by Lisa Edward
“Hey, wait a minute.” I sat upright. “I don’t sell my body any more than you do. I’m dancing, for fuck’s sake. I’m not having sex.”
“Really? Because apparently the guys who work there will do anything or anyone.”
She was being totally unreasonable. “This is crazy talk, Jaz. No one’s having sex for money at the club, but even if they were it has nothing to do with me.” I took a risk and reached for her hand. She let me hold it but didn’t hold mine back. “I do my act, I get paid, and I come home to you. That’s it.” I squeezed her hand and waited for a response. There wasn’t any. I wasn’t getting through. “My whole belief system was shattered when I failed at the one thing I thought I was good at. No one wanted to even give me a chance in the chorus. You know, I look at the guys in your show and I think ‘Aren’t I better than that?’ I must’ve been delusional all those years in Boston, being told I had great things in my future, because I got here and I had nothing. But this is validation that I’m not nothing—that I’m not just a guy who washes dishes until his hands are red and pruned.”
There was only a nod in response.
“And I’m damn good at it, I might add. I’m the star attraction. People come to the club just to see me dance.”
She laughed. I didn’t know if it was an ‘I’m starting to understand’ laugh, or an ‘I’m losing it’ laugh.
“You don’t get it, Bax, and it’s so damn frustrating.” She turned, her face red with fury. “You’re a phenomenal dancer. You could be on any stage on Broadway playing to a full house every night. But they don’t come to see you dance—they don’t care how good a dancer you are.” She rose from the seat so quickly it took me by surprise. “They come to see your dick. And that’s one thing I want nothing more to do with.”
VIOLET HUES danced across the sky as I waited for Jaz outside the stage door like a fan waiting for a glimpse of their favorite star after a performance. I’d hedged my bets, and from this vantage point I could see the front entrance, but I didn’t think she’d come out that way. We had always left from the front-of-house, so I guessed she would come this way to avoid me, should I be hanging around like some desperate loser waiting to see her. An ironic laugh burst from my lips into the empty laneway. I was a desperate loser waiting to see her—the only difference was I was doing it at this doorway and not the other one.
The cold air made my bones ache as a frost gathered on the cobblestones I’d been pacing for the last three hours. Jaz had stormed out of the dressing room after telling me in no uncertain terms that she wanted nothing more to do with me. I’d wanted to run after her; I never was very good at dropping things until I’d argued them from every possible angle and eventually gotten my way. But I knew she had more rehearsals to go back to and the last thing I wanted was to distract her any more than I already had. Every lift, every leap was a risk, and if your mind wasn’t completely on the game you ran the chance of landing incorrectly and causing permanent damage. Over the years at Boston Conservatory we’d seen a few dancers who were having a bad day, either hungover or just not concentrating, take one brilliant absentminded leap into the air and come crashing down awkwardly, tearing a ligament and ending their career before it had even started.
No, I’d done enough damage. Watching Jaz dance through her pain, the betrayal and heartbreak evident in every arm movement, in every bend of her body, I knew I had to leave her to focus on the task at hand.
A meowing from down by my feet called me out of my thoughts. A tiny tabby cat, not much bigger than my hand, was circling my ankles, using my worn-out Dr. Martens to scratch behind her ears. Stopping between my feet, she sat and raised her head, letting out another meow that was much louder than I’d expected from such a tiny cat.
“Hey, girl. I don’t have any food for you if that’s what you’re looking for.”
She squawked a response.
“I’m just an alley cat like you.” I took in my surroundings. “Lurking between the dumpsters, waiting for someone to come along who will love me.”
Another squawk in response made me chuckle.
“Is that what you’re doing? Waiting for someone to come along who will love you and take care of you?” Reaching down, I only bridged the gap by half before she was up on her hind legs, stretching her head up to meet my hand. “You look like a little tiger.” Her purr as I scratched behind her ears was so affectionate. All she wanted was someone to care for her—that was all any of us wanted. “Is that good, Tiger?”
Crunching footsteps on the cobblestones spooked little Tiger, and she dashed across the laneway to hide beneath a dumpster.
“Don’t encourage her,” an annoyed voice said as a bag was hurled into the dumpster where Tiger hid. I recognized the guy; I’d bought enough coffees from the café next door to the theater, but today the guy, dressed in his black pants, top, and apron, wasn’t wearing his friendly ‘customer service’ smile.
“Are you talking about Tiger?” I couldn’t work out why he’d be angry at me for patting a tiny, cute little tabby.
He grunted. “She hangs around the shop, catches rats, and brings them inside. It’s bad for business.”
Tiger stuck her head out to check if the coast was clear, and he kicked his foot at her, narrowly missing her head.
“Hey, leave her alone. If she wasn’t catching the rats they’d be running around in your shop.”
“You’re so fond of her, you can take her home. I’m sure you two would make a lovely couple.” His boots crunched the ground along the same path they’d taken previously, leaving Tiger shaken under the bin, her green eyes darting wildly, searching for danger.
I called her out and she tentatively came. I’d always considered myself a dog person, but this little girl was a fighter. She was alone and surviving on her wits, and something about that endeared her to me.
“I think we can find you a better home than this—what do you say? I can promise you won’t have to chase rats ever again, and there’ll be a nice warm bed for you.”
Her meow was answer enough. I picked her up and she snuggled into my arms, purring contentedly.
Darkness had consumed the violet sky while I’d been standing outside waiting for Jaz. It was freezing, but at least I had company now. Still, I worried that in the time I’d spent focused on Tiger, maybe Jaz had gone through the front and was already on her way home, or to Tiffany’s.
I was just about to phone her on the off chance she would answer when the light above the door flickered on and the lock clicked open. It was Jaz, closely followed by Tiffany.
With one look at me, Jaz’s eyes misted over before she set her jaw firmly and took three purposeful strides past.
“Please wait, Jaz,” I blurted. “I’ve been waiting for hours to talk to you. Please hear me out.”
She spun on her heels to face me. “I’ve heard all I want to hear, Bax. I’m tired, and I just want to go home.”
“Home with me?” I knew it was a long shot but it was worth a try.
She shook her head. A half-smile only briefly graced her lips as she noticed Tiger sleeping in my arms. “Home alone, Bax. I need some time to think everything through. I can’t be around you right now.” Tiffany stepped up beside Jaz and protectively put an arm around her shoulders. “I can stay with Tiff for a while.”
It was over. She may not have said the words, but from the look on her face and the tone of her voice I knew the decision had been made.
“It’s okay. I can move back to the apartment above the pizzeria. You can stay …” my voice cracked, “in our apartment.” Jaz had told me that Tiffany lived in a tiny one-bedroom that was barely big enough for her, let alone a house guest.
“Okay, thank you.” And with that she turned and left me standing there holding the only girl left in my life.
The Giancolis were thrilled to have me back and welcomed Tiger just as warmly. It turned out that Lucia was a cat person and had scooped Tiger from my arms as soon as she saw the little tabby.
“She’s beautiful, Baxter,” she cooed, giggling as Tiger purred and nuzzled into Lucia’s neck.
“She’s yours if you want her.” It was the perfect solution.
“Oh, Baxter, she’s for me. Thank you.” She pressed her lips softly to my cheek. “She’s perfect.”
Mama clapped her hands with delight. “This is cause for celebration. We have our Baxter back, and everything’s as it should be.”
Smiling, I backed away as politely as possible and went up the stairs, not quite sure if in their minds a cat was the equivalent to an engagement ring. There was no cause for celebration, only commiserations. My life had turned to shit and I was alone again, living above a pizzeria.
It felt surreal to be back in the old apartment, like the last few weeks with Jaz had been a dream and my life was still as empty as ever. I was still stripping and trying to kid myself that it was real dancing. I was still living in the same crummy apartment, and I still had a huge hole in my heart that only Jaz could fill. Her words had plagued me since they’d been spoken a week ago, and no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that she was wrong, I knew she wasn’t. No one cared if I could do a 540 battement en rond or multiple double tours, they just wanted me to take my clothes off. I could walk out on stage, stand there and strip naked, and get the same amount of cheers. Now that Jaz had said out loud what I’d always feared was true, it ate away at me.
A soft rapping on my door had me jumping from the couch and racing to answer it. Maybe Jaz had been missing me as much as I missed her. Maybe this was what I’d imagined every night as I lay awake in bed, and she had come back, saying all was forgiven and she couldn’t last another moment without me.
My heart dropped from my throat to the pit of my stomach after I yanked the door open.
“Oh hi, Lucia, come in.” I knew my tone screamed disappointment, but I couldn’t mask it. She had been good to me the last week, but she wasn’t the person I wanted to pay me a visit.
Why was I surprised it was her? She’d told me she’d drop by just as she had every night after service, and every night I’d gone through the same ridiculous excitement, hoping it would be Jaz, and then the gut-wrenching regret when it wasn’t.
“Are you ready to talk about what happened, Baxter?” she asked, making herself at home on the little couch.
Every time we had spoken we had made small talk, but I had purposely avoided talking about Jaz with her. It seemed strange to talk about the girl I loved with a heart-crushing passion to the girl who obviously had feelings for me.
“We broke up; there’s nothing to talk about.” Especially with you.
“Is it because of what you do?” she pressed. “Your … other job.”
Now this grabbed my attention. I was pretty sure she wasn’t talking about the sales job at Melody Music, but I wanted her to say it. How would she know? “What other job?”
“Baxter.” She looked at me with certainty, like I knew exactly what she was referring to. “Your stripping job, of course.”
“How did …?”
“I have friends who have been to that club. They told me that the dish-boy was working there.” She shrugged. “We only have one dish-boy, Baxter.”
I slumped back into the worn cushions, my mouth agape. I didn’t know what I was more upset about—that she knew or that her and her friends referred to me as the dish-boy.
“I’ve tried to get past your work. I like you, I think you know that, but Mama and Papa would never accept you into the family as they have if they knew. They come from the old country where hard work in an honorable job means so much. Stripping is not honorable.”
“It’s just dancing.” That feeble excuse wasn’t cutting it anymore, even for me. “Jaz can’t accept it, and it appears neither can you.”
“No respectable girl would, Baxter. Girls want to sleep with strippers so they can gossip about it with their friends—they don’t want to marry them.” She stood abruptly and made her way to the door. “I’ve said what I wanted to say. I’ll give you time to think about it. You may have lost Jasmine, but I’m still here.”
The door was open, and she was about to leave. “Lucia, I need the money. It’s as simple as that.”
She nodded. “I can talk to Mama for you. Maybe we can give you more shifts downstairs. You already live here again; you can work full-time with us, too.” She beamed at me as if she’d solved all my problems. But the only problem I really cared about was how to get Jaz back.
“I’ll think about it. Thanks.” It was a generous offer, but I felt like a fly trapped in a spider’s web.
She leaned in toward me and I turned my cheek. It was customary for the entire family to kiss on both cheeks every time you saw them, but this kiss from Lucia was different. She held it longer, her lips soft and partially open. It was a kiss that spelt trouble.
“I’m so happy, Baxter. Leave that other terrible job. This is a family business, and you’re part of our family. Everything will work out—you’ll see.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Somehow, I’d managed to dig myself into a big hole with Lucia where she was pulling me away from the only form of dancing I was any good at and into a life that revolved around her and her family.
I lay on my mattress on the floor. Maybe Lucia’s offer was the best option, the answer to reconciling with Jaz. If I could earn more in the restaurant, then I could afford to leave the club. At least it would show Jaz that I was willing to give up the only spotlight that shone on me. But was it too late?
There was only one way to find out. I needed to see her.
“YOU NEED to make him jealous—simple as that,” Tiff said matter-of-factly. “It’s the only thing that will get his head outta his ass.” She looked around Pointe. “What about that guy? He looks straight.”
“I don’t want to make him jealous, Tiff. I just want him back.” I threw back another shot, and immediately Tiff refilled my glass from the bottle of tequila sitting on the table. “It’s been over a week and he’s vanished off the radar. Maybe it’s too late? Maybe he’s happy stripping and has moved on and forgotten all about me?”
“Pfft, no way. You said you needed time; he’s giving you time.” She clinked her glass to mine. “Cheers, big ears.” We both drank. “More?” Tiff inquired, holding up the bottle.
I held my hand over my tiny shot glass. “Not for me. I need a clear head, Tiff. I don’t know what I’m doing.” The struggle I was having between my heart and my head had me going in circles. I loved Bax more than anything else in this world. I’d thought I always would and that nothing could ever come between us, and yet the images that taunted my every waking moment had me wishing I could forget we had ever met.
“You know what you need to do? Find the hottest guy you can and show Bax that you don’t need him anymore.”
“But I do need him. I need him a lot.”
“He’s choosing stripping over you, Jaz. You need something to bitch-slap some sense into him and make him realize that he can’t have his cake and eat it too.”
Tiffany had a way of confusing me when she spoke, and this conversation was no exception. “Wait, so am I the cake? Can I be chocolate fudge? And if you have your cake, what else would you do with it if you weren’t going to eat it?”
“It’s a saying, Jaz.” She shook her head mockingly. “You’ve led such a sheltered life.”
“It makes no sense. None of it.” I threw my hands to the side in frustration. “Why the hell would someone as talented as Bax be stripping in the first place? You saw the other guys—their dance skills were honed on drunken nights with the boys, bopping up and down in the corner trying to gain the attention of some equally drunk girls. They weren’t trained performers.”
She shrugged. “Beats me. Why do any of us dance?”
Because there was nothing else we wanted to do. When we projected five years into our future to see where we wanted to be, all we saw were aching muscles, sore feet, and our bodies being pushed to the abs
olute limit in our quest for perfection. But every second of the sacrifice was worth it when the prize was being able to perform. It wasn’t even so much the applause or the rave reviews—it was being able to express your deepest, darkest fears, your burning desires, and the passion that at times consumed your very soul through dance. It was a form of expression, of artistry, and without it in your life, you felt as if a part of you was missing.
But if Bax was so desperate to dance then why had he given up on his dream? What he was doing wasn’t dancing—it was taking his clothes off to music. There was a huge difference.
It was closing time but I didn’t want to go home. I had nothing to go home to anymore. The apartment, though small, felt too big and too empty. A gaping open wound that reminded me every time I set foot through the door that this had been my home with Bax for far too short a time. If I’d known it was all going to come to an end so soon, I would have done many things differently. I would have rushed home after rehearsals instead of staying back to shoot the breeze with the girls. I would have stayed up late every night, waiting for Bax to come home from the restaurant or the club instead of dozing off under the covers, my body exhausted, my mind racing with dance steps I needed to master. And when he did walk through the door, his hands red from scrubbing pots for hours, his body shivering from walking in the icy night air, and all he wanted from me was to dance with him, I would have. That was how things had started, but all too soon I’d let the comfort of our bed keep me from doing the one thing he asked of me. So many nights he had inquired about my day, wanting details and for me to show him what I’d learnt or some step that had been revised, and too many nights I’d complained of being too tired to crawl out from beneath the covers to show him.
