The Looking Glass

by Janet McNally

  That was when Julia was about to dance her third performance as Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. I was in the performance too, as one of the Lilac Fairy’s attendants. I sat next to her in the dressing room and watched in the mirror as she streaked blush across her cheeks.

  “Can you get Thatcher for me?” she asked. “He’s in the lobby.” Her skin was pale under the makeup. She glowed silver in the mirror.

  “I don’t think I’m supposed to be walking around like this, Jules.” I swept my arms as wide as my tutu.

  “Sylvie, it’s fine. He has something for me.” She took out her phone and tapped the screen with both thumbs, spelling out a message.

  Grace appeared in the doorway. A wreath of pale blue flowers crowned her head.

  “Jules,” she said. “I’m going down there.”

  My sister nodded, but she didn’t look toward Grace. “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she said.

  I saw Grace frown then, just for a second or so, before she smoothed out her face and smiled at me.

  “Looking good, kid,” she said. “Lilac’s lucky to have you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  In the hallway, Grace headed one way and I went the other.

  Out in the lobby, I was a small fairy in the midst of mortals. White-haired grandmothers smiled at me, and a little girl reached out to touch the edge of my skirt. I was afraid that seeing me would break the magic spell of ballet for them, but they didn’t seem to mind. I wasn’t a fairy; I was just a girl. They could plainly see that.

  I saw Thatcher standing at the edge of the crowd, his back against the wall. I called his name, and somehow, he heard me. He smiled and strode over, weaving around the people coming in.

  “Here,” he said, handing me a small, smooth metal box. His fingers were warm as they brushed my own. “Tell her I said good luck. Thanks, Sylvie.”

  On my way back through the hallways, I examined the box. I recognized it. Julia had bought it when we were in Amsterdam four years ago, the only vacation she’d taken with us in recent history. In the hallway, I didn’t open the box. But I didn’t have to. I had an idea of what was inside.

  Back in the dressing room, Jules was alone. Everyone else must have been warming up.

  “Thanks, kiddo.” She crushed me into a hug. “Go find the rest of your fairy girls.”

  She smiled at me and sat still until I left. She didn’t open the box.

  Now I catch my reflection in Julia’s mirror, and I reach out and touch the glass. When I pull my fingers away again I see my fingerprints over my own face. And this is when I hear her voice—I know it’s her—say my name.

  Sylvie.

  The door creaks behind me, opening wider. For a split second, I almost believe it could be her.

  But when I turn, it’s just Tommy, of course, carrying my most recent pair of toe shoes.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Okay.” He holds out the shoes, which are near the end of their life cycle, gray with dirt.

  “Take these,” he says, “for good luck.” He pinches his nose, smiling. “Though they’re a little stinky and pretty much trashed.”

  I shake my head, but he doesn’t pay attention. I can still feel my tattoo hot on my skin, and I watch as he tucks them into my bag, deep down under the clothes, where I’ll put Julia’s book later, before I leave. For some reason, I let him.

  Part Two

  There Once Was a Girl

  (With songs by Fleetwood Mac)

  Track 1:

  Don’t Stop

  IT’S ONLY WHEN I COME up from 181st Street station that I start to feel like I’m on the run. Like I’ve done something illegal and I have to flee the scene of the crime. Things I could have done:

  Stolen the world’s largest diamond in a late-night heist.

  Freed all the penguins at the Central Park Zoo.

  Shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.

  But really all I’ve done so far is skipped out on Fancy Dance Camp, and that’s not a capital offense. At least as far as I know.

  I am off to find my sister, though, and that feels dangerous enough.

  The sun is shimmery white and high in the sky and the sidewalks here are alpine steep. I’m at the top—or the middle, maybe—of Washington Heights’ hill, and a breeze pushes me gently down the slope in the direction of Sadie and Jack’s place. I set Pavlova’s bag down on the sidewalk and unzip it. She comes tumbling out, licks my fingers and puts her paws on my knees. I snap on her leash.

  It’s warm out, but I’m still wearing the cardigan I took from Julia’s drawer last night. It’s soft and loose enough in the sleeves that it doesn’t bother my wrist, but it also hides both the tattoo and the irritated skin around it. I don’t feel like explaining anything to Jack. At least not right away.

  A few minutes later, I’m standing on the concrete in front of their building on Cabrini Boulevard, looking way up to the top, to the rim of the roof where I stood a few days ago. I can see the café table and matching chairs on the patio below and I wonder, if I had fallen, is that where I would have landed? Or is there a chance I could have dove straight down to the ground?

  “Hey.” A voice calls from behind me. I jump in a supremely undignified way and spin around to see Jack leaning against the side of his car.

  “Hi.” I’m standing awkwardly, my arms at my sides. Pavlova trots right over to Jack and starts sniffing his shoe so intently that it might as well be the last clue in a mystery she’s been trying to solve for months. He looks down at her for a long moment. I hold my breath.

  “Soooo,” Jack says, drawing out the word. “You brought your dog.”

  I smile. “Oh.” I look down at Pavlova, her nose still glued to his sneaker laces. “You noticed.”

  The look on Jack’s face isn’t exactly a smile, but it might be approaching that general vicinity. “I’m observant like that,” he says.

  “She’ll be good,” I say. “I swear.” This is more a wild hope than something I have any actual reason to believe. Pavlova has spent barely any time in a car in her entire five-year-long life, and she is an intense canine companion even under the best of circumstances.

  “I brought a blanket,” I say. I crouch down on the sidewalk and dig around in my bag to pull it out. “See?”

  Jack nods, somewhat suspiciously.

  “Don’t you like dogs?”

  “I like dogs,” he says. “I’m just not sure I like them in the Volvo.” He crouches down to pet Pavlova, who rises up on her hind legs and dances a little. She’s trembling with happiness.

  “That’s what we call it?” I ask. “The Volvo?”

  Jack stands up. “That’s what it is. It’s Latin for I roll.”

  Latin. Hmmm. “Okay,” I say, “but normally people just call their cars ‘car.’”

  “Normally,” Jack says, “people don’t drive Volvos.”

  I wait a moment, looking at him. I blink. “Um,” I say, “I’m pretty sure lots of people drive Volvos.”

  “Not this one,” Jack says, shaking his head.

  What a weirdo.

  This is going so well.

  “Okay,” I say. I look at the Volvo. It’s a car, that’s for sure. Black and boxy. Old-looking, with tan leather seats. Says Volvo on the back, to the left of the license plate. Nothing special about it as far as I can see.

  “Do you want to put your bag in the trunk?” Jack asks. “Or just in the back seat?”

  I think for a moment. “Back seat,” I say. “It might help keep Pavlova, um, contained.”

  Jack grimaces, but tries to hide it. He opens the door and I toss my bag in.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I say.

  “Sure,” he says. “So, Princeton first?” He leans his hip against the car. Sadie must have filled him in on some specifics.

  “Yeah. My cousin Rose lives there. She’s in grad school.” I feel like I’m bragging. But I should be allowed to brag about my smart cous
in if I want.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “I know it seems weird that I have to go all the way to New Jersey to talk to her when, you know, cell phones are a thing.” I pull mine from my pocket and give it a shake.

  “Sadie explained.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Okay.” What I want to know is how Sadie explained, because even though I decided to do it myself, I don’t think I totally understand why. But then Jack answers.

  “She said she told you that you have to go right to them, or you’ll never be sure they’re telling you the truth.” He smiles. “She said you have to look them dead in the eye.”

  “Right. She convinced me.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “My sister is intense.”

  Jack opens the door, then, and gets into the car. I walk around to the other side and do that too.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I’m heading south either way, so it doesn’t matter if I have a passenger.” He pauses. “Two passengers.”

  “Ha,” I say, not a laugh but the actual word. Because I’m not awkward at all.

  Jack adjusts the mirror a tiny bit, then adjusts it again. Presumably he’s the only one driving the car, since Sadie doesn’t drive and their mom is away cooking for some family in the Hamptons, so yeah, it’s clear he’s a bit of a perfectionist about this car.

  He puts it in gear and pulls away from the curb. “Honestly,” he says, “I don’t even want to go to my dad’s. I’m doing it for Sadie.”

  I already know this, but I pretend I don’t. “That’s nice of you,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Jack slows to let a woman with a stroller cross in the middle of the block. “Unless my dad breaks her heart again.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I just settle back in my seat and look out the window. Nervousness fills my lungs like a mist, making it hard to breathe. I’ve never spent much time with Jack, and definitely not in such a small enclosed space. Even without the heavy dad talk, this would be strange enough.

  It’s not that I don’t think Jack is cute. He is, objectively, cute. The green eyes, the floppy brown hair. I get it. But I don’t necessarily want any of it. He was never interested in being my friend, not even from the first summer his mom brought him and Sadie out to my aunt’s house in Montauk for the summer.

  My aunt had hired Mrs. Allister as a personal chef, and I was thrilled that my best friend could come on vacation with us. Sadie and I were nine. We toasted marshmallows over bonfires in the yard and spied on Jack, who was usually reading books or riding his bike along the road by the bluffs. Sometimes Everett was there, but by that point, Julia was never with us on summer vacations. She was always dancing at intensives or at Fancy Dance Camp herself.

  “You’ve never driven a car?” Jack asks.

  “I’m only sixteen, as of a few days ago, so it’s not really that surprising.” I say this and then I regret it immediately. Am I trying to argue that I’m immature? I regroup.

  “Plus,” I say, “I live in New York, where you don’t have to have a car.” Message: I’m not immature, I’m a New Yorker. Therefore, I’m sophisticated.

  He nods. “I know. My mom is not thrilled that my dad gave me this one. But I like it. Even if I don’t like him.”

  I run my fingers along the bottom of the window frame. “So what’s so special about it?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Jack says, his voice spreading out into that taking-his-time drawl of his, “I have paperbacks in the door pockets.”

  “You do?” I turn toward mine and pull out a copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. And then, deeper, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. Also Vonnegut.

  “What’s in your door?” I ask.

  He keeps his right hand on the wheel and slips the left into the door pocket. He pulls out two small paperbacks, Cat’s Cradle and Breakfast of Champions. Three guesses who wrote those.

  “Was there a sale on Vonnegut?” I say. “Like, fifty percent off if you buy everything from one shelf?”

  Jack smiles his slow smile. “Something like that.”

  “Well, you’re lucky I like him.”

  “Yes,” Jack says. “That was a close one.” He’s smiling with half his mouth. He’s making fun of me.

  Pavlova hops down off the seat, then puts her paws up on the armrest between Jack and me. She’s panting, and every so often she lets out a small whine.

  “It’s okay,” I say to her. I twist around and pick her up. She settles in my lap.

  “She hasn’t spent a lot of time in a car,” I explain. “Much like me.”

  Jack laughs. “Are you also going to start panting nervously?”

  “Possibly.” I smile then, a real smile that’s dangerously close to a grin. “But I’ll try to keep it under control.”

  If we can keep up the light banter, like a couple of sitcom characters or some actors in a 1930s screwball comedy, we can get through this trip.

  There’s a postal truck double-parked on the street in front of us and a tiny traffic jam beginning behind it. I shift in my seat.

  “So, there’s just one thing,” Jack says.

  I look at him. He’s looking back. His face is serious.

  “I’m only listening to Fleetwood Mac this month,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Fleetwood Mac,” he says again, as if that’s an answer.

  I tilt my head. “I’ve heard of them, yes.”

  He smiles. Someone ahead of us honks three times.

  “I’m listening to one band per month this year,” Jack says. “It’s called the Artist of the Month Project.”

  I’m still looking at him. “You titled your project?”

  “I mean, yeah. How else would I refer to it?” He flushes and looks ahead. The guy in front of us lays on the horn. There’s no sign of the mailman who’s holding us all hostage.

  “Anyway, June is Fleetwood Mac.” He takes one hand off the wheel and flutters it around a little. “The rule applies to the interior of this car, solely. I can’t really control what happens outside of it.” When he says this last part, he’s basically talking to himself.

  I wait. He glances over at me.

  “Are you kidding me?” I say this so loudly that Pavlova lifts her head and lets out one sharp bark. “This car ride is going to be one giant multi-day Fleetwood Mac festival?”

  “Hey, I’m doing you a favor here, remember?” Jack is smiling. Satisfied, maybe, that I’m flipping out.

  Jerk.

  We sit in silence for a moment. I watch the mailman come out of the building next to his truck. The guy in the car ahead of us actually shakes his fist at him. The mailman waves cheerfully.

  “So why Fleetwood Mac?” I ask. “Why not, like, David Bowie or something?”

  Jack’s face is dead serious.

  “Bowie was April.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not,” he says. The car in front of us begins to move, and we do too. “Besides, what’s wrong with Fleetwood Mac?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Aren’t they a little . . . cheesy?”

  “No!” This is more than an exclamation. It’s a sharp utterance of outrage. I look down at Pavlova, but she doesn’t move.

  “Whoa. Okay,” I say, raising one palm in a gesture of surrender. “Yeesh.”

  “I just mean . . .” He thinks for a moment. “That’s what people think about them. But I’ve listened to a lot of Fleetwood Mac this month—”

  “Obviously,” I say.

  “—and they have really great songs.” He signals and switches lanes. “Artist of the Month Project is the best way to really get to know a group’s catalog.”

  “Exhaustively,” I grumble.

  He paves over this. “It’s like time travel.” Then his voice turns serious. “Though I should tell you, I’m exclusively listening to the post-1975 version of the band, the Buckingham/Nicks version, not the original band with Peter Green.”

  I look at him. “Now you’re just saying words,”
I say. “Names.”

  “I want you to have the full understanding.”

  I sigh, but I’m smiling too. “All right. I do know that Stevie Nicks is fierce.”

  “She totally is,” Jack says.

  “Fine.” I look at him. “I submit to your tyrannical control of the soundtrack.”

  “Thanks,” Jack says. “There are only ten days left in June.”

  “And lucky me,” I say. “I get to spend several of them with you.”

  Jack shrugs. He’s smiling.

  “What’s July?” I ask.

  “Prince,” he says.

  “August?”

  “Aretha Franklin.”

  “I have terrible timing,” I gripe.

  Jack smiles with half his mouth and points quickly to his phone in the cup holder. “Let’s start with ‘Don’t Stop,’” he says.

  I scroll through the playlist and find the song. We’re coming up on the bridge now and I see it stretching out in front of us, eight lanes under a beautiful gray latticed arch.

  I press Play.

  Track 2:

  Save Me a Place

  JUST BEFORE WE GET TO Princeton, my stomach growls. We got caught in traffic past the bridge, so we’ve been driving for nearly two hours. Suddenly, I’m starving, and I don’t think I can make it to Rose’s apartment without eating something. This might have something to do with my nervousness about confronting Rose, but it’s manifesting as hunger and I’m going to go with it. Jack, on the other hand, seems to be nourished solely by the mellifluous melodies of Stevie and Lindsey.

  My stomach growls again.

  “So,” I say.

  Jack glances over. “So,” he echoes.

  “What if we stopped for something to eat?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Before we get there?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “If that doesn’t break any of your rules. Are you eating only one kind of food this month?”

  He smiles, just a little. “Luckily, I’m not. And anyway, we already broke the no-dogs-in-the-Volvo rule, so who knows what comes next?”

  Just ahead of us, there’s a small restaurant by the side of the road, a take-out place, it looks like, with picnic tables scattered over the patchy grass out front. Most of the tables are full of people eating, which seems like a good sign. Jack slows when he sees it.