Pointe

by Brandy Colbert

  “Oh. I didn’t know anyone was out here. Sorry.”

  “Wait,” I say. “It’s Theo.”

  I step out of the shadows; he squints up at me.

  “Well. I guess it is.” He pushes a few loose strands of hair behind his ear. “Twice in one day.”

  Which is strange, considering he always blended into the background before. This morning seems so long ago, though I remember every second we were alone together.

  We stare at each other. He says, “I can leave . . .” just as I ask, “Do you have a cigarette?”

  He laughs, then pulls a packet from the front pocket of his hoodie. “Cloves okay?”

  I nod and sit down on the steps. Hosea sits next to me and leans against the cool, painted wood. His usual black T-shirt has been replaced by a thick cotton hoodie, the kind you have to pull on over your head. Or maybe the shirt is underneath. My face goes warm when I think of this, as if I were undressing him in my mind.

  He knocks loose a clove, holds it out to me. He lights mine first, cups his hand around the flame until it sparks on the tobacco. Then he leans back and lights his own, takes a long drag. His face is defined by a square jaw, hard lines that make him look angry even when he’s not. I wonder if he ever wears his hair down, if it makes him seem softer. Less stoic.

  “What does Marisa think about this?” he asks, moving his clove around in lazy circles, sending tendrils of smoke curling out from the end.

  “About the smoking? It’s more of a don’t ask, don’t tell situation.”

  “And the beer?” He grins and even in the dark I can tell it’s a nice grin.

  “A girl can’t live on ballet alone.” I smile at him and look away and I wonder how this snuck up on me.

  Hosea Roth. He’s always just been there. I was in eighth grade when he moved from Nebraska, started at Ashland Hills High, but even when we were at the same school the next year, he never stood out to me. Not for more than what he was already known for. Now I don’t know how I ever could have missed it, that something deeper was lurking behind his image.

  “You look like you could,” he says as he returns the lighter to his pocket. “Live on ballet.”

  “I do?” His words make me feel shy but understood. Happy but nervous. I take a sip of my beer as I process this.

  “You’re so in your own world at that place. Like nothing could ever bother you.”

  “Oh.” My skin burns again as I think of him watching me dance. I was practically in my underwear in front of him, slick with sweat and stretching my muscles to their limit. Maybe it doesn’t seem like a big deal in the moment, when we’re all in a room together, when he’s there for the strict purpose of musical accompaniment. But now, thinking about it like that . . . I know he’s not playing specifically for me but it seems so intimate, dancing to the music he makes.

  “I didn’t know that was your . . . I wouldn’t have just shown up like that if I’d known you go there. You looked like you wanted me to get the hell out.”

  “Maybe a little,” I say slowly. “But only at first.”

  I sort of laugh and it makes him laugh, too, and there it is again. I could listen to that sound for the rest of the night.

  “What do you think about?” he asks. “When you’re dancing.” And when I look up, his eyes are already on me. Mine sweep across his face and I wonder why I never noticed how much I like his face. Even parts I never thought I could care about. Like his nose. It’s a good nose. A strong nose that fits the rest of his strong features.

  I hesitate, but his voice is softer and I don’t think he’s making fun of me.

  Still, I can’t quite say it. Not yet. I’ve never talked to anyone outside of dance about ballet. Not beyond the basics. No one else understands that when my feet are laced into pointe shoes I feel like I can do damn near anything. And I’m embarrassed to say I have no clue what I’d be doing if I didn’t have dance.

  I clear my throat and take a drag so I can stall some more. Finally, I say, “It’s dumb.”

  He taps his long fingers against his knee, then looks at me with his clear gray eyes. “When I lived in Nebraska, I worked on this Rachmaninoff piece until I could play it with my eyes closed, play it backward, whatever. My piano teacher loved it. She stared at me like a goddamn groupie. And then I played it for my mom and she cried. Through the whole thing.”

  Rachmaninoff. So he knows his shit. I wonder how people would look at Hosea if they knew music is such an important part of his life. Real music, not the crap like Donnie Kenealy and his garage band play. It makes me look at him differently, now that I know we really have something in common.

  “How old were you?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Maybe eight? But I guess . . . when I play, I wonder what people are thinking. How they’re interpreting the song.” He points his clove toward me. “Your turn.”

  “I think about my future . . .” I pretend that Hosea is Ruthie or Josh or Marisa, the people who get how much ballet means to me. If I think about him like everyone else, even like Sara-Kate or Phil, I won’t be able to finish. “Dancing on a real stage in front of a real audience. With a real company. How different it will feel.”

  “That’s what you’ve been working for this whole time?” He stretches his long legs down the steps of the gazebo, his feet pointing toward the enormous, shedding sycamore tree across the yard.

  I nod because I don’t know how to say ballet is the only thing in this world that makes me feel alive, that doesn’t disappoint me.

  “Then it’s not dumb.” He gives me a small smile. Similar to the one he flashed us his first day at the studio, but this one lingers.

  And perhaps it is the cool air passing through the night, but deep down I know the shiver travels down my spine because that smile was just for me.

  He taps his clove against the gazebo, spills ashes through the rails and onto the ground. I inhale and hold mine out in front of me, see how long I can go without breaking the long tube of ash that has grown on the end. I let out a stream of smoke and lick my lips. Nobody I know smokes cloves besides Hosea. I’ve only smoked them once, a long time ago, but I’ve never forgotten how they make your lips taste like sugar.

  Our gazes gradually shift to the house in the distance. Joey Thompson has muscled his way into the crowd of fringe people and is lording over a keg with one of his football cronies, David Tulip. There’s a ripple in the crowd and Lark Pearson breaks through, grabs Joey by the forearms, and shouts something incoherent in his face. Everyone on the patio cheers, then Joey and David each grab one of her legs and up she goes. Kegstand time.

  I tried it once and lasted about two seconds. Something about the unique combination of being upside down and chugging beer doesn’t mix for me.

  Lark makes me think of Ellie, which makes me think of Trisha, which makes me think of what I was supposed to tell Hosea when I first saw him.

  “Klein was looking for you.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Hosea shakes his head. “He’s been texting me all fucking night.”

  I don’t know how he deals with basically being at Klein’s beck and call. I guess you’re supposed to bend over backward for your customers, but Klein gets off on pushing people to their limit. Even his best friend.

  The color in his face deepens in the light cast down from the moon. “Listen, would you mind not saying anything to Klein or Phil or . . . anyone about my gig at the studio?”

  I bite my tongue against asking him why he doesn’t want people to know one of the best parts about him. “Sure.”

  “Cool,” he says, his eyes moving back out to the lawn.

  The lawn, where another person is walking in our direction. A girl this time. Short, with legs that travel very fast. Ellie Harris.

  I should have known she wouldn’t be far behind Lark. Who has been released from the kegstand and is now wiping her mouth,
burping into her forearm before she goes up for round two.

  Ellie plants herself in front of Hosea, one French-manicured hand holding on to a bottle at her side, the other smoothing down the fabric on her hip.

  “Klein’s been looking for you everywhere,” she says in one of those false-bright voices that makes it apparent nothing about the situation in front of her is okay.

  “So I’ve heard.” Hosea stands and stubs out the clove on the bottom of his boot. “I needed some air.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Sara-Kate: Where are you? I write back that I’m in the gazebo, put out my clove, and stand up, too.

  “You guys know each other?” Hosea motions in my direction as if Ellie’s stare was not already boring into me like hot fire.

  “Mmm. Thea, right?” She turns away before we can make eye contact and pulls on the bottom of her skirt, trying to tug it down to cover more of her bare legs. The fabric hardly budges and she gives up after a while, takes a long drink of cider as she looks at Hosea. She lowers the bottle and rakes her fingers through her chunky blond highlights. “Babe, we should go see what Klein wants.”

  He takes her hand and I stare too long. At their intertwined fingers, how things are so easy between them. I wonder if I could have that, too.

  They start to walk away but I don’t want Hosea to leave without a goodbye, so I blurt out, “Thanks for the clove.”

  I’m not talking to her but Ellie turns her suspicious eyes on me and I don’t care. Trisha may be a burnout but at least she never pretends she doesn’t know who I am when we’ve been going to school together our entire lives. One day, I’ll leave girls like Ellie and Lark behind, and then they can’t say shit because I’ll be touring the world with a professional company. Lark is smart—National Honor Society, academic scholarships, the whole deal—so maybe she’ll do something worthwhile with her life when she leaves the kegstand phase behind.

  But I don’t think Ellie has a whole lot going on behind the makeup. She coasts by on her looks and Trisha’s popularity and one of these days that has to catch up to her, right?

  Hosea glances back at me and kind of nods. “Yeah, sure. Later, Theo.”

  I sit down again to wait for Sara-Kate, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around myself as I inhale the sweet smoke that clings to my jacket. And for the tiniest moment, I let myself imagine Hosea’s arms are wrapped around me instead of my own.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I WALK DOWNSTAIRS IN MY PAJAMAS THE NEXT

  morning to find my father sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He used to bring work to the table sometimes until Mom forbid it. He’s good about sticking to her rule. Even if it means that some days he eats breakfast in record time or goes into the office absurdly early so he can work on spreadsheets over a doughnut and coffee.

  He looks up as I approach, pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. He looks cozy in his green-and-navy flannel robe with the cuffs rolled up. “Morning, babygirl. Ready for ballet?”

  I nod as I stifle a yawn. Saturday mornings always come too early, whether or not I went out the night before. And I’m never hungry for breakfast. I know it’s important because it sets the tone for the day and blah blah blah. But most days, the thought of food before 11:00 a.m. literally turns my stomach. Especially rich breakfast foods like fatty bacon and runny eggs and the worst of it all: syrupy French toast.

  But I can’t skip it. That’s a promise I can’t break or even bend, because one slip-up and they’ll be on the phone with Marisa, who could help them decide it’s time for me to go back to Juniper Hill. And I can’t go back there. I won’t.

  So I make my way to the refrigerator and push aside the leftover baked spaghetti, reach for a carton of plain yogurt. I dump a few large spoonfuls into a bowl and sprinkle fat-free granola on top. Leaning against the island is my favorite way to eat. Standing up, taking in slow, deliberate spoonfuls so no one can accuse me of cheating.

  Dad looks up in my direction, but not really at me. He does this for a while and I’ve opened my mouth to ask him what’s wrong when he says, “There’s news about Donovan.”

  I almost drop my spoonful of yogurt on the floor. “More news? Is it bad?”

  He looks right at me now. “He’s not talking, Theodora.”

  My father is the only one who calls me that. His mother was Theodora, too, but I never met her. Usually my full name is attached to fairly innocuous sentences (How was your day, Theodora? Isn’t your mother’s tomato sauce delicious, Theodora?), so it takes a bit for the weight of this one to sink in.

  “Not talking?” I set my bowl down on the counter. “Like, at all?”

  “Not at all,” he says to me with sad eyes. Then: “And they’ve released information about the suspect.” He rubs a hand over the thinning hair at the back of his head before he folds the front page of the paper in half, highlighting the mug shot on the front. “The person who took him is . . . a man. Thirty years old. His name is Christopher Fenner.”

  I take the paper from my father, scan the story in front of me. Christopher Fenner’s name floats across the page, along with the kidnapping and child endangerment charges. My eyes travel to the picture that accompanies the article.

  Fuck.

  Christopher Fenner has bright eyes and a defiant mouth and dark hair that curls over his collar. Even with a scruffy beard, he doesn’t look thirty. He seems like the kind of guy whose worst offense would be pounding too many Bud Lights and passing out in his truck, not someone who would kidnap a child and drag him thousands of miles from his home so he could—

  No. I can’t think about the images that have been swimming through my mind for so many years. He’s only a suspect. Maybe there was a mistake. Or maybe that’s what I’ll tell myself until we know more, because it’s easier than putting a face to all the abuse I’ve imagined that Donovan endured.

  Donovan was—

  No match for someone like this.

  The suspect’s flat, still eyes stare into mine until I can’t take it.

  Fuck.

  “They say he worked at the convenience store a few months before the abduction, that Donovan probably knew him.” Dad is talking again but I can’t look at him.

  I try to swallow the bile in my throat but seconds later I’m rushing toward the sink, leaning over, vomiting what little breakfast I’ve had into the basin. I stay hunched over for a while, rasping out breaths and wiping my eyes, even after Dad jumps up to stand behind me. He sort of pats my back and says, “Oh, Theodora” over and over in this sad voice.

  A couple of moments pass before he adds, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I wouldn’t have shown it to you if—”

  If he’d thought I couldn’t handle it.

  I turn on the faucet to wash away the mess, then cup my hands under the water, rinse out my mouth.

  “No, it’s okay. I wanted to know.” My voice echoes back up from the sink. I straighten up and wipe my lips with the striped dish towel sitting on the counter. “I needed to know.”

  “Why don’t you stay home today?” He says it like he’s doing me a favor, like he’s suggesting I skip school on the day we’re scheduled to dissect fetal pigs.

  “I can’t.” I haven’t missed a dance class in three years, and the times before that weren’t by choice. He knows this, which is why he doesn’t challenge me.

  I dump out the rest of my breakfast because I don’t think I could get down another bite.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to take the morning off?” Dad removes his glasses to look at me. He only needs them when he’s working or reading. “I could call Marisa and explain. I’m sure she’d understand if you need to stay home today.”

  “I should go,” I say. Throat burning. Tongue sour. “I’ll miss the train if I don’t leave soon.”

  “Theodora, you know yo
u can always talk to me, right?” He’s standing next to the island and he could be the father in one of those feel-good coffee commercials right now if he didn’t look so sad. His eyes, they kill me.

  “Of course, Dad.” I start making my way to the door. Hoping he’ll get the hint. Hoping he’ll drop it.

  He doesn’t.

  “Or you can talk to your mother. Or someone . . . professional, if that’s more comfortable for you.” He clears his throat once, twice. “I know this is hard, Donovan coming home after all this time when we thought . . . And now this. It’s . . . it’s really hard and I want you to know you can talk to us, babygirl. Anytime.”

  “Sure. I mean, I know.” I’ve almost got one foot out of the room now. “I do. Thanks, Dad. I’m going to class now, okay? I’ll come home right after and rest.”

  He nods. “Have a good class. Merde.”

  I’ve told him dozens of times that dancers say that to each other only before they go onstage—the ballet world’s answer to “break a leg”—and that if there’s no performance, he’s simply saying “shit” in a poor French accent.

  But as I walk up the stairs, I can’t help thinking he’s inadvertently described how I feel about this day.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BALLET IS SUCH A UNIVERSAL, RECOGNIZABLE ART FORM THAT people always think they know more about it than they do. I’ve endured more than my fair share of goofy fathers pirouetting in place as they pretend to be me. And the guys who don’t realize that they’re the millionth person to ask where I’ve hidden my tutu. Or girls who say, with such authority, that they used to dance and then sheepishly admit to only taking classes for three or four years.

  Ballet is my life. I’m powerful, untouchable when I’m out on the floor, and one day I’ll hold the titles I’ve dreamed of since I was a little girl: Soloist, then Principal Dancer. The Misty Copelands and Julie Kents and Polina Semionovas. The cream of the crop, the best of the best, the dancers nobody can fuck with. I started to think seriously about a professional career when I went on pointe five years ago, and that’s when I truly realized just how few black dancers are performing in classical ballet companies. Sure, sometimes you can find them in the corps, but that’s not the same as having your talent highlighted for everyone to see. I can’t let that stop me, though. I’ll keep training as hard as I can, become such an amazing dancer that the companies will have to judge me based on my talent instead of my skin color. I want to be the best, plain and simple.