You in Five Acts

by Una LaMarche

  “She hasn’t run the whole thing yet,” Ms. Adair said evenly. “It’s a practical matter, not a personal one.”

  You stood there for a minute, sucking in your cheeks like you were debating whether to fight her on it, before turning and walking off backstage. You went slowly, but there was no mistaking the way your left hip jutted out, the way your right foot dragged. I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes, sending up a quick prayer. Please, God, just let her last through tomorrow night. I wasn’t an altar boy or anything—me and God were casual acquaintances at best—but I figured it couldn’t hurt. It just had to hold long enough so that everyone who mattered could see what I saw every day—how there was no one else who even came close to you.

  After I went through the motions with Lolly, Ms. Adair dismissed her and then rushed Mr. D off to one of the studios so they could “confer privately.”

  “Not personal, my ass,” you said, wincing and propping your leg up on my lap while I hung my feet over the lip of the stage. “I don’t know why she didn’t just cast Lolly in the first place.”

  “Uh, maybe because you practically did a mic drop at the audition. No one could have voted you down.”

  “She did.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s wrong.”

  You sighed. “You wanna tell her, or should I?”

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Some people are on the wrong side of history. There are the real obvious, crazy racists, who want to build a wall between us and Mexico, and then there are the people so scared and lazy they’ll defend the rules set up by the old-school bigots because that’s how it’s always been done.” I turned up my nose and adopted my best Ms. Adair voice. “Ballerinas are supposed to be white swans,” I drawled.

  You smirked. “And even the black swan gets played by Natalie Portman, so I’m screwed either way.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” you said. “And thank you.” You tipped your face up and I leaned down to kiss you, my heart racing a mile a minute the same way it had on the Cyclone. It still didn’t feel real.

  “You’re blowing up,” you murmured after a minute, pulling back.

  “Huh?”

  “Your phone.” You pointed to my bag, which was vibrating crazily.

  “Oh. Sorry.” My heart kept going, but for a different reason. I didn’t get many texts during the day, but unless I was in dance class I always kept my phone on, because if anyone would need to reach me, it would be Mom. And it would be because he’d shown up again.

  My dad had been gone for nearly eight years, but gone like a bottle cap slipped down a subway grate is gone—still there, just hidden close by, buried in some filth no one wants to think about. When he lived with us, he drank and yelled, didn’t hit much, but only because his coordination was bad after a case of Presidente. Finally she kicked him out and changed the locks, and after a few days of pleas and threats, he went on a bender and disappeared for months. Eventually we found out he’d moved in with my uncle a few blocks away. He refused to sign divorce papers but still came around, either in a stupor or an angry rage. He’d gotten Mom fired from two different clinics already. Mostly, though, apparently not remembering that most people had jobs, he’d come over to bang on the door of an empty apartment in the middle of the day, and our elderly neighbors would call Mom on her cell to complain about the noise.

  My hand closed on my phone and I steeled myself for the semiannual routine: Leave school, call my uncle Luis—my mom’s brother—and meet him at top of the stairs at 103rd, northeast corner. Luis owned a hardware store, so he’d bring hammers, and we’d climb all seven flights through the back of the building, ambushing dad from behind and telling him to leave so we wouldn’t have to call the cops, which was basically a joke since the cops would probably arrest all three of us if they ever showed. The last time it had happened, over the summer, Dad had stared at me, watery-eyed, for a minute, and just when I thought he was going to show some kind of remorse he just grunted, “Which one are you?” Which pretty much summed up our relationship.

  I took a deep breath and looked at the screen.

  I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU

  Relief: it wasn’t from Mom. Less relief: It was an all-caps rant from Liv.

  WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK, DIEGO???????

  I drew back. What the hell was she talking about?

  “What?” you asked. “Who is it?”

  MY LIFE IS RUINED. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS???

  what are you smoking? I typed. It was kind of a low blow, but also a legit question. I hadn’t confronted Liv about her partying since the night I dragged her home wasted from Dante’s friend’s place. And even then I hadn’t really pressed her on it.

  FUUUUUUUCK.YOUUUUUUUU, came the reply. COME MEET ME NOW OR I’LL TELL JOY YOU MADE A MOVE ON ME I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD

  “What?” you asked again.

  “Uh, nothing,” I said, quickly clicking my screen dark, trying not to show my fear. “Family stuff.” What had happened to her? What had I done? My mouth was bone dry.

  “You wanna talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  You looked hurt, and I was trying to think of a better story when Ms. Adair came back into the auditorium alone.

  “Joy, you can go get changed,” she called as she made her way down the long aisle. “I need to speak to Diego for a few minutes.”

  “Great,” you muttered under your breath.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything.” A new text buzzed against my fist, reminding me what a lie that was.

  Once Adair and I were alone, she crossed her arms and looked at me expectantly.

  “Phone away,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I tossed it back in my bag and clasped my hands in front of me like a kindergartner, pushing Liv out of my mind. It’s too bad I was so good at doing that.

  “Diego,” she began, “I know you’re in an awkward position here, since you and Joy are—” she smiled, but it wasn’t kind “—close, but I need you to be honest with me. You know what happens up there tomorrow night determines your future, too, and you need a partner who makes you the best you can be, without a handicap dragging you down. So tell me. Truthfully. Selfishly. Can she dance it?”

  I think I can admit now—and I hope you’ll forgive me—that I had a moment of pause. Not just because I knew Adair wanted me to look like I was thinking it over, either, but because I really needed to think it over. Of course you could dance it, and kick the shit out of it, I knew that. But I couldn’t fight the nagging feeling that maybe you shouldn’t. If something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself. And unlike me, you had a whole other life waiting for you, a big, thick envelope of a life just sitting there, begging to be opened. If I’d had that, I wasn’t sure I’d still be dancing like my life depended on it.

  So there was a second of hesitation. But I didn’t let it show.

  “Yes,” I said, looking Ms. Adair straight in the eyes. “She can do it.”

  She pursed her lips. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. I just want to avoid the kind of disaster going on with the drama performance.”

  “What?” I asked, my heart racing. I’d seen Dave just the other day, and things seemed to be going fine. Better than fine, even. He’d looked happier than I’d seen him. He even beat my ass at layups.

  “You don’t know?” she asked, smiling slowly. “They found illegal prescription drugs in Olivia Gerstein’s locker this morning. She’s been suspended indefinitely.”

  • • •

  I bounced restlessly as I rode uptown on the 2, leaning on the door, my body trying to keep rhythm with the movement of the train. Liv was waiting for me on the same bench we’d sat on all those weeks before by the entrance to the 110th Street station at the top of Central Park. I didn’
t need to ask why she was so far from home—I knew why she was up there.

  I couldn’t believe Dante. We’d grown up like brothers, until my dad left and factions formed. But apparently none of that mattered. I still had the slingshot he’d given me on my seventh birthday, and he still had me in his pocket, without me even knowing. He’d wanted me to deal to Janus kids for years, calling me a pussy when I said no, not caring that it could ruin my life, leave me without a high school diploma, rotting in jail or even worse. With Liv, he’d found a loophole. I should have stopped it before it started, but I never really tried.

  At the party, the night everything started to derail if you turn back the clock second by second—which is all I do, I’m living in rewind—Dante had swung an arm around my neck as I watched you walk away, teasing, “Yo, you gonna close the deal on that later, or what?” That really was all I had been thinking about—getting you alone, telling you how I felt, finally making my move. I was too tipsy and heartsick to care that much about what Liv did behind closed doors. She’d made a reckless choice, Dante had closed a deal, but it was my fault, really, and I was furious.

  I wasn’t the only one.

  “You fucking asshole!” Liv cried when I crossed the street to where she was sitting. She leapt up and ran at me, and I had to think fast, basically pick her up and spin her just to keep her from scratching my face. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nostrils red and raw. Liv was a beautiful girl, but she’d lost at least ten pounds, and her face looked winter-gray even in the blinding sun.

  She looks like a junkie. I couldn’t stop the thought.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, it wasn’t me,” I said, grabbing her by both arms to keep her still while she wriggled and grunted. “I didn’t do anything, I didn’t tell anyone, so would you calm the fuck down, please?” A passing mother with a toddler in a stroller crossed the street to avoid us. I didn’t even want to think about what we looked like.

  Liv glared up at me. “No one else knew!” she shouted.

  “Someone must have,” I said, struggling to hold her as her eyes darted back and forth from my face to some unseen points behind me. She looked scared and paranoid. I loosened my grip a little. “Because I am telling you, I didn’t say a word.”

  Her face went slack and I led her over to the bench, putting my hand on her back as she cried in deep, wracking sobs.

  “Why is this happening to me?” she wailed, wiping her snotty nose with one arm. Her boots clicked manically on the pavement; her knees jiggled.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Because life sucks sometimes. But it can stop now.”

  “Yeah, well. Everything stops now.” She looked up at the tree over our heads, a petrified tangle of dead branches, the only one on the whole block that hadn’t bloomed. “No more school,” she murmured. “No more acting. No more parties. No more life.”

  “What did your parents say?” I asked.

  “Well, they were ‘shocked.’ And ‘incredibly disappointed.’” She laughed bitterly. “But they didn’t make me go home.”

  “Well, I’m telling you then,” I said. “Go home. Don’t do”—Liv glared at me, and I could tell I was losing ground—“whatever you were gonna do up here.”

  “Fuck you,” she snapped. “I can take care of myself.”

  “You sure?”

  Liv looked down at the ground and shook her head, sticking her tongue in her cheek, running it over the front of her teeth. “I don’t need this,” she finally said, jumping up and swinging her bag over one shoulder. I stood up, too, trying to block her way, but she shoved past me. “Why should I even believe you?” she yelled, spinning around. “You probably did tell them. I bet Joy just loves that her goody-goody boyfriend is swooping in to save me from myself.”

  “Joy doesn’t know,” I said angrily.

  “Wow.” Liv sniffed, wiped her nose again. “Then she’s even more oblivious than I thought.”

  “That’s not fair. She’s been trying to talk to you for months and you’ve been too”—fucked up—“busy to notice.”

  “She wants to talk about you,” Liv said. “She doesn’t care about me anymore.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, trying to soften my voice. “We can’t be here for you if you don’t let us. Look, maybe you could take some time off, focus on auditions, being with Dave—that’s what you want, right?” I took a step forward, with my palms out. Hands up, don’t shoot. “I know he wants you. He’s crazy about you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Liv’s face crumpled, and her eyes filled with tears. “Well, he hasn’t texted me once today, so . . .” She shrugged as the first tear spilled its way down her cheek. “I guess I have nothing left to lose.” She spun around and stormed off, east, along Central Park North, but when I started after her she screamed, “DON’T FOLLOW ME!” which caught the attention of a burly cop leaving a deli across the street. He stared at me, one hand on his coffee, one hand on his belt, and I stopped cold, raising my hands for the second time in sixty seconds.

  Luckily, after a beat he just waved me away, and I all but ran back to the subway, every step pounding in my chest like a drumroll leading up to some ominous climax waiting in the wings.

  • • •

  You found out about Liv at school, along with everyone else. You wept on my shoulder in the corner of the auditorium that afternoon, called yourself a bad friend, blamed yourself for not seeing it. I just held you and swallowed my guilt while you texted and called her, poring over her photos, searching for clues.

  That’s kind of what this feels like, you know? Like putting together a puzzle, examining every piece, and trying to find another way—any other way—it could all fit together.

  • • •

  Dante came over for dinner, unannounced, which was the only way he ever showed up—it must have run on that side of the family. Even with hurricanes you usually got a warning.

  From the minute he walked in, I could tell he had an agenda. He was watching me out of the corner of his eye the whole time we ate. I wondered if he could tell how angry I was; I barely said a word, and every time he flashed his trademark smile—sly and snakelike, as if he was in on some joke the rest of us couldn’t hear—I had to look down at my plate to keep from blowing up. Once the dishes were cleared, when he asked me to walk him out, I knew something was going down. One of us was going to strike. I just didn’t who would be first.

  “So I heard about what happened at your school,” he said once we were out in the hallway, laying a hand on my shoulder, watching my face for a reaction.

  “Yup,” I said stoically to the linoleum floor.

  We weaved around the corner and into the stairwell, which was when he pushed me up against the wall, hooking his elbow under my chin. Without thinking I shoved him back—he might have been older, but he was smaller than me, and years of lifting hundred-plus-pound bodies over my head had given me powerhouse shoulders—and he stumbled back, laughing in a way that made it clear he didn’t find anything about the situation funny.

  “Relax, cuz, I’m just playing,” he said, giving me a hard, unfriendly stare. “I just want to talk to you.”

  “So talk,” I said, crossing my arms. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Liv thinks you narc’d on her,” Dante said. “But I told her my little cousin would never do that. I just need to hear it from you.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  Dante looked genuinely relieved. “Well, OK then. Good. Any idea who it was?”

  “No.” I focused on keeping my face still so he wouldn’t know I was lying.

  Everything that had happened in the Boroughed Trouble cue-to-cue had trickled down from Faiqa Bashara, and there was no doubt it had been Ethan who’d turned Liv in. But I couldn’t sic Dante on him. I couldn’t even blame him, really. In his own twisted, dramatic way, he’d basically done the right thing. I should have done it myself. I realized that much on
ce I saw how devastated you were when you found out. If it had been you, puking on your knees in some stranger’s bathroom, and someone else had known . . . I didn’t even want to think about it. Liv didn’t mean as much to me, but that didn’t excuse how I’d covered for her. I mean, everyone is somebody else’s “you,” right?

  “Well, listen,” Dante said, “if you’d do a little reconnaissance, that would really help me out.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Come on.” The snake smile again. “Because we’re family.”

  “I’ll do it if you stop selling to her.” I tightened my arms around my chest, jutted out my jaw, did anything I could to look bigger, or more frightening. Men don’t have to be tough. That’s what my mom had told me, that day when I came home with the slur on my bag. They can be soft and vulnerable, too. I remember how she kissed my head, stroked her thin fingers under my chin. All the good ones are.

  Dante gave me a funny look and then burst out laughing. “Sell to her? Man, she sells for me now. Girl’s got that whole school on lock.” He shook his head. “She’s a natural, too, unloads a six-hundred-dollar bottle in a day.”

  I lunged at him. It wasn’t planned, just animal instinct, fear and rage and shame. I’d worked hard to get where I was, to carve out a space in the world that was just mine, far away from the big-talking, wannabe-hustler letdowns who haunted me, past and present, in our apartment complex. Dante could have his little corner of the world, but I’d die before I let him take over mine. I hooked him by the neck and swung him back against the stairwell wall, this time holding him with my elbow.

  “Shit, I thought you knew!” Dante cried, his eyes wide with shock and a touch of amusement. He tried to push my arm down and I let him; I didn’t really want a fight. “Look, I get it,” he said, “but some people don’t have some fancy scholarship, you know? Some of us just gotta survive.”