Spin the Sky

by MacKenzie, Jill;

  I peer into George’s eyes, and it’s all there. It’s all perfect. It’s all very un-me.

  I turn around and feign like I’m having some kind of coughing attack. While my back’s to them, I wrap my pillowcase piece around my index finger. Then I face them and smile at both girls.

  “Thank God you’re not in yet,” I say to Eyes. I hope she gets it, knows to play along with what I’m about to do. “So, hey, thanks for saving our spot.”

  Legs’s mouth drops open. She stares at me like I’m a lunatic while Eyes stares at me like I’m Joan of freaking Arc.

  “Man, I’m so glad we made it back from the hospital in time.” I hold up my finger for both Eyes and Legs. “See? Only one little stitch.” I smile and then muss George’s hair with my non-wrapped hand. “I’m never going to let you borrow my eyebrow tweezers again if this is what happens when you do.” He gawks at me, but says nothing. I’m not sure if he’s not getting it or if he’s just too shocked to talk. I turn to the girls. “I’m just glad we made it back. I would have died if we missed this. Thanks again for saving our spot.”

  I wedge myself in behind Eyes and in front of Legs. Then I pull George in with me and two cameras swivel over to film us. I keep my head up, looking straight at them. I swallow but I smile and they slide on past me to film someone else. There. Easy-peasy, mac and cheesy. I can do this. I can even do it on camera.

  Legs holds up one stiff, perfectly manicured hand in front of her body. “No way. You can’t save spots. I came all the way from Arizona. I’ve been here for six hours.”

  “The spot’s theirs, fair and square,” Eyes says. “They were here a good hour before you showed up. And anyway, it was an emergency. You can totally save spots in crisis situations. Everyone knows that.” She turns to George and me with this humongo smile, her eyes glistening. “No problem. Just glad your finger is going to be okay.”

  “Whatever.” Legs flips her hair and then turns around to focus on whoever’s behind her, the new target of her verbal abuse.

  Inside of me, my heart swells. I did it. I’m the one who got us to the front of the line. Me, not George. Me. And I know why I did it, or rather, how: here, no one knows me. Here, I’m not one of the loser Woodson girls, daughter to Patricia Woodson, town whore, town junkie, town killer.

  Here, I can be anyone I want.

  “What sky did you two fall out of?” Eyes says. “I was praying for a divine intervention when you two rocked up out of nowhere.” Her eyeballs bounce between me and George, who still hasn’t said a word. I nudge him with my foot. Gawk at him like What the hell is going on with you? He stares at me and then back at Eyes. He doesn’t speak. Because of her? Sure, she’s gorgeous. But more importantly, she’s also a she.

  “Hey, are you guys ballet dancers?” Eyes says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Contemporary ballet.”

  Eyes’s hair bounces around her face, like it’s dancing the cha-cha. “Me too. It sucks. Fifty percent of the people here are contemp. Guess we’ll just have to blow their minds, right?”

  I think of how much she sounds like George. He’s always like that, all gung ho and rainbows, fluffy kittens with pink satin bows. Except for now. It’s like we’ve changed places. Sure, George may have grabbed the sign and made me come and found us the ride, but I’m the one that got us in line. I smile at Eyes. “Then they’ll have to pick all three of us.”

  Eyes holds out one hand. “I’m Rio.”

  She makes me think of Rose. Rose who, in all likelihood, is totally sick with worry about where I’ve gone and why I haven’t called. And it’s not like me not having a cell phone is any kind of excuse. George has one, along with pretty much everyone else on the planet, so I could have called. If I wanted to.

  I remove my pillowcase from my finger, tuck it back under my bra, and shake Rio’s hand. George’s B-boy slides past us, his eyes on George the whole time. I nudge George in the ribs and whisper, “There he is again,” but George doesn’t answer me or look at the boy or take his eyes off Rio, not even for a second, which makes my mouth feel dry and prickly.

  “Where are you from?” I ask Rio, and I hope it’s somewhere like Missouri or Idaho.

  “New York City,” she says, and a little piece of me dies. George has always wanted to go there. He says it’s where anyone who’s anyone comes from.

  “Are you two a couple?” Rio asks.

  “Uh, no,” I say, for both of us.

  “Oh.” Her eyes shift from George, back to me. “I should have known, I guess.”

  I glance at George. Gay George. Gay George with great style and great hair and moves to match. Gay George, whose eyes swarm every inch of her. Like he’s no longer Gay George.

  “That’s the way it usually is, isn’t it?” Rio says. “Partners end up being the best of friends instead of lovers.”

  “I guess that’s true.” I elbow George. “Right?”

  George shakes his head. Opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but no words come out, which is weird and strange and entirely embarrassing for both of us.

  Rio grabs a can of Coke from her backpack. She cracks it open and offers me a sip first.

  “Then again,” she says. “Some of the greatest dance partners of all time have ended up being the most fantastic couples. Like those two hip-hop choreographers. You know who I mean. They seem so in love, don’t they?” She points to George. “So anyway, does he speak?”

  I elbow him in the ribs and then wait for him to flash Rio one of his killer smiles and charm the pants off her in two seconds flat like he usually does. Has, with nearly every guy and most of the girls in Summerland. But he’s not saying a thing. Instead, he’s just kind of staring at her like she’s this new little planet inside a solar system he’s seen a thousand times before.

  He’s totally silent. Deafening. Alarming. Scary silent.

  In fact, I’ve never seen George so at loss for words in my entire life.

  TEN

  I never would have thought that it would take a six-foot Australian brunette with a bob to break George’s spell, but apparently, that’s exactly what it takes.

  The second Camilla Sky trots on to the wooden outdoor stage, George is George again, waving his arms in the air and shouting for her—to her—like they’re long-lost friends. Although I can barely hear him because all five hundred kids next to us are yelling the same thing, along with a bunch of shouts of “Camilla, I love you!” to go with it. There’s a huge screen behind Camilla and about a gazillion cameras filming her and filming the audience and blasting it all on that supersized screen. The screen flashes from Camilla to her adorers, the ones at the front who are almost crying and the ones at the back who are climbing on each other’s shoulders to get a better view. The whole thing is totally manic and I feel my whole body getting hot because I can’t believe we’re really here. I can’t believe we’re really doing this.

  Camilla raises the roof, lifting her hands above her fedora, and so does the crowd. I mean, it’s pretty impossible to not do whatever she wants you to. Something about her cherry-shined lips and smooth skin—smoothest I’ve ever seen in real life and not some airbrushed mag—makes you want, no, have to obey.

  A group of breakers circle around her, jumping up and down, and cameramen swarm them. To anyone else—present company included—they’d be totally cringeworthy. Camilla loops arms with them like she’s the one who worships them. Then she wipes her brow and spins around to face her cameras, her audience.

  I wish I could hate this woman.

  I mean, I bet she guzzles beer at baseball games without some dude even asking her to. I bet that when a girl tells her a secret she takes it to the grave. I bet that when she goes back home to whatever small Australian—maybe even clamming-obsessed—town she comes from, everyone treats her like the goddess she is. Then again, I bet that in her hometown, the name Sky isn’t totally synonymous with trash.

  She coos into the microphone. “Welcome to Season Six of Live to Dance! I can al
ready tell that you guys are going to make this show the best, most competitive, most heart-stopping season yet!”

  I glance over at Rio. Her eyes are smiling with this shimmery kind of light, blinding me with all the hope and joy she’s radiating. George is smiling, too. One of his big, awestruck grins that makes it impossible for me not to smile. Even though my stomach feels like it’s going to jeté out my throat.

  Camilla presses the air down in front of her with her hands and the crowd cools, cameras panning out. “Okay! Listen up. I know you’re all dying to show our judges your stuff, but before you go in, let’s go over the rules.” She takes a clipboard from the guy next to her. “Rule number one: Every competitor must be at least eighteen years of age. For everyone who is eighteen or older, there’s a table set up by the front doors. Once you’ve got your number, head to that table to show the staff your IDs so they can verify your dates of birth.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Anyone who’s not at least eighteen, better luck next year.”

  A couple of boos emerge from the crowd, and two kids actually slink out of line, shoulders sagging. Two cameras follow them out and their faces flash on that big screen. Both of them look completely mortified. One gives the cameraman the middle finger, and the crowd boos louder. But then a guy with a pencil behind his ear whistles and the cameramen let them go. But other than those two, everyone else stays put, even though every tenth kid here looks about fifteen. Rio leans forward and whispers, “You guys are eighteen, right?”

  “George turned eighteen in February,” I say. “Valentine’s Day. I turned eighteen last week.” I shut my eyes, trying to listen to Camilla’s explanation on the age thing—something about legalities in case of injury—but I can’t.

  All I can think about is my birthday. Mrs. Moutsous, her kind face proud as she handed over the present she picked out, just for me, because she thought I’d love it. The clam gun, wrapped in sparkly paper, waiting for me to open it, waiting for me to own it.

  My mind morphs, swirling with other pictures—worse pictures, uglier pictures. That cop in Summerland, his teeth grinding against each other, his voice calling me forward, his hand, touching me. Colleen’s body, limp, lifeless, covered in a sheet so thin I could still see the slope of her nose, the curve of her cheek through it as they wheeled her away.

  My arms grow cold, heavy. I rub my eyes but the pictures won’t leave me, no matter where I go, what I do. I push my fists into my sockets.

  “Mags?” George touches my shoulder, his palm warming me.

  When I open my eyes again, everything’s the same, but different. I scan the crowd, focusing on everyone and no one. Dancers, they’re all dancers. Everyone here’s just like me, loves what I love. Summerland feels far away, long ago. Even this morning outside Mayor Chamberlain’s seems a lifetime ago from where I am now. I nod at George. His face relaxes. When he turns away, I rub my arms. I can’t believe how far I’ve come. I can’t believe I’m here.

  “Rule number two!” Camilla shouts. “All dancers must wear proper attire for your style of dance. That means all you hip-hoppers can wear your trackies and denim. But ballet dancers, you must be in leotard.”

  I bend down to loosen the drawstring of my tie-dyed dance bag and feel around inside to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Then my hand goes up to my collarbone to make sure my pillowcase piece is still there, too. It’s all I’ve got. Right here, right now, it’s everything I need.

  Camilla grabs another stack of papers from her assistant and pats him on the head, like a puppy. “Okay. Now that those little tidbits are taken care of, Billy here’s going to walk down the line and hand everyone a number to pin to the front of you.” The screen behind Camilla flashes a huge picture of Billy’s face, though I can’t see him in the crowd anywhere. He’s not a star like Camilla. Just a regular dude in jeans and a tee and baseball cap that reads LTD on the front, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe they don’t hire anyone to stand next to Camilla who won’t make her look good.

  “Underneath that number,” she says. “I need you guys to write down whatever state you’re hoping to represent if you make it on the show. I’m going to take down your name and a few fun facts about you so that the judges and I can get to know you better.”

  Fun facts? I poke George. “What do you think they’re going to ask us? Do you think it’s going to be, like, personal stuff?” I bite the inside of my cheek. I can only imagine how the Hollywood staffers at Live to Dance would love to have a murderer’s daughter on the show. Good for ratings? Maybe. Good for getting the Woodson girls a brand-new life? Definitely not.

  “No clue, but who cares?” George says. “I’d tell them where and when I lost my virginity if it would help me get on the show, wouldn’t you?” His words make me flinch.

  I never knew that George apparently lost his virginity somewhere, sometime during our symbiotic friendship. Mercifully, my mind has always blocked out those kinds of images. Now, it’s all here. His chiseled body, meshed with someone else’s. His lips, pressed against another set of lips. My stomach wrenches at the pictures that seep through my brain like toxic, poisonous sludge. And then an even bigger reality sets in: while I’ve remained pitifully pure, hopeful that one day it would be me and George together in the holy sense of things, George was slutting himself out around town. And even though the fact that George was getting freaky with guys shouldn’t make me sad, or jealous, it does. Suddenly, gender has nothing to do with it at all. It’s more a case of him wanting someone that isn’t me. Maybe even multiple someones.

  I drop his hand and step closer to Rio.

  Camilla adjusts her fedora and the cameras zoom on that, flashing other pictures on the screen behind her, Camilla in a dozen different outfits on a dozen different occasions, but always, always in that fedora.

  “Now, I assume you all know the basics of how this competition works. You’ve all seen our show, right? You’ll do a one-minute solo to your own music. One minute—no more, no less. If you go over time, the judges will cut you off, okay?”

  My mouth drops to the floor.

  Holy. Crapola. The solo.

  I always knew this was coming. I mean, of course I’ll have to do a solo if I want to land a spot on the show. But I’ve been so busy obsessing over this morning’s almost-arrest and Rose, then Dolores, and now this hideous George-minus-virginity topic, that I think I temporarily blocked out the performing part of this competition. I feel my fingernails dig into something, but it takes me a second and a high-pitched yelp from George to realize that it’s his forearm. “I don’t have a solo.” My eyes meet his. I must look like hell because George starts laughing and shakes his arm free of my claws.

  “Yes you do. Do the piece you’ve been working on with Katina since the beginning of the summer. It’s perfect.”

  “It’s a work in progress, not perfect.” My voice shakes. I hate that it’s shaking.

  “It’s beautiful. You know it is.”

  “They’ll laugh me off that stage.” I stand up straight. I’m not whining. It’s just a fact.

  “They won’t.” He touches my cheek. “We’re not in Summerland.”

  I feel my stomach muscles clench, but I bend down and open the front zip of my bag, hoping the second I see my disc, my music, it’ll all come back to me. I grab the CD, but as soon as I see the word scrawled across the front, my knees turn to mush. Me and G. Pictures. That’s what this disc is. Pictures of George and me from our last days of high school. The scavenger hunt. The prom I didn’t want to go to until George said I had to and Mark seconded that motion. Pictures. Not music. The disc falls from my hands. It slaps the ground and I’m sure I hear it crack.

  George swoops down to pick it up. “You’re going to break it before you use it.”

  The world in front of me, next to me, around me blurs into a muddled blend of colors. “It’s the wrong one.”

  “Huh?”

  “I brought the wrong disc.” I take it from him. “Pictures, not m
usic.”

  “Didn’t you double-check your stuff?” I can hear the disbelief winding through his voice.

  “I didn’t have time. There was so much to do.”

  “Yeah, like writing crappy-ass resignation notes to my mom. Like making deals with the devil.”

  “Almost-deals.” I feel my jaw clench. “Not the same thing.”

  Rio’s head swivels back and forth between me and George. She eyes us curiously, but she doesn’t ask a thing about what we’re talking about and I’m glad. That’s one can of worms I don’t want to open.

  “It’s okay.” Rio unzips the front pocket of her own bag and then hands me her iPod. “I’ve got unlimited music on this thing. Find your song and the judges can download it into their system.” She shoots George a look. “They’d rather have this than CDs anyway. And you’ve probably got a while before you’re up, so there’s time to work the kinks out of your solo.” She closes my hand around the iPod, tight. “And listen. No one will laugh at you. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “I’m just saying,” she says. “We’ll be in the audience cheering for you, okay? Just find our faces, close your eyes, and do what you do best.”

  We.

  Rio’s words float through the atmosphere, autonomously. Disjointed from others that follow. Words that were never there before. We. Us. George and Rio. Five minutes ago there was no we. Now there suddenly is.

  And then he’s touching her. Saying things like, “I’ve never even seen hair like this in real life,” and “it’s so gorgeous,” like it’s the most normal thing in the world, him playing with the thick, tight curls that frame her face.