"Here," he said, stuffing three dozen roses in my face.
"What the…why the…how the…" I stuttered.
"It's 7:27. We had a date at 7."
"No, we did not have a date. I'm dancing," I said, gesturing to the studio behind me.
"Your pointe class ended at 7. You're free until 8 when you teach the adult beginner class."
"You're a stalker. You're a psycho stalker, aren't you?" I took a step away from him back toward the studio.
"Possibly. Or…maybe I just read the schedule on the door. Either way, it doesn't change the fact that I want to get to know you better."
I turned and took a look at the schedule. Okay, so it did have the class times and my name as the instructor of the eight o'clock class. The question still remained how he knew where I danced in the first place.
"Why? Why me?"
"Let me buy you dinner…a quick dinner…and I'll tell you."
I clutched my stomach as it made an audible growl.
"I'm hungry and broke, so I'll go with you to an eating establishment and I'll sit with you and I'll let you pay. But it's not a date."
Chapter 6:
The Weird Date
We went to Kotchy's Deli three doors down from the studio. I sat at a booth and placed my huge bouquet of flowers next to me, while Will went and grabbed us a bite to eat. When he returned to the table, I dug into the meatball sub he'd bought me without waiting for him to even unwrap his turkey club. That's another reason why I was confident this wasn't a date. If it was a real date with a guy I really kinda liked I would've been too nervous to let him actually see me eat. If I ever started dating David I was sure to lose a ton of weight.
"I don't like myself very much," he began suddenly. I would've asked why, but my mouth was full of food. Thankfully, he kept talking. "That day I knocked you over with the closet door…the way you looked at me…it was like you could see through me. Like you could see the real me. That's something I can't even see anymore."
I swallowed and said, "The door just probably knocked something loose in my head. It was nothing."
"And then you said I had sad eyes," he said, ignoring my response. "And…and you're exactly right." He sighed and stared at his still tightly wrapped food. "So I wanted to know how is it that someone I'd never spoken to or even seen before could know me with just one look. So, yes, I kinda started stalking you."
My eyes expanded and I nearly choked on a new bite of food.
"Don't worry, I haven't been watching you undress or anything. I mean the only place you go is to that dance studio. So, I've watched you dance. Sometimes on Sundays you're in the studio for hours and I'll stand across the street and watch you through the window. The way you close your eyes and let the music move you, you seem so free, so at peace. And it makes me feel the kind of peace I haven't been able to feel in years."
Will took out his sandwich and carefully cut it into three pieces. Then he separated his fries into three piles.
"Here, eat this," he said, handing me a French fry.
"Why?"
"There are sixteen."
"So?"
"Sixteen isn't divisible by three."
I didn't know why that mattered but I took the fry anyway and ate it.
"What I'm trying to say is that," he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I think you're unique, talented, beautiful, kind, and even a little weird sometimes."
"Weird?"
"Yes, weird. I like weird."
"I'll tell you what's weird. This date is weird."
"Oh, so you admit this is a date?" He smiled. Wow, he had a gorgeous smile. No wonder he easily got what he wanted from women. I barely knew him, but one glimpse of his smile made my stomach pirouette.
"I have to go now," I said, glancing at my watch.
"You still have ten minutes. Just sit and eat with me and then I'll walk you back."
Already nearly done with my food I sat back and watched him devour his. He seemed to eat with some sort of calculated method. He started with the center pile of food, ate the sandwich then the middle French fry then one to the right, then one to the left, then right, then left. Then he repeated the process with the right pile of food. Before he started on the last pile I said, "Why are you telling me all this? You don't even know me, but you're telling me that you have a psychiatrist, you're sad, and you're part stalker. What if I tell other people? Wouldn't that ruin your basketball superhero status?"
He swallowed and said, "First of all, I've played basketball my entire life. It's the only thing that keeps me from going completely insane. I never asked for 'superhero status' as you call it. I'll play no matter what people think of me. Second of all, I know you won't tell people. You're not like that."
He was right about that much. This boy obviously had problems and I wasn't the type of person to go proclaiming them to anyone who would listen. I felt his pain. I couldn't imagine what kind of agonizing secrets lay hidden under his popular boy façade.
We walked back to the studio in silence. It was such an awkward date, that is, if I wanted to call it a date. It only lasted a few minutes, but I felt so connected to him already. And I had to admit I felt pretty special still holding my roses. I had never gotten flowers from a boy before. He was so different from what I imagined him to be. Deep down I knew I really wanted to know him about as much he wanted to know me.
"Can I give you a ride home when you finish here tonight?" he asked once we stood in front of the studio.
Crap. He wanted to take me home. I couldn't let him do that. Sasha would kill me. Hopefully, he hadn't stalked me enough to already know where I live. Plus, I had just met this guy. For all I knew he could be a serial killer. A cute serial killer, but a serial killer nonetheless. I didn't want him knowing where I lived so soon.
"No, that's alright. I'll be fine."
"Can I call you tonight?"
"I don't have a cell phone and my home phone is…" I didn't want him to know my phone was disconnected because we couldn't pay the bill. Not having enough money for a snack is one thing; not being able to pay your phone bill is just plain embarrassing. "My home phone is broken," I said simply, hoping he wouldn't press the issue further.
"Can I give you a ride to school in the morning?"
I sighed. I felt bad saying no to all of his polite requests. He suddenly looked like a wounded little boy. I decided on a compromise. "How about you meet me here in the morning and we can ride to school together?"
"That'll work," he said with a brightness entering his eyes. "I'll see you at a quarter to seven." He turned toward his car, but then stopped, turned and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. "Good bye, Sonya."
Chapter 7:
Like the Car
I stayed at the studio so late that night that I missed the last bus. Which meant I had to walk home to Venton Heights. Alone. I hated that. I literally feared for my life. That was not the way it should be. No one should be terrified of where they lived. Sasha wasn't afraid. She fit in so well, she knew no one would mess with her.
"Hey, white girl," I heard LaPorscha Bennett call as I walked through Venton Heights after midnight. That was her nickname for me. Ever since my first day in Venton Heights she thought I acted like a stuck up white girl and she took it upon herself to give me daily reminders of who I was and where I came from. Things got worse when I became skilled in ballet. She would take my dance bag and ruin my leotards and shoes.
LaPorscha's daily reminders became more physical in the fifth grade after Boo Man gave me a Valentine's Day card. Tyrell Fitts earned the nickname Boo Man because of his uncanny ability to just appear when people least expected it and scare them half to death.
Unbeknownst to me, Tyrell was LaPorscha's man. I was naively unaware that a fifth grader could stake claims on men or that a fifth grade boy could even be considered a man. In any case, I had committed an unforgivable grievance against LaPorscha. Six years later she was still seeking revenge over a fifth grade romance. LaPorscha
had a two-year-old son from Tyrell, but for some reason she still saw me as a threat.
"White girl, I'm talking to you." I could hear the animosity in her voice. I quickened my pace and focused on my apartment building. Just a few more paces and I would be there.
I actually found myself wishing Tyrell would mysteriously appear as he often times did. Underneath his hard gang banger exterior loomed a really nice guy. Over the years, he'd developed into one of the most powerful gang members in the neighborhood, but not by physically fighting his enemies. He used other methods of intimidation to keep control of his area and somehow he always knew what went on with everyone everywhere. When he was around, all he had to do was look at a person to put them in their place. When he was around, LaPorscha paid no attention to me. Unfortunately, he wasn't around tonight.
"I said, I'm talking to you. Don't ignore me." I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Even if I started running, she could catch me. I felt the inevitability of a fight creep up my spine and tense my neck. It had been about six or seven months since my last run in with her, I guess I was due for another brawl. It came with the territory, one of the requirements of living in Venton Heights. I stopped walking, sighed and turned to her.
"You think you're too good to talk to me now that you go to that rich white school?" There was no right answer to a question like that. If I said yes, well, that was a beat down. And if I said no, well, she wouldn't believe me anyway, and that was still a beat down.
"Why don't you go take care of your son, Saturn, or Mitsubishi or whatever the hell his name is?" I tried to sound brave even though tears welled behind my eyes just waiting to gush forth. Her son's name was Tercel, like the car. I thought it was ridiculous for people to name their children after automobiles, but I guess she wanted to carry on the tradition.
LaPorscha swung at me and I dodged it. I had gotten into so many fights with that girl that I basically knew all of her moves. I could honestly say I even had a few victories under my belt.
As always, LaPorscha grabbed my hair and threw me to the ground. She climbed on top of me and started punching me in the face. I reached through her arms, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled so hard I thought I might have ripped out her weave. She screamed in agony as I kicked her off of me with both legs. I scrambled to my feet and ran home.
"What happened?" Sasha asked as I burst into our bedroom. I was shaking so hard I couldn't even respond. "Was it LaPorscha?" she asked as she sat me down on the bed and hugged me. I nodded. "It's okay, sweetie. Sasha's here."
"Oh no…my bag!" I suddenly realized I'd entered the apartment empty handed. "I have a brand new pair of pointe shoes in there. They cost me seventy-five dollars. I can't afford a new pair. I need my shoes."
"Don't worry, I'll get them." Sasha stood up and started changing out of her nightclothes.
"But she could still be out there," I said fearing what LaPorscha would do to her. Sasha gave me a 'so what if she is' kind of look and continued changing.
"It's about time that bitch learned to leave my sister alone," she said as she quickly wound her hair into a bun and dashed out the door.
Two hours later Sasha plopped my dance bag on my bed and said, "LaPorscha will never bother you again."
And she didn't.
Chapter 8:
Fat Tuesday
Will showed up at the studio the next morning right after I'd finished vacuuming the lobby. He carried a bagel, a vanilla latte, and more flowers. This time white calla lilies. "Good lord, Will. More flowers? Did you rob a florist?" I asked when I let him in the studio.
He smiled. "Nope. No need for violence. They respond kindly to cash."
I let him have a seat while I went to find a vase. "You don't have to bring me flowers every time you see me," I said when I returned.
"For the past two months, I've been nothing but 'Closet Boy' to you. I figure I have a lot of work to do to change your opinion of me. If that means buying you flowers and food every day, so be it." He held up the bagel and the latte.
"Great, in a few days I'm gonna be a fat flower expert." I sat down next to him on the lobby bench and bit into the bagel.
"So why do you have to clean this place anyway?" he asked, looking at the vacuum with distaste.
"I don't have to clean it. I do it in exchange for lessons. It's an arrangement Ms. Alexander and I worked out when I was eight."
"Why do you even need lessons? You're the most amazing dancer I've ever seen. Why don't you just put on your own shows and get rich?"
I laughed out loud. And I thought I was naïve about things. "Thanks for the compliment, but I'm not that good. Not yet, anyway. And it's extremely difficult to make a living as a professional dancer. My favorite ballerina, Natalia Karleskaya of the Russian Ballet has been in the business for over twenty years. She's been a principal dancer for most of her adult life and she's still by no means rich. A true dancer doesn't do it for the money. They do it because they can't not do it. For me, dancing is like an elegant stream of life-giving water. It nourishes my soul. Without it, I'd shrivel up and die."
Will didn't respond. He just stared at me with his blue eyes filled with wonder…or confusion. I couldn’t really tell.
"I sound like an idiot, don't I? That's why I avoid talking to people as much as possible. I come off, like you said, weird."
"I also said I like weird." His voice was deep and sensual causing my skin to tickle. He leaned toward me, embracing my eyes with a penetrating stare. Suddenly he turned away and cleared his throat. "Believe it or not, I feel the same way about basketball."
"Really?"
"Don't act so surprised. Basketball is a skill just like dance. And when I'm on the court and I hear the ball pounding the pavement, it pounds out all other thoughts and distractions, you know?"
I nodded. I did know. I understood exactly what he was saying.
"Follow me," I said, putting down the bagel and grabbing his hand. I led him to one of the classrooms. I left him in the center of the room while I turned on a Brahms Sonata played by Itzhak Perlman.
As the luscious violin tones filled the studio, I tried to show him some moves.
I did a simple right arabesque into devant attitude, then a coupé, a tombé, pas de bourrée into an inside pique turn. "Okay, now you try."
Will just laughed. "Not a chance. I can't move like that."
"Sure you can." I went over to him and straightened his posture. "Now keeping your hips square, just extend your right leg back."
Will tried to obey, but he was a really big guy and not very flexible. He looked kind of like an awkward, gangly giraffe. I had to hold in a giggle as I reached for his leg to adjust his turnout. Unfortunately, I didn't account for his lack of balance in such an unfamiliar position. He started tilting over and though I tried to keep him upright, he was too big for me and I ended up tumbling to the floor on top of him. We both erupted into laughter.
"I think I'll stick to basketball," he said.
"I think that's best for the both of us."
Our laughter subsided as his arm slid around my waist and pulled me closer. His breath caressed my forehead and his heart rate increased underneath me. I felt warm and safe in his arms. I could've stayed there forever, but after a few moments Will said, "We better get to school."
***
I cried a lot. I couldn't help it. I cried when I was happy, sad, scared, or even when I had a certain burst of courage. I cried when I was too angry for words, I cried when I was embarrassed. Songs, books, movies and TV episodes made me cry. It didn't even have to be a sad TV show. I once cried on a rerun of The Simpsons. The one where Bart failed the fourth grade. I just felt so bad for him. And he’s a cartoon character!
Sasha said I was too sensitive. She said sometimes you had to get over your emotions and make cold rational decisions in order to get ahead in life. That was certainly true in her case. I just couldn't understand how she could sit on the honor council and hold someone's future in her hands. Just
the thought of making the decision to expel someone from school and banish them to a bleak, barren future made my heart ache.
The Monday after Will and I rode to school together, Sasha gave the final vote to expel yet another person from Bridgeton. Someone named Nicole Thomas had sewn a cheat sheet into her skirt. She claimed it was just her study aid and she hadn't used it during the test. A pretty flimsy lie, but I still felt bad for her. She actually started crying on stage, which in turn made me cry. Thankfully, I didn't start weeping while sitting in the audience. It was one of my quiet cries. Only two or three stray tears escaped. I was able to cover them up before anyone saw. Or, so I thought.
The Queen Bee of Bridgeton Page 4
