Pointe

by Brandy Colbert

  “He said Ellie is pissed.” I turn back to him, move my eyes down to the elbow of his black coat. “At me.”

  He casually reaches for the pack of cloves by the gearshift. Turns it over in his hands a few times before offering me one. I decline and he lights one for himself, takes a long drag before he puts the car in drive and starts down the side street toward the expressway.

  “Well, nobody’s said anything to me,” he says, exhaling his smoke toward the sliver of open air at the top of the window. “Klein knows I don’t put up with that gossipy bullshit.”

  I don’t want to care, but that statement lets me know I do. A part of me deflates as he says that. I know it shouldn’t matter because he’s not my boyfriend. But it makes me feel as if he’s downplaying our connection. As if I’m in this alone and imagined everything that’s happened between us.

  “But it’s not bullshit. This. Us.” I spread my hands around the interior of his tiny car.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says impatiently. “Of course it’s not bullshit. It’s just . . . I’m not exactly in the habit of cheating on my girlfriend. And then you . . .”

  I’m dying to know what’s on the end of that sentence, but when I look over, his eyes are flashing and I know better than to ask before he’s ready to tell me. I don’t want to push him away.

  So I stare out the window as the lights of downtown Chicago twinkle around us. I remember when I’d come into the city as a kid, how I thought it was magical. The buildings seemed positively gargantuan back then, and I loved the overhead chugging of the El as we walked the crowded sidewalks, navigating our way between the patches of stores.

  The car is too still. The busted radio means we’re dependent on the sounds outside to break up the silence: the uneven rumble of the engine, the hum of cars in the lanes parallel to us, the long, high wail of sirens in the distance.

  Hosea exits smoothly off the expressway, makes a couple of right turns, and pulls onto a quiet residential street near the Ashland Hills train station, then turns to me, ready to finish what he started to say when we were back in the city. He takes a deep breath. “And then you came around and made me feel something . . . new. Something good. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way, Theo.”

  Now the heater is blasting hot, stale air and the car is too warm. I take off my gloves, slowly lay them across my lap, one on top of the other.

  “What about Ellie?” I say weakly. I didn’t expect him to be so upfront about his feelings. Does this mean he’s going to break up with her?

  “Ellie is . . . Ellie.” He shrugs. “She knows about the music stuff, but she doesn’t care. That’s why I didn’t tell her about my job at the studio. She doesn’t make me want to be better, like you do. She doesn’t get that it’s scary . . . to want something so much and not be sure if you’re good enough. I guess sometimes I feel like she doesn’t know the real me, or something.”

  “Then she’s missing out. Anyone should feel lucky to know the real you,” I say. Softly, because I didn’t think I would say it out loud.

  “That’s, like, the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” His voice is quiet. Then he inhales from his clove one last time and smashes the butt into the crowded ashtray under the dash.

  “It’s true.” I fiddle with my gloves because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. Because telling me I just said the nicest thing to him is sort of the nicest thing in itself.

  He looks down at the gearshift, where his fingers tap out a quick rhythm. “Did you say something to Marisa?”

  I give him a funny look. “About us? Of course not.”

  “No, I mean . . . what I said about music school. She called me into her office to ask what my plans are after I graduate. She gave me some sheet music she thinks I’ll like and said she knows someone in the music program at Columbia College if I wanted to talk about applying. Why would she do something like that if you didn’t talk to her?”

  “Because it’s not exactly a secret that you’re good enough to be serious about music, Hosea.” I look down at the gearshift, wish his hand was touching me instead. “Marisa likes to help people who work hard.”

  “She told me to think about what I want to do next fall, and that I could practice on the piano at the studio when there are no classes. For free.” His voice is incredulous, his eyes wide. “Do you know how long it’s been since I really played a piano? Like, with my own music? I have one at home, but it’s hard to compose on that thing. It’s an old spinet and it’s shitty and . . .”

  He trails off as if he’s so overwhelmed by Marisa’s kindness that he doesn’t know what to say.

  “You’re going to do it, right?” I say encouragingly.

  “I think so.” He leans against the headrest.

  “But?”

  “But . . . you don’t think she’s just being nice?”

  My eyes lock on his wrist. I imagine my fingers wrapped around it, his pulse beating warm and quick against my skin. We understand each other. We like each other. This isn’t my imagination.

  “No,” I say. “And your piano teacher wasn’t saying those things to be nice, either. Neither was I. You’re really, really good, Hosea.”

  He looks at me, lets out a long, quiet breath. Then his lips meet mine with urgency. But it’s not demanding like Chris, or chaotic like Klein. It’s full of intense yearning that makes me pause for a moment to look at him before I return it with an urgency of my own, a kiss so steeped in need and craving, it must be radiating from me. I pull away, look at him as I wonder why I can’t seem to control myself with him.

  “Hey.” He smooths a hand over the top of my head, squeezes the bun at the back. “We can stop. I should stop. I didn’t mean to break my promise.”

  Too late.

  “No.” My chest is rising and falling so quickly. We’re both breathing hard. Panting, almost. “Don’t stop.”

  He smiles.

  We remove our coats and then he’s back with me. He lowers his head to my neck, brushes his lips against the dip in my collarbone. My fingers crawl beneath the layers of his shirts until I make contact with his skin, slide my hands along the muscles in his back.

  His strong piano hands trace the lines of my body and I wonder if it disappoints him. I look nothing like what he’s used to, must feel so different from Ellie’s curves. But the way he looks at me between kisses and lifts the hem of my shirt, inch by inch, slowly exploring what’s underneath—it makes me feel like I’m the only girl he’s ever wanted.

  He slides his finger below the waistband of my jeans and I flinch. Only a little, but enough for him to notice, to pull back and exhale as he says, “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just . . .”

  I feel so light-headed, so happy and confused and wrong and good. But I don’t trust myself around him and I need to know if there’s any hope of a real us. An us that can be seen in public, that doesn’t have to meet up in parked cars on dark streets.

  He looks at me expectantly, his face flushed, his eyes filled with the same heat.

  “Are you . . .” My voice is garbled. I clear my throat. “Are you going to break up with her?”

  His eyebrows shoot up before they sink low in—not exactly a frown, but whatever look that is, it isn’t good. He leans back in his seat, away from me, and I think that must be an involuntary sign. A preview of his answer, if I didn’t already know by the look on his face.

  “It’s not that easy, Theo.” His eyes are trained on the dashboard, where a ribbon of cellophane curls into a corner. He sweeps it into the console with the pack of cloves it came from. “We’ve been together almost two years now.”

  I pretend my throat isn’t aching. “But you make me feel something good, too.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” He throws his hands in the air. “Tell her I met someone else and break thin
gs off, just like that? I can’t do that totally out of the blue and after two years.”

  “You’re supposed to do what feels right.” I look down at my hands. They’ve gone ice-cold since I stopped touching him. “Doesn’t being with me feel right?”

  “Do what feels right, huh?” He pushes a loud stream of air from his lips, like he’s trying hard to control his irritation. “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one who has to make the decision.”

  I push on the door handle and jump out of the car, yanking out my coat while Hosea stares at the seat. He looks baffled, as if he has no idea why I’m not sitting there. He snaps out of it when I slam the door, steps out of the car immediately.

  “What are you doing?”

  A full-body chill takes over. It’s fucking freezing. I’m standing out here in the stupid cold on a stupid street that isn’t mine, arguing with someone else’s boyfriend. What am I doing?

  “I’m walking to the station and getting in my car and going home. Thanks for the ride.”

  I’m shaking so hard, it’s amazing I can get my coat on at all, let alone line up the buttons with the appropriate holes, but I put my fingers to work anyway.

  “Theo, come on. Don’t be like that,” he says in a voice tinged with annoyance.

  “Then don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Like what?” He’s standing next to the car, one hand on top of the doorframe, one resting on the black racing stripe that coasts down the middle of the roof.

  “Don’t tell me about your dreams and how I make you feel good about yourself and then say you can’t decide.” My trembling fingers give up on the last few buttons; I pull the sides of my coat tight against me instead. “I don’t want to be your secret girlfriend. I don’t want you to want me only when no one else is around.”

  I’ve done that before and maybe if I’d said something sooner . . . maybe Donovan never would have left and my life wouldn’t be such a mess right now.

  Hosea shakes his head as he looks at me. “You really think that’s how I feel about you? You think I don’t want to be with someone as amazing as you?”

  I don’t know what to believe but it’s not my heart. It flips and flutters like he’s said something that matters but I know when Chris said things to me with such tenderness, such passion, they were never true. Not in the end.

  You’re my girl, Theo, but if you tell anyone about us, they’ll take me away. I wouldn’t be able to see you, ever again, and you know I can’t handle that.

  I can’t stand being without you.

  You have to promise you’ll never tell. Ever. I need you.

  “I can’t.” I’m quiet but the street is so still that my voice seems to bounce off the thinning treetops, echo from the roofs of the nearly identical houses. “I can’t . . . be with you in private and watch you hold her hand when everyone else can see.”

  “Theo . . .” His hands drop their grip on the car, fall slack on either side of him.

  But I’m already walking. I can see the lights of the station from here. It’s across the street and half a block down. If I peer hard enough I can even see my car, I think. It’s nothing more than a black dot illuminated by the soft halos of light in the parking lot, but I see it. And it’s not too far to walk to, not even on a frigid night like this. I pull up the collar of my coat, clumsily shove my gloves onto either hand and stuff them in my pockets.

  My name floats up from behind me twice more but I keep moving, keep marching along as if I never heard him in the first place. As if walking away from Hosea Roth is hurting him more than it’s hurting me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IT’S THE WEEK BEFORE THANKSGIVING AND THE GREASY FRONT windows of Casablanca’s are decorated with paper turkeys and cardboard leaves, its tables host to plastic gourds that could stand a dusting.

  It’s the week before Thanksgiving but it feels like Christmas outside. When the heavy scarves and wool hats are out before the end of November you know it’s going to be a bad winter. I burrow my nose into my own chunky knit scarf as a blast of cold air tunnels its way through my layers.

  The people sitting at the counter turn around and stare at me accusingly, as if I purposely waited for a gust of wind before opening the door. The looks you get for simply existing during winter in Chicago are enough to send you right back out to the cold sometimes. I keep my head down as I make my way back to Sara-Kate and Phil.

  Except Phil’s not here. I didn’t see his car in the lot but I thought maybe he hitched a ride with Sara-Kate. That never would have happened before this year because they never hung out when I wasn’t around. I’ve always been the link between them. Phil was sitting with me in the lunchroom the first day of our freshman year when Sara-Kate approached with a tray of chicken nuggets, her face bright red as she asked if she could sit with us. But she and I were the ones who hit it off that first day. Phil was skeptical, partly because he’s wary of anyone new, partly because he thought Donovan would return someday and then there wouldn’t be room for someone else.

  I don’t know what’s changed between them, but it’s there. It’s weird how you can go to school with a person forever and brush shoulders at parties for years and then something shifts. I wish I could pinpoint the moment it happens, but maybe it’s not a moment. Maybe it’s been there all along and nobody noticed.

  I’ve gotten so used to seeing Phil next to Sara-Kate that she looks incomplete sitting alone at our back booth. Her head is bent over a fat fashion magazine, her asymmetrical bob pumpkin-colored for the holidays.

  Sara-Kate looks up as I walk toward the booth and instantly pushes the magazine aside. “Did you know that Casablanca’s serves a full Thanksgiving meal every year?” She reaches for one of the menus, which have been stuffed with inserts advertising the dinner. “From open to close you can get a turkey dinner, complete with your choice of white or dark meat, mashed potatoes, a cooked vegetable, a dinner roll, and a slice of pumpkin pie. All for $9.99.”

  I slip into the booth across from her. “It’s kind of sad,” I say.

  Sara-Kate puts the menu back in its holder. “Considering they can’t even identify which vegetable they’ll be cooking? A sad Thanksgiving indeed.”

  “No, having to eat dinner here is the sad part.” I place my hat on the bench next to me, but leave my scarf wound around my neck. “Can you imagine Jana on a holiday? She’d probably tell you to fuck off as she set your pumpkin pie on the table.”

  Sara-Kate laughs as she looks over at the counter, where Jana is screaming at one of the cooks. “It might not be so bad. Better than listening to my great-aunt tell me I dress like a slutty hooligan.”

  I rest my elbows on the Formica table, gaze at the faded watercolor print of geraniums hanging on the wall beside us. “I wish we could have a friend Thanksgiving. No parents, no smart-ass family.”

  “We could have all carbs,” she says, nodding right away. “Something about that giant bird and those little legs makes me so sad.”

  Or we could forgo the meal altogether, something I’ve been doing more of lately. Not full force, like before. I know not to go too far. But with the trial eight weeks away, I need something to keep my mind off the fact that I still haven’t talked to Donovan.

  I tried to call this afternoon on my way to ballet. Again, the phone rang and rang, and again I waited and waited for an answer that never came. I hung up, counted to ten, and called right back. That time, the phone rang twice before it stopped. There was a quick rush of air and a tiny click before whoever it was hung up. I was so surprised, I didn’t get a chance to say hello or ask for Donovan before the line went dead. The police told Mrs. Pratt to keep the landline all these years in case Donovan ever called home or anyone who knew something about him tried to get ahold of her at that number. I wonder why she doesn’t shut it off, now that he’s back. If they don’t start picking up very soon, I’ll have to sneak ove
r to their house. Make them let me in. Make him talk to me.

  Thinking about food—exactly what I’ll eat and when and exactly how much—helps keep my mind off the trial and the fact that I have no idea what to say when I get up on the stand. Marking down what I eat every day deters me from obsessing about how many days I have left until the trial.

  (Sixty. I have sixty days left. Exactly two months.)

  I look at Sara-Kate. Her lips are moving again. She’s speaking and I don’t know what she’s talking about, but then Phil’s name comes up.

  “Where is he?”

  She gives me a funny look as she nibbles on the end of a fingernail sporting raggedy yellow polish. Her hands are wrapped in fingerless gloves made of soft, pink wool. “I just told you. He’s with Hosea.”

  “Oh.” My stomach flip-flops and I try to keep my face neutral, though I can feel her looking at me, trying to gauge my reaction to his name.

  I miss everything about him: sharing looks in the mirror across the studio, hearing him say my name. I missed him as soon as I walked away from him and now I don’t know how to fix it. I keep replaying that night, thinking about what would have happened if I’d never said anything and we’d kept going. I wonder if I would have had sex with him, if he would have made me feel like Pretty Theo, or if it would have been fast and hard and left me numb inside.

  Hosea and I ran into each other so often just a few weeks ago, but now, when I really want to see him in passing, it’s like he’s disappeared. So I find myself looking for him around corners in the hallway, on my walk from the train station to the studio, in the parking lot on my way into school. Maybe I made a mistake by telling him we couldn’t see each other while he was with Ellie. The worst part is there’s no one I can talk to because we were never supposed to hook up in the first place.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Sara-Kate smiles at me.

  Our freshman year, there was a sign hanging outside Crumbaugh’s office with that saying. Whoever made it had taken extra care with the bubble letters and shading, but it only took a week for someone to cross it out with heavy black marker and write $100 FOR YOU TO LEAVE US THE FUCK ALONE.