced. “I just don’t get how this could happen. I had a soda and then . . .” She sniffed. “Then I can’t remember anything. How can I not remember anything at all?”
Nia lowered her voice to a near whisper. She didn’t want to come across as judging. The last thing Lydia needed was to hear I told you so. “Sometimes, if you drink too much, you black out. Usually bits and pieces come back.”
Tears trickled from Lydia’s dark eyes. “But I don’t drink. I wouldn’t have. My dad . . .” Her face reddened. “He’s going to be so disappointed in me. I just don’t understand. I wouldn’t do this.”
“He’ll be happy you’re okay.”
“No.” Lydia’s eyes fixed Nia. The pupils shivered in watery pools. “You don’t understand. My mother was nearly killed by a drunk driver in Miami. She was in a coma for days, and now she’s in rehab up here. That’s why we moved. I would never, ever drink.”
Lydia’s determined expression shone through the redness in her face. It was the same look she’d had when she’d said she wanted the fall solo. She hadn’t lied then. She wasn’t lying now. That meant only one thing.
Anger roiled Nia’s stomach. For a moment, she feared her rage would explode from her mouth, spewing bile and profanity. She pushed the feeling into her gut.
“You said Aubrey gave you the drink?”
35
Sur Les Pointes [sewr lay pwent]
On the points. The raising of the body on the tips of the toes.
Nia stood on the stone steps outside the girls’ dormitory. She blew into her hands to warm her fingers. The sun had yet to break above the eastern hillside. A hazy darkness cloaked the campus. The morning belonged in the dead of winter.
The temperature tightened Nia’s muscles. She faced the dorm’s arched entrance and planted her toes on the step edge. Her right heel dangled over the landing below. She pressed down on the right foot until she felt a dull ache in the back of her heel. She rose onto the pad of her standing foot and repeated the stretch.
Stress aggravated old injuries. She would warm up. Then, as soon as the sun officially announced a new day, she would confront Aubrey.
The door flew open in front of her. She nearly jumped at the sound. Five o’clock in the morning was a silent hour on campus. Most students didn’t venture from their dorms until seven thirty, at the earliest, coaxed outside by the smell of breakfast wafting down from the cafeteria. She’d come straight from the medical center.
A hooded sweatshirt hid the advancing student’s face. The girl watched the ground as she hustled down the steps. Near-opaque white tights hugged long legs that led up to a navy pea coat. Bright pink leg warmers bunched around her calves.
“Aubrey?”
The girl froze on the step above her. She pulled the hood back onto her neck, uncovering a neat blond bun. A sarcastic smile twinkled in her ice-blue eyes. She folded her arms across her flat chest.
“’Morning, Nia. I was just heading to the studio to get some extra practice in.”
“I was looking for you last night.”
The girl pulled her lips between her teeth. She raised her eyebrows as if to ask why.
“You took Lydia to that party. She fell down the stairs.”
Aubrey’s hand landed on her breast. “That’s so horrible.” She shook her head as though disappointed. “But don’t worry about the solo. I’ll do my best to make Lydia proud.”
Nia stifled the urge to rip the blond bun off the teen’s head. “I spoke to Lydia in the medical center. The last thing she remembers is you giving her a lime soda.”
Aubrey sighed. “It’s not surprising that she blacked out. I mean, she had so many drinks.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “To tell you the truth, it was embarrassing. It’s a blessing she doesn’t remember.”
Nia crossed her arms in front of her, mimicking Aubrey’s defiant stance. The girl might have Ms. V fooled with her doll eyes and feigned earnestness, but Nia wouldn’t be taken in.
“Lydia doesn’t drink alcohol. She has family reasons for not touching the stuff—”
“Somebody spiking Lydia’s drink would explain a lot.”
Aubrey tilted her head, as though the suggestion were so outlandish that it had never occurred to her. “That’s quite an accusation. It could land somebody in jail.”
Nia’s eyes narrowed. “It certainly could.”
Aubrey descended to Nia’s step. Mock concern still pinched the pouty face. “Well, of course, she’d need to prove it. If she doesn’t remember anything, that seems pretty impossible.”
“The hospital did a tox screen. If you put something in Lydia’s drink, it will show up.”
“Well, if her drink was spiked, I hardly see how the police would blame me. A bunch of senior guys threw the party and bought the beer.” Aubrey shrugged. “I guess you can’t put anything past horny seventeen-year-old boys.”
“You may think you’re going to get away with all the lies that you tell, but you’re not.”
Aubrey’s oversized eyes widened. She put a hand to her cheek. “What do you mean?”
“Sneaking into adult clubs, giving Lydia spiked soda, telling the police that you didn’t ask to meet Theo in Claremont—”
“I’d watch what you accuse me of.” Aubrey’s syrupy tone distilled into anger.
“It’s all going to catch up to you, Aubrey.”
The corner of Aubrey’s mouth ticked up. “I better go. If I’m going to perfect the solo in the next week, I’ll need to start right away.”
The girl nearly skipped down the remaining steps. She strode across the courtyard and up the hill, a one-woman army in pink leg warmers, ready to dance.
36
Piétiner [pyay-tee-NAY]
To stamp the feet. A term of the French School applied to accented movements sur les pointes.
“Marta, watch your fingers. Keep them together.”
Marta corrected the claw hand without acknowledging her instructor. She’d refused to look at Nia since that day on the steps. The starved teenager hid between the T twins at the barre, staring at Talia’s back as Nia took the class through the well-worn cool-down routine.
