The Brokenhearted

by Amelia Kahaney

  “What?” I yell. “Haven’t you ever seen a chair before?”

  I move faster toward the cafeteria doors, my heart ricocheting around my chest like a pinball. Thick black clouds have blotted out the winter sun, and before I get back inside, the dark sky starts to spit fat drops of water. I stand still, fingering the heart pendant at my clavicle as my chest whirs, relieved to be fading back into the background as a dozen kids push past me, pandemonium unleashed as everyone tries to get out of the rain.

  Now it’s official, I think. I’ve lost everything. Even my best friend.

  CHAPTER 27

  “From the top,” says Madame Petrovsky in her heavy accent, whipping her delicate arms overhead and sending her sheer black scarf floating to the polished wood floor in the process. “Un, deux, trois, quatre!” On Madame’s count, the twelve of us level sixers take our places for the start of the crucial scene in Giselle, the part where Giselle returns to protect her lover, Duke Albrecht.

  We dance the routine in silence, as we do most days. Madame believes that we should hear the music inside, take our cues from our body’s muscle memory, not from the swells of the violins. All I hear is the thump-thump of our toe shoes when we land, the hushed symphony of our collective breath.

  A few weeks ago, I was dancing the prima role of Giselle. But after all the rehearsals I’ve missed, I’m lucky to be in the performance at all. Somehow, I’ve managed to convince Madame that I can handle dancing in the corps de ballet even after my “sprained ankle” and my “flu,” and now it’s my job to get every move perfect so she doesn’t change her mind. It helps that my new heart allows me to perform better than I ever have.

  My first day back in rehearsal, I talked her into giving me a chance to dance the opening act with the other girls, and I managed to nail the routine. Madame gave me a strange look and nodded slowly, then shot me a tentative smile. “I don’t know how you did it, Anthem. Beautiful work. You can be in the corps, but Constance will still dance the prima part.” The old me would have been devastated to lose the role of Giselle, but all I felt was relief at the chance to return to the normalcy of ballet.

  The performance is less than a month away, and rehearsal has left all of us with broken toenails and sore muscles. But my body recovers faster now.

  “And pointe. And pas de jambe. And tourne, revele, turne, releve.” Madame recites calmly as we do the group number, all twelve of us leaping and turning in unison, forming a circle that spins out into a line and back again. Blood thrums in my ears, and I feel my heart pumping from the exertion. My limbs are elastic and warm, and even though I returned to ballet only because my parents expected me to, for the past few rehearsal days I’ve been able to lose myself in the physical release that ballet has always given me. Ballet and my nights training with Ford are the only times I feel like the faintest shadow of my old self is still inside me, buried beneath all the layers of pain.

  I grab hands with Nina Chase and Liberty Sewell as we circle up, vaulting ourselves onto our toes for the grande releve, then spinning away from the group in a series of fouettés, feeling airborne when I triple-pirouette into my next mark.

  “Anthem, too fast, too high!” Madame looks at me quizzically after I land. “Stay with the group, please. No—what is the word?—pyrotechnics.”

  I nod and refocus on the mirror, hoping my reflection will help me match the speed and strength of my fellow dancers, reminding myself that just because my heart makes it possible to do things faster and jump higher doesn’t mean I can allow myself to do them. At least not right now.

  As I dance, hearing only breaths of exertion, gentle thuds of landing after a leap, and the muted tapping of my fellow dancers as we toe-step through the routine, my thoughts move to Zahra, then to Ford. We’ve sparred every night since I first pinned him to the floor, and each time I beat him easily. Last night, he brought in a cardboard dummy and a switchblade, and taught me how to throw a knife. The flicking motion of the wrist, the arm—it’s not so different from ballet, really. I landed the knife in the center of the dummy after a few tries and then sparred with Ford, bringing him to the mat again without much trouble. Each time I beat him, he laughed. You’re a machine, Green! he said, and high-fived me.

  A machine with a machine heart, I think now as I land the final triple-pirouette with my feet within an inch of where I want them on the floor, satisfied that I’m able to mimic the biologically normal dancers in the room.

  Just then, across the room, I hear the crunch of bone, followed by a loud scream. Constance Clamm crumples ungracefully to the floor and is clutching her right ankle in pain.

  I join the rest of the girls in crowding around her, but Madame shoos us away and runs to her office to get an ice pack from her mini-fridge. “Another ankle,” she mutters when she returns. “I cannot believe our misfortune.

  “Anthem!” Madame’s kohl-lined eyes land on me, and I know without a doubt what she’s thinking. No, no, no, I want to say, widening my eyes and turning scarlet. It’s not fair. Pick anyone else. Anyone but me. She motions me closer, then leans over and whispers in my ear.

  “You are Giselle again. Take your old role back for now, and we shall see how Constance is doing.”

  “No!” Constance is crying, having figured out what’s going on even as her ankle is swelling to twice its normal size. “I’ll be fine tomorrow, I’m sure of it,” she whimpers, pressing the ice pack gingerly against her damaged leg.

  “Let’s wait and see what the doctor says,” Madame says consolingly. “For now, Anthem will reprise Giselle.”

  Constance looks at me miserably, and I can’t help but share her misery. There was a time when all I wanted was this role, but that time has passed.

  “It’s all yours, as soon as you can do it again,” I say, trying to be comforting. Constance looks glumly at the ground, nodding, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

  I stay after class to work on the solo, pulling on a pair of tattered sweats over my legs to stay warm now that the rest of the body heat has left the building. The character Giselle is a young girl with a weak heart, ironically. She falls in love with a man who is betrothed to a princess. They have a passionate love affair, and then Giselle dies. But her ghost cannot rest until she knows her lover, Duke Albrecht, is protected against those who want to kill him. And Giselle protects him, I say in my head, staring into the mirror. And then her soul can rest.

  I run through the sequence of the first and second solos a few times each, taking care not to leap too high or spin too fast, modulating my speed to what I used to be able to do. It takes focus not to go too fast.

  But my heart revs inside my ribs like an engine thrown into gear, encouraging me to go faster, faster. I stop dancing and look around me. The sun went down over the river long ago, and a starless, foggy night has blanketed the studio in darkness. Madame has gone home. Nobody’s here to see me.

  I think of the spin kicks I’ve been practicing with Ford. The punches and hits, the way he’s taught me to throw a knife. And then I break out of the routine from Giselle and start pirouetting across the room, first doubles, then triples, faster, faster, my heart whirring, until my feet seem to barely touch the floor. I look in the mirror, eyes wide—and see that I’m actually spinning in the air. Two, three inches above the floor, hovering in one spot as I spin and spin. A second later, the impossibility of it hits my brain, and I come crashing down, landing ungracefully on my rear end, feet splayed out in front of me.

  I shake my head at the mirror.

  “No way,” I say out loud. “No way is this happening.”

  “You read my mind,” a voice says behind me. In the mirror, I see Ford step out of the shadows at the edge of the room. His sneakers squeak on the polished floor.

  “What are you doing here?” I turn around to face him, alarmed. “Is everything okay?”

  “Can’t a guy sneak into a ballet studio once in a while just because?” Then, more quietly: “I wanted to tell you I can’t practice
tonight. Jax needs some stuff delivered.”

  “You could have texted.”

  “Sometimes I run past here, and when the light was on I figured I’d take a peek. I’m glad I came.”

  “How long were you watching?”

  “Long enough to see how amazing you are.” He shakes his head, a half-smile lingering on his face. “Your dancing, I mean,” he corrects himself, and I think I see him blush a little.

  “Thanks.” My face suddenly feels like it’s on fire, too, like he’s caught me doing something wrong. Which, in a way, he has. It is wrong—physically impossible. I walk over to the barre and grab a towel, though there’s no sweat on my brow to wipe off. I go through the motions anyway.

  “Looks like the transplant gave you a little more than just the ability to run fast and kick my ass in the ring,” Ford says gently, joining me near the barre.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” My eyes meet his in the mirror before I look away. “That’s the first time I realized I could . . . do that.”

  “I think the word for that is flying,” Ford says, throwing his leg over the bar and mimicking a ballet dancer stretching, awkwardly bending toward his leg and putting his hand over his head and bending until he almost falls over. “It’s amazing, Green. Embrace it.”

  “Whatever,” I whisper. “Just one more talent for the freak show.”

  “You know, they used to say he could fly.”

  “Who?”

  “The Hope.” Ford looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Don’t tell me you never heard the crazy stories about him.”

  “Not really,” I admit. What is it with South Side boys and the Hope? “But I definitely can’t fly. And I’m nothing like the Hope. More like hopeless.”

  “You know, you sell yourself short, Green,” Ford says, switching legs. “I don’t know anything about ballet, but it looks like you’re pretty good at that, too.”

  My eyes prickle with tears for a second. “I used to be really serious about it,” I say. “My whole life was kind of geared toward becoming a professional ballet dancer.”

  “Well, it shows.”

  “But now . . . it all seems so unimportant.” I look down at my feet, at the calluses and bunions and broken toenails from years of ballet. “I mean, I’d trade any talent I have in a second if it meant Gavin was still alive.”

  “Don’t say that.” Ford finally takes his leg off the barre and moves closer to me. “Don’t give up everything you’ve worked for. Don’t be so willing to trade it away.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Take it from me, giving up on something that big isn’t . . . it’s not a fun road to walk down.”

  I study his face, unsure if I should push him to tell me more. “You mean you gave up on boxing?”

  “Something like that,” he says. “But that’s a story for another time. Listen, Green. About Gavin . . . Maybe it’s time to think about a plan.”

  “A plan?”

  “Finding them.” Ford looks at me in the mirror, his eyes serious. “Isn’t that why you’ve been working so hard in the ring? So you can bring them to justice?”

  Justice. I blanch at the word. “I don’t even know if I believe in justice.”

  “Well, I didn’t believe people could fly until tonight.” Ford smiles. “Silly me.”

  I grimace. “I can’t fly, Ford.”

  “Really? It kind of looked like you could.” He raises one thick eyebrow. “Want to try again, just to find out? Five bucks says you can stay in the air for thirty seconds.”

  “Fine,” I mutter. I don’t want to admit how curious I am to see if I can do it again. “But I want it on record that this is stupid.”

  “Totally stupid. Making a note of it for the record.” Ford pantomimes writing it down on his hand. Then he looks at me expectantly. I make a sound of annoyance in the back of my throat, but he just waits placidly for me to get to it.

  “Okay, okay.” I square my shoulders and move into fifth position, lifting my arms above my head. Then I begin the sequence.

  I repeat the same sequence of steps, the same pirouettes. I use him as a spotter, my eyes landing on his face with every twirl. As I move, I feel my body rising. My toes stop pushing off the floor and instead push off the air.

  I’m up. Launched. Spinning in the air. Flying.

  Ford pushes a button on his phone and looks up at me, pumps his fist in the air, silently mouthing what looks like wooohooo.

  And just like last time, the minute the fact of what I’m doing fully hits my conscious mind, I get scared and crash to the floor, this time landing flat on my back. “Ow!”

  “Oh my God,” he says, his eyes shining. “Green! That was twenty-two seconds!” I sit up, leaning over to stretch out my calves, my chest thrumming like a jet engine.

  “Think you can do it without spinning?” Ford asks. He circles me, bending down twice to squeeze my arm muscles. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling embarrassed, then mad at myself for being embarrassed. It’s just Ford.

  “Guess I may as well try,” I say. I stand up and move to the corner of the room, the thumping of my heart returning almost back to normal, in that I can only hear it if I really concentrate. When I reach the corner, I turn around, take a big breath in, and start to run. After six or seven strides, I’m in the center of the studio, and I push my arms back hard as I leap upward and out, pushing my right leg out behind me as I jump into the air.

  And then I’m airborne, my heart chopping like the blades of a propeller.

  I can see in the mirror that I’m much higher up than I should be—closer to the ceiling than the floor—and I stay there longer than I should, moving slowly forward and down. I’m in the air maybe three or four times as long as gravity should allow.

  Instead of looking in the mirror at myself, I look at Ford, in front of me in the room. Don’t think about it, I tell myself. If I think too hard about what I’m doing, I’ll fall again.

  When I land this time, it’s graceful and quiet and clean. I hit the floor gently, bouncing forward once before I’m steady on my toes. My heart is quiet now, humming nicely, like I’m doing exactly what it wants. I put my hand over it, for the first time feeling not just scared of what I can do, but instead sort of . . . proud.

  I grin at Ford. “That was pretty cool, right?”

  “Mega.” Ford shakes his head. “Just . . . yeah. Incredible.” He turns away, seeming nervous all of a sudden. Which makes me nervous. Suddenly I’m acutely aware that it’s just the two of us, alone together. Standing close. Both of us not sure what to say next.

  To my relief, Ford breaks the silence.

  “Now tell me, do you think I have a future as a ballet dancer?” He executes a few sloppy twirls, his arms splayed crazily out at his side, the hood of his sweatshirt flying out behind him.

  “Anything’s possible.” I grin, relieved by his silliness. “If you promise to work really hard, I can maybe teach you how to do a plié. Here, grab on to the barre.”

  “This is gonna come in so handy,” Ford jokes, “when dudes get up in my face in the Lowlands.”

  “You have no idea.” I smile. “Ballet can be very intimidating, if used correctly. Now, straighten up.” I put one hand on his lower back and the other on his collarbone, attempting to undo his slouched posture.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror, my eyes are a deeper green again, the same bright emerald shade they turned those first few days after Jax implanted the heart inside me. Ford is right, I think. It’s time to figure out how to find Rosie.

  CHAPTER 28

  “You’re here!” Jax cries when she finds me and Ford on her doorstep later that night, just after 1:00 A.M. She claps her chapped hands together in front of her like a kid about to open a pile of birthday presents, then engulfs me in a tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I knew you would be. Your speed was so impressive the day you ran away. You reminded me of Rat-tat-tat, one of my fastest transplant patients.”
>
  “Yeah, sorry about that,” I mumble, extracting myself from her embrace and ignoring the comparison she’s just made between me and a rat. “I’m pretty fast, I guess.”

  “And you’ve been careful to keep moving, to keep eating?”

  “I’ve woken up with blue fingers and lips a couple of times, but yeah, eating seems to keep it at bay.”

  “Good, good, good,” Jax murmurs as she swipes a clipboard from her desk and pulls a pair of bent reading glasses from the pocket of her T-shirt—silkscreened with the periodic table and the words SCIENTISTS DO IT PERIODICALLY—and puts them on. “Patient suffers occasional mechanical slowdown, mitigated by . . . what kind of food?”

  “Sugar,” I confess. “I never used to eat sweets. But now—”

  “You can’t get enough of them. A natural side effect. Hummingbirds love nectar, after all,” Jax says, trailing off as she finishes her notes on the clipboard, her handwriting a crazy, hieroglyphic scrawl. At last, she shoves her pen into the mass of silver curls piled atop her head. “Anyway, what brings you back to the lab?” She fastens a blood pressure meter onto my arm and pumps the ball until it cuts off my circulation. “Don’t mind me, just gathering data. You understand, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say, looking to Ford for help, mouthing Let’s focus and hoping he can read my lips.

  “Speaking of data,” Ford says, taking my cue, “I was telling Anthem about the time you hacked into the police datacluster.”

  “Ah.” Jax blushes. “Anthem, I hope you don’t think I’m a horrible person. I just like to peek at my file every few weeks, to make sure the trail is still cold.”