by Deanna Roy
It didn’t matter that I dressed like a bag lady. When I started showing, we moved from Houston to San Antonio. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. Not school. Not the new church. Not even grocery stores. No movies or time at the park or even walking anywhere but our enclosed backyard.
They were so embarrassed. So shocked.
I accepted it. I had done this terrible thing. I deserved punishment.
In the box beneath the shirt is my hospital wristband. It has my name, Livia Mason. And the date I entered the hospital, Gabriella’s birthday. May 12, 2012.
There is a hat with pink stripes. They put it on her head, but it must have fallen off when they took her, because I found it on the floor beneath my hospital bed as we were leaving. I stuffed it in my pants. I knew it was hers because it had a small pull near the crown, a quarter-inch of string that was loose. I noticed it the one and only time I held her.
A volunteer who hadn’t realized the baby was leaving for adoption had given me a little card with her footprints. I stashed it as well, hidden from my parents, and it now lives in the box. The pink card with its smudged ink is easily my most prized possession.
That’s it. A hat. A shirt. An ID band. And footprints.
If I could hook the laptop up to a printer, I would have made pictures of Gabriella to put in my box. I did learn to save them. If anyone dug around really hard on the old Dell, they’d find my secret folder of images, all named boring things like “Incomplete data save 1” or “Backup of system file.” One of my goals has been to find a way to buy a thumb drive to save them on, in case the laptop ever dies or goes away.
But even small tasks like that are impossible when you never go anywhere other than church or dance. And you have no money. If I were a thief, I would sneak out at night and steal one, but I can’t make myself do it.
I’m just grateful to have seen her grow up in the few pictures Gwen allows the public to see. I haven’t dared try to friend her to get access to more, not even as the alias I am online.
Footsteps approach and I rapidly shove everything back in the box and push it under the bed. When Andy sticks his head in, I’m on the floor with the SAT book in my lap. “Dad incoming in five,” he says.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
He takes off, and my heart squeezes. He doesn’t go to public school because of me. Mom came close to leaving Dad. And the boy. I never saw him again. I have no idea where he is now. He never even knew about Gabriella. No one could. Our lives became about the four of us, solitary and confined as my belly swelled.
So many lives changed in the wake of my actions. Sometimes it’s more than I can bear.
I deserve to be kept away. I’ve earned my banishment. My judgment is poor. And Blitz is probably just one more thing I should be kept from.
Chapter 9
I have to suffer through a day without the dance academy on Thursday. I don’t have class myself, no wheelchair ballet, and Danika would be displeased if I tried to see Blitz again, so I can’t go practice. Mom would get suspicious too.
I don’t know what to do. I try to study my SAT, but I can’t concentrate. Andy gets frustrated with my lack of attention when I help him with math. Mom starts to notice.
I’m saved by Irma, who calls the house saying she just got a delivery of new pew cushions and she could really use my help. Mom sends me on my way with a sack lunch, which means I don’t even have to keep myself straight in front of Dad.
When I get to the church, Irma is all aflutter. “They are doing everything wrong!” she says. “Can you man the phones while I stay on top of this?”
“Where’s Father Stephen?” I ask.
“Playing golf!” she says in exasperation. “It’s some diocese thing. Today of all days!”
I want to point out that she could have had the cushions delivered some other day, but think better of it.
“Just handle the calls. If anything is something you can’t answer, take a message and I’ll call them back when this is done.”
I nod and shoo her back to the sanctuary, where I can hear people dragging things around. I want to peek in, but then I spot the laptop sitting out and open. It’s right beside her chair.
I sit before it, my fingers itching to search. Irma was in the process of ordering new prayer books. The website is up. I open a new tab and start a search for “Benjamin Castillo.” Danika called Blitz that yesterday.
Wikipedia sends me to Blitz Craven, which I read the other day. But I want to know more about Benjamin, at least more than the facts about his show. I want to know everything.
I find what I’m looking for on the third page of results. A fan has created a site with all the pictures and information that’s out there from interviews, school yearbooks, and social media.
Benjamin was a class clown, voted “Best sense of humor” by his senior class. When he was runner-up for Prom King, he kissed the Queen before the winner got a chance.
That figures. I can totally see Blitz doing that. I stare at his senior photo. His expression is serious at first glance, as if he’s been told to look that way. But I can see the smile flirting with the corners of his mouth, and the laugh in his eyes. He’s always been fun loving, that is obvious.
Everything I see there matches the Blitz I’ve seen up close.
I wish I had known him then, when there wasn’t such an experience gap between us.
Irma comes into the room and I frantically kill the tab. When she sees me on the computer, she frowns, but I say, “I really like the cover with the doves. Does it come in purple?”
She relaxes. “Why don’t you pick it, Livia?”
“Happy to,” I say, eyes back on the screen.
A crash in the sanctuary makes her jump straight in the air. “Oh, those people!” she says.
I have to hold in my laugh. Irma is like one of those cartoon angry people whose curse words are always funny symbols. @%$#!
When she’s gone, I have to start the search all over. This time I click on an interview with an entertainment magazine. The picture that accompanies the article is gorgeous, Blitz dancing solo on a dark stage with streaks of light behind him. I wish I could make a poster of it for my wall. God. My dad would freak.
Irma appears again, and I close the tab.
“The roses are in the lead now,” I tell her.
She nods and hurries back to the storeroom. I sigh. If she’s going to dash around, I’m not going to be able to look anymore. It doesn’t matter. I have the real thing. And tomorrow I’m going to see him again.
I rest my chin on my hand and stare dreamily at the wall. I relive every moment I’ve had with him, from his arrival during my practice to the girls’ ballet class to the dance lesson yesterday.
I have no frame of reference for how I’m feeling. I guess it would be a crush. A starstruck fantasy. For all I know, Blitz is acting this way with plenty of other women. When Mindy and I searched for girlfriends the other day, there was no shortage of recent love interests.
But he hasn’t been in San Antonio long. Why did he come here anyway?
Irma passes by, holding a box fan by the handle. I wait for her to disappear through the door, then open the tab one more time. I go back to the Wikipedia entry. This time I notice a detail that I missed before.
Born 1990 in San Antonio, Texas.
When Blitz got in trouble, he came home.
Chapter 10
When I arrive at Dreamcatcher Friday afternoon, I know Blitz won’t be with my class. Danika listed off the groups she’d given him. None of them are at the same time as my intermediate ballet class.
So he may have already come and gone.
But something told me he wouldn’t leave. Advanced jazz ends just an hour before mine begins. I had told him in the storage room that I would be back on Friday afternoon. He’d remembered that part, as he mentioned it during our dance lesson.
I’m a little early. Suze isn’t at the desk. The foyer is empty except for a pair of moms talking quietly
by the windows.
Since it’s after school, the studio hall is full of parents. Every room is crowded with dancers. It’s the busiest time of day.
I walk along, my string bag close to me, trying to avoid bumping into parents and siblings. Lots of ballet today and a hip-hop class. I pause by each window, looking inside. Maybe Blitz stayed to help in whatever room he was in earlier.
But he’s nowhere. Just students and their regular instructors.
I try to avoid feeling crestfallen. When I get to the end of the hall, I open the door to the storage room. I might as well have a little reverie in there. Maybe try on the corset and the top hat Blitz wore. It’s silly, but it’s better than feeling totally down.
But when I get inside the darkened room, light spills through the open door on the side that leads to the stage.
My shoes squeak on the floor as I move toward it. Danika is probably in the recital hall again. I can at least make myself useful in the half hour until my class begins.
I step into the staging area, then onto the wings behind the side curtains. No one is on the actual stage. I feel timid about stepping out onto it since it’s fully lit and the chairs are not, as if there is a performance about to start. I would hate to head out there only to discover there was a private exhibition happening that I didn’t know about.
I peer into the seats, shading my eyes from the intense lights shining down, but I can’t see farther back than the first few rows. There’s a clipboard resting on a chair, but no people.
I duck into the wings and walk behind the back curtain over to the other side. Still nobody. Huh. Danika must have been here and then left. Or a prop vendor. She has to order the decor for the holiday show. Maybe someone was up here taking measurements.
I walk along the side curtain and take one step onto the stage.
“Hello?” I call out. “Danika? Did you need any help?”
My voice echoes in the empty space. Then all is silent again.
I move to the edge of the stage and sit down. It’s wild being in here alone. Usually it’s full of people. I picture an audience in the seats, the silence after the applause.
The air is heavy with expectation. I’ve done three recitals on this stage. I was totally nervous my first time, but now I’m used to it. Even my parents approved of the lovely grace of our performances, despite my father’s anxious glances at my leotard.
I switch from the tennis shoes I walked in to my ballet slippers. I point my feet, imagining them in toe shoes. I’ve asked for a pair for Christmas, my only gift. I really want to be ready by then.
My leotard today isn’t my best, but I couldn’t repeat the light blue set again and I wore my yellow one Tuesday. So, I’m back in the pink set from the day I met Blitz. Maybe it will be good luck.
I’ve tied my black hair with a pink ribbon, just away from my face, no ponytail. It’s harder to dance that way, but I wanted it down for Blitz. I can still feel the tickle of it as he dipped me in the waltz, the way it swirled around my shoulders in a spin. I can always twist it up before class starts.
I stand, planning to pick up my bag and go back to the rooms to wait. But the stage calls to me, as if it’s whispering in my ear to do just a little dance. Something small and simple.
I have no music, not even a cell phone to play a song. But I don’t really need it. I run through the warm-up routine, neck stretch, Achilles, ankles, feet, then hips and thighs. When I feel good and warm, I take my first run across the stage. I spin and spin, reveling in the whoosh of air that is one of the best feelings in ballet.
When I’ve come out of the turns and am steady again, I dance-walk to one side and take a few running steps for a grand jeté. I know I’m not stellar at this move yet, but the extra space and knowing no one is watching makes me feel bold and free. When I land squarely, I head to the other corner to do it all again.
Then I see the shadowy figure in the aisle.
I halt instantly, breathing hard. I can’t make it out, but it definitely isn’t Danika. Too tall. Too solid.
He comes forward and the light hits him.
It’s Blitz.
Today he’s wearing knee-length spandex shorts and a form-fitting tank. Both are charcoal gray. There is no muscle or bulge that isn’t perfectly delineated. My eyes glance where they shouldn’t and dart away.
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Oh, hey,” I say.
“You look beautiful up there,” he says.
Despite the strength and power I felt just a moment ago, I’m definitely melting now. “Thanks,” I squeak.
“What is that leap you just did? I’ve seen it in a dozen ballets.”
“A grand jeté.”
He climbs up the steps to the stage. “How many steps do you take?”
“It depends on the dance leading up to the leap,” I say. “And how strong you are. Some can do it with just a step. I need some lead time.”
“Can you do it again?”
My face heats up from nervousness, but I say, “Of course.” I’m tempted to add that my grand jeté is not perfect, but I swallow the words. Just let it be what it is.
I take a few steps back, then run lightly forward into the leap.
“That’s fantastic!” he says. He imitates me, jumping into the air.
He is powerful and takes greater flight than I did.
When he is back on the ground, he turns to me. “Did I do it right?” he asks with the eagerness of a young child.
“Mostly,” I say.
“Mostly!” He runs over to me and lifts me by the waist until my face is well above his head. “Mostly!” He expertly drops me sideways and catches my body, one hand beneath a knee and the other under my arm.
I’m breathless. He sweeps me out and sets me on my feet again.
“What was THAT called?” I ask.
“I have no idea!” he says. “I just felt like doing it. So tell me what I did wrong.”
I extend my arms. “Arm position is very important in a grand jeté,” I say, framing my face in the circle of my arms. “This is fifth position, but there are other popular arm extensions.” I extend one arm to the side and one straight up. Then I place one arm straight in front and one straight back.
“What did I do with my arms?” Blitz asks.
“They were sort of all over the place.” A laugh escapes.
“Amateur,” he says. “I’m just a damn amateur.”
“You’re currently the most famous dancer there is. You have your own show.”
“Used to have my own show.” He shakes his head. “Maybe learning ballet is a good use of my time.”
“We have a lot of good teachers here,” I say.
He spins in circles around me. I turn to him as he makes his way around. He’s amazing. His form. His energy. It’s one thing to see recordings on a laptop screen. It’s another one entirely to have him right in front of me.
“The whole world probably wishes they were me right now,” I say.
This stops him. “Not exactly,” he says. His face is serious. “I don’t think there’s a name I haven’t been called in the past few weeks.”
“Is that why you came home?”
He takes my hand and starts turning me in circles, roll out, roll in, away from him and back. Finally he says, “I couldn’t trust anybody. Half of my staff quit and the other half is stabbing me in the back.”
“So you wanted your family.”
Blitz steps close and places my hand on his shoulder in what I recognize as waltz position. He grasps the other and we begin circling the stage floor. “Your favorite,” he says.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He spins me in a circle and lets go once I’m away. “You are my escape right now.”
My heart threatens to stop. “Me?”
He nods. He runs a few feet, then leaps into another attempt at a grand jeté. He’s full of nervous energy.
I decide to stop asking questions. If he needs escape, then I’ll be it.
When he lands, he asks, “Better?”
“Yes. But I think for a man, you don’t want the framed arms. I’d go with an extension.”
He does it again. Each leap is higher than the last. He’s a wonder. I can’t believe Danika said a thousand dancers were as good as him. He has to be one in a million.
“I know there are basic ballet positions,” he says. “But I don’t know what they are.”
“You want me to show you?”
“I’d love it.”
“This is first position,” I tell him, putting my heels together, toes out, and my arms in a circle in front of my chest.
“Like this?” he asks.
It’s perfect, but I use this as an excuse to touch him, shifting his arms down the barest inch. His skin is warm, the muscles flexed and hard. Danika warned him away from me. I have to be careful.
But I can’t stop myself.
“That’s it,” I say. “From there you go into second position, stepping your feet wide and extending your arms.” I move into place.
He mimics me perfectly.
We go through all five positions.
“I love this,” he says. “I guess if you’ve never danced with a partner, you don’t know any ballet lifts.”
I shake my head. “There aren’t any male ballet instructors at Dreamcatcher, although I’m sure the other girls know some dancers.”
“I might have to get some names.” He places his hands on my waist and lifts me again. “I’m betting it’s all very similar.”
It’s a little disconcerting how he keeps taking me airborne. He braces his legs with a lunge. Then his hands shift me so that my center of balance changes.
“Can you hold the position horizontally?” he asks. “It takes a lot of core strength.”
I’m not sure, but as he tilts my body into a line, my legs stay in the air until I’m parallel with the floor. I remember my arms and hold them out, fingers in proper hand position.
“Now that’s beautiful,” Blitz says. “You ballet dancers really have pretty details in the hands and head.”
He lowers me down. “You okay?” he asks. “Was that a strain?”
