Avery hesitantly sets down the toys before joining me on the couch.
I grab the remote, turning the television down so I don't feel like I was screaming every time I talk. I stare at the screen, watching as a T-Rex burst through some trees. "Jurassic Park."
"She wanted to watch it," Avery says. "I mean, I wasn't sure if she was allowed, since it's PG-13, and she's not even close to thirteen, and I'm not her parent… I didn't know, but then again, I don't really know anything about children. Hell, I still feel like a child myself."
"Don't we all." I peer over at her as she fidgets. Fuck, she's cute when she rambles nervously. "I can promise you're most decidedly all woman, though."
She blushes. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. And don't worry—she's seen this movie so many times she can quote the damn thing."
Just as I say that, Lexie comes bounding back in, wearing a pair of pink princess pajamas her mother obviously picked out. She skids in her socks, stopping right in front of the television, growling, and shouts out a line before the movie even says it.
I motion toward her. "Like I said. So don't worry, you did good. The place is still standing. Nobody got arrested. You both still have all of your teeth." I pause. "You got your teeth, Little Miss?"
She turns around, grinning wildly. "Most of them still!"
"And did you brush them?" I ask, her expression the only answer I need. Hell no. "Go do it."
She's off again, skittering down the hallway for the bathroom.
"Daddy?" she shouts back at us. "Can Avery spend the night again?"
"Uh, yeah… if she wants to."
"Can she sleep with me this time?"
I don't know how to answer that.
I can only laugh.
Sunday—the one day out of the week where I can just relax, but there's no sleeping in with Lexie around.
I'm dragged out of bed at dawn to make peanut butter, banana, and chocolate chip pancakes, and spend the afternoon lounging in front of the TV. Avery hangs around all day, seemingly having nowhere else to be.
It's early evening, nearing dusk, when I sit on the couch, Lexie beside me, wedged between Avery and me. The girls watch whatever is on the television while I zero in on what I'm working on: the head of a wooly mammoth.
It looks more like a distorted elephant, but there isn't much I can do. The more I work on it, the more fucked up it seems.
"There," I say, giving up. It's as good as it will ever be. "One woody mammoth tattoo."
"It's woody," Lexie says, trying to correct me and still getting the word wrong. "Woody mammoth."
"My mistake." I toss the marker down and stand up, stretching as my gaze shifts toward the clock. That feeling is starting to brew in my stomach, the building anxiety as the roller coaster slowly trudges up the hill, the plunge not far off. "We should get going, or we're gonna be late getting you home."
"Do we have to?" Lexie whines, grasping at her arm and straining her neck to survey the drawing. "I wanna stay!"
"Sorry," I say, grabbing her little pink backpack from the corner, the bag untouched, as usual. "Your mother's expecting you. Besides, you have school tomorrow."
"You can take me to school."
I wish I could, and hell, I could, technically, but still… I can't. I'm not allowed. The custody order expressly says our visitation ends seven o'clock on Sunday, and if I'm even ten minutes late taking her home, Rebecca rails on me about responsibility and respect, two words I'm damn tired of hearing her say.
Lexie slips on her shoes, pouting, and grabs her backpack from me, dragging it along the floor for the door. Avery casts me a sympathetic smile before jogging over to the girl, offering to take the backpack from her. Lexie declines, but her expression brightens a bit. "Are you coming, too?"
"Sure." The moment she says it, she tenses and glances back at me. "I mean, if it's okay."
I shrug. If she wants to make the trek, I won't stop her.
We take the subway from my place to the Upper Westside, a journey that always makes me feel like I'm exiting into an entirely different city. So used to the day-to-day bustle of my chaotic neighborhood, the upscale streets leading to Rebecca's brownstone seem completely foreign. Rarely in the city do people give me a second look, my tattoos and piercings everyday sights around New York, but in this neighborhood I feel out of place. Maybe it's my imagination, or maybe I'm just projecting, but I feel like everyone is fucking staring at me.
I slow when I reach the brownstone, grasping ahold of Lexie before she can run up the steps. Leaning down, I kiss the top of her head. "Love you, Little Miss. See you next time."
"Bye, Daddy. Love you." As soon as I let go, she runs up the steps, pausing at the very top, her hand grasping the knob. She turns around, grinning, and waves. "Bye, Avery!"
"Bye, Lexie."
Lexie thrusts open the front door, unlocked in anticipation of her arrival, and nearly slams right into her mother. Rebecca stands in the foyer and laughs lightly, grabbing Lexie before she plows her over. "Hey, sweetheart."
"Hey, Mommy."
Rebecca surveys her, eyes sweeping along her, assessing.
"Look!" Lexie drops her backpack, holding her arm out. "Daddy gave me a woody mammoth!"
"I see that." Rebecca runs her hand along it, as if trying to rub it away. "Why don't you go pick out some pajamas? We'll get you a bath."
Lexie is gone, running upstairs inside, as Rebecca steps to the doorway and looks out. I stand along the sidewalk, my hands shoved in my pocket, as I regard her silently.
It's coming.
I can see it in her eyes.
"I asked one thing of you," Rebecca says. "One thing, Rhys. That's it. You couldn't give me that? Do you know how hard it is to get that marker off her skin?"
"If you use baby oil—"
"That's your response?" she hisses, cutting me off as she steps out onto the top step. "She's not one of your clients. She's a five-year-old little girl. She has no business being around those people, much less having you treat her like them!"
"She likes it," I counter. "She asks for them."
"So? She's a kid. She doesn't know any better! She asks for chocolate for breakfast and ice cream for dinner, but you don't give her that, do you?"
"Well, actually…"
Guilty as fucking charged.
Rebecca shakes her head. "You're hopeless, Rhys. Completely hopeless. It's a waste of breath even talking to you."
From the corner of my eye, I see Avery shift around a few feet away, lurking, trying to stay in the shadows. I glance at her, seeing how uncomfortable she looks, just as Rebecca seems to notice her presence. Eyes narrowed, she stares her down, judgment piercing through the air as she assesses her, visually picking her apart.
I'm not sure what do to. Am I supposed to introduce them? That seems like the polite thing to do, but knowing what I do about Rebecca? Avery is better off never exchanging words with the woman.
Rebecca's eyes shift back to me, her glare so hostile I can feel it crawling along my skin. "You have a lot of nerve."
I take a step back, pulling my hand from my pocket to salute her. My personal life is one conversation we're not going to have, especially in front of Avery. "I'll see you Friday, Rebecca."
"I don't think so," she says. "You just had her."
"Doesn't matter. It's my weekend."
"You're not getting her."
I laugh dryly. "Try to stop me."
I turn around, stepping toward Avery, and motion with my head for her to follow me. The door of the brownstone behind us slams as Rebecca disappears inside. Avery hesitates before walking with me, the two of us strolling slowly back the way we came.
"You were right," Avery says. "Not nice was putting it mildly."
I merely shrug, my fingers twitching. Man, I could use a cigarette, my nerves on edge. I keep walking, but Avery stops when we reach the end of the block, grabbing my arm. My footsteps falter as I turn to her, raising my eyebrows. I just want to ge
t back home, back to familiar territory, back to where it doesn't feel like everyone is mocking and judging the lowlife.
"I, uh… I should, you know…"
No, I don't know. I eye her warily as she motions left, away from the subway and down toward Lincoln Plaza. Ah. Juilliard. "That's right… you live around here."
An Upper Westside girl. Go figure.
"Only about half a mile," she says, glancing down at herself and grimacing. "I need to shower, and change, and I really need a good night's sleep, since I have to start hitting my choreography hard tomorrow, and well… as much as I'd like to go with you…"
She's rambling.
"Don't worry," I say. "I get it."
"Do you?"
"You won't get much rest at my place."
She smiles sheepishly. "So I guess I'll see you later this week?"
I nod. "You know where to find me."
Avery reaches up on her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, before starting to back away. I turn around to head to the subway, only making it a few steps when she calls my name.
"Reece?"
I glance back. "Yeah?"
"You're a good father," she says. "Lexie's a really happy kid, the happiest kid I've ever seen, and all she talked about this weekend was how much she loved being with you, and I just… I thought you should know."
Giving me a last smile, she turns around.
I watch her as she walks away, quietly muttering, "thank you."
An array of color slathered the outside of the five-story brick building on Amsterdam Avenue, coating most of the bottom floor. The paint covered the windows and the glass door, completely obscuring the view inside, making it all blend together like an unending canvas. The lines were sloppy, almost amateurish, but what else could be expected from such a big undertaking?
It popped up overnight, a mural of vibrant graffiti. It took him two hours under the cloak of darkness to finish it.
He was lucky no witnesses called the police.
Sticking around was risky. He rarely did it. But today he felt compelled to watch. Lurking across the street, his rainbow-stained hands shoved in his pants pockets, he watched as the crowd gathered to gawk at his latest work. Anger and disgust twisted most of the onlookers' expressions as they shook their heads and grumbled amongst themselves about what he imagined was the vandalizing degenerate.
Police joined them, interviewing neighbors and filling out reports. They'd have it removed right away. He could see it on their faces. None of them understood or saw it for what it was.
Except for her.
She approached the building, wearing typical dancer's clothing, heading for the studio with her backpack on her back. She was soft, and pretty, and graceful.
She was everything he wasn't.
She stalled on the outskirts of the crowd, scanning the mural, and after a moment, he saw it.
A smile.
She smiled.
His own lips curved in response.
He didn't stick around any longer.
Keeping his head down, he quickly disappeared from the neighborhood before anybody noticed him.
It was worth the risk, he thought.
Someone saw it, and they understood it.
They knew art.
All it ever took was one person.
On to the next one.
The three-story brick building is just off Broadway, Trouvaille Ballet in block letters affixed along the front of it, right above the entrance.
Trouvaille. It's French. It means "a lucky find". Something awesome you stumble upon. I know, because I've looked it up.
I've looked it up because I've been lucky enough to stumble upon the place before. It was a long time ago... or what feels like a long time, anyway.
A lifetime has passed since then.
I stand along the curb after dark, staring up at the name. "Your parents own this place?"
Avery nods excitedly, pulling a set of keys from the duffel bag she's carrying. She showed up at the shop right at closing tonight, asking me to go somewhere with her instead of hitting the bar as usual. I agreed, asking no questions, taking the subway to the Upper Westside with her.
I should've asked where we were going.
I wasn't prepared to come here.
"They let me use it whenever I want to practice," Avery says, "so it's pretty much always open for me."
"Is that why we're here now?" I ask, glancing at her. "So you can practice?"
"Something like that."
She unlocks the front door and motions for me to go inside. I hesitate by the curb, not moving. "I don't think—"
She doesn't let me finish, rolling her eyes. "Don't think then. Just come on."
Taking a deep breath, I follow her inside, knowing if I don't she'll want some kind of explanation, an explanation I don't have it in me to give. The interior, like the outside, appears pristine, the long hallway in front of me dark and empty, like a vacant runway.
Avery swiftly disarms the alarm system before relocking the front door. I follow her down the hall, to a door on the right. Avery pushes it open, motioning once more for me to go in.
This time I don't hesitate.
There's no point anymore.
I'm already trespassing.
The massive studio is open and airy, despite the darkness, a mirror covering the entirety of one wall with windows spanning the opposite, making it feel twice its size. Everything is bright, the floor a light gray, the high ceiling white. It's strict and sterilized—a big ass void of space.
It isn't the kind of place that lets just anyone walk in off the street to dance. Not necessarily bland, I think, but it damn sure feels soul-sucking.
I've always thought that about this building.
It needs some color, for fuck's sake.
"It's, uh..." I glance around, not sure what to say. "It's nice."
"It is," she agrees, setting her bag down on the floor. "I've been training here since I was old enough to walk. I've probably spent more hours in this studio than in my own bedroom growing up... more time dancing here than doing anything else."
"That's, uh..." 'That's nice' is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't say it, not when I don't mean it. "That's depressing as fuck."
She lets out a laugh. "It is."
"You agree?"
"Yeah, but I mean, it is what it is." She shrugs it off, pausing a few feet from me to look around. "My first memory is of this room, wearing a little tutu and trying to copy my mother as she danced. It's just always been my life. It's who I am. If I don't have dance, what do I have?"
I watch her for a moment, not replying. I don't have an answer to that. Without my art, I feel like nothing more than a shell, a poor excuse for a man, a miserable son of a bitch.
So what is she without dance?
She's me, probably.
Slowly, I stroll toward her, pausing behind her, my hands lightly grasping her arms as I lean down to kiss her neck. "So you always wanted to be a ballerina?"
"Well... I've always wanted to dance," she says. "My parents—they were both with the American Theater Ballet. My father was older, a principle dancer, pushing thirty. And then there was my mom... came on one season at eighteen as a corps de ballet. They had this forbidden love affair, and my mom left when she got pregnant with me. My father walked away not long after and opened this studio."
I hook an arm around her waist, pulling her back against me. "So they gave up their dream for you?"
That I can empathize with.
"Nope," she says, pulling from my grasp and turning to peer at me in the darkness. "They didn't give up their dream. They just went about it differently. They still dance every day, and they love it just as much as they did when they were touring. The dream lives on, Reece, and it never gives up on you, no matter what you might think. Dreams sometimes just change."
Before I can say anything, Avery grabs the bottom of her flowery top and pulls it up over her head, tossing it on the floor beside t
he duffle bag. I stare at her, eyes widening, surprised by her boldness as she reaches behind her, unclasping her black bra. It falls down her shoulders, joining the shirt on the floor, before she pushes her skirt down and steps out of it, kicking it aside.
She stands before me, wearing nothing but the tiniest black thong, barely a string of fabric covering the most intimate part of her, and a pair of pale slip on shoes. Unconsciously, I reach out toward her, but she takes a step back and holds her hand up. "A deal is a deal."
A slow smile spreads over my face as those words sink in.
She's going to dance for me.
"How did you know I wanted you to take your clothes off?"
"Because I'm not an idiot."
Laughing, my eyes drift to the windows, the city outside alive and chaotic, as cars pack the streets and people stroll by. I turn back to Avery, motioning with my head. "Can't people see you?"
Maybe she's into that voyeurism shit, after all.
She shakes her head. "Two-way tint. The outside looks like a mirror."
As if the universe wants to prove her point, someone ambling by comes to a stop to survey their reflection, checking their teeth and fixing their hair, before moving on. Huh, I hadn't noticed.
I casually lean back against the wall beside the door, my hands shoved in my pockets, as I nod for her to proceed. Avery plucks a tiny remote from her bag and presses a circular button on it, classical music instantly starting up from incognito speakers, blending into the corners and the ceiling. The music is soft and smooth, easing some of my tension.
Avery backs away from me, smiling sheepishly, her bottom lip tucked beneath her teeth. She approaches the bar that runs the length of the mirrors and starts stretching, her movements subtle and fluid as she extends her arms and legs, reaching on her tiptoes as she flexes her feet, warming her body up. It lasts only a few minutes, just long enough for the music to shift.
The notes ring louder, more dramatic, the lullaby morphing into a full-blown orchestra. She pushes away from the bar and takes off across the room with the grace of a prowling panther, spinning and turning, leaping and swaying, moving in ways I never thought it possible for a person to move.
The Mad Tatter Page 13
