Spin the Sky

by MacKenzie, Jill;

  It’s not my problem. I turn back to George. “The judges will give him another chance. You’ll see. You’ll all see.” I open and close my hands but it doesn’t relax me any. “He’s good. You have no idea.”

  Rio digs her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. She flicks her head toward the judges. “They look like they don’t know what to do next.”

  I stare at the screen. It’s frozen on George.

  “What is it you’re feeling?” Gia says into her microphone. Her usual bluntness is freckled with a kind of softness I’ve never heard from her before. The cameras zoom in on her face and then it’s her face that’s plastered on the screen next, alongside George.

  George raises his head. “It’s just so much.”

  Gia glances down at the paper in front of her. “What is, George? What’s too much?”

  “I just can’t take it anymore.” He motions across the silhouetted audience, blackened by dim lights. Silenced by the slip of his foot and the surrender in his voice. “We all want this so badly,” he says. “Everyone in here. But my friend, Magnolia. Magnolia Woodson. She needs this more than any of us. It’s why we came. But I just couldn’t do it out there. Couldn’t dance knowing that if this didn’t work then maybe she’d never dance again.”

  Wait. What is he talking about? Why did he say my last name? I look at Rio. Her stare flickers back at me.

  Even from behind, I can tell George’s shoulders are shaking. So this big part of me wants to run out there and pick him up and fold his body into mine. But then there’s this other part of me that’s confused. Didn’t they see his foot slip? Why aren’t they asking him about it? And my last name. Why did he say my last name?

  George lifts his head. “If this doesn’t work for her, if she doesn’t make it on the show, then she can’t fix her reputation. If that happens, well, I don’t know what she’ll do.”

  My mouth drops open. What? The cameras move closer to George. The screen projects his face in supersize but then it changes to my face. Me, standing here shocked and pale and awful.

  “She wants them to see that it wasn’t her fault,” George says.

  “Wants who to see that what wasn’t her fault?” Gia says.

  “Our town. The mayor’s daughter’s death,” George says. “She thinks she’s responsible for what happened.”

  “Oh my God,” Rio says under her breath. She steps into the wings and out of the camera’s shot.

  “Oh my God!” Jacks and Hayden say, much louder, and in unison.

  Next to them, Liquid stares at George on stage. He shakes his head. Flicks his hair away from his face. “I’m not watching this,” he mumbles. He pushes on past us, disappearing somewhere backstage.

  Jacks laughs. It sounds like thunder. It sounds like death. “He’s selling you out. He’s totally selling you out.”

  No. This can’t be happening. There’s no way George would do this to me, make me seem so petty and selfish. Tell the whole world my secret. Make it so that I can’t escape my name, no matter what I do. George. My George. Who’s helped me leap over every hurdle, swim through every river I’ve ever almost drowned in before. No. There’s just no way.

  “She wasn’t supposed to work that night,” George says. “But when she got home, the house was still full of people and there were drugs everywhere. Colleen was dead. They were wheeling her away.” He hangs his head. “They blame her family for everything.”

  “No,” I whisper. My palms are sweating and my heart is beating so fast I cover it with my hand. But through my touch, it pounds harder and faster, jolting me with every thud. The screen behind George flickers back to me. My heart. My hand. I drop it to my side.

  And then George lets it out. Two last little lines. “I just can’t dance. Not while knowing what might happen to Mags if she doesn’t prove to Summerland that she’s not the garbage her mother is.”

  “No,” I whisper, my knees buckling. “Why is he doing this?” I’ve known for a long time that the people of Summerland thought my mom was garbage. I just never knew George thought it, too.

  This can’t be happening. But it is. He’s using me. Using me, my name, my story that I thought I left behind—wanted so badly to leave—in Summerland, to get himself on the show.

  “Why is he doing this?” I say again, louder this time.

  “He cares about you,” Rio says.

  “He cares about getting on the show,” Jacks says.

  “He told me. He told all of us.” Rio motions to Hayden and to Jacks. Behind them, Liquid’s back with a couple of his street groupies by his side. I have no idea how he got them backstage. I don’t even care. “When you were in the bathroom.” She turns to Liquid. “You heard him, right? You heard him say how worried he was about her.”

  Liquid shrugs and blows the hair out of his eyes. One of his friends says, “Liquid’s here to dance. Possibly get laid while he’s at it. That’s it.” His groupies bump fists with each other, but Liquid doesn’t. He stands off to one side, watching George.

  Rio turns back to me. “It wasn’t your fault. All that stuff that happened with your mom and that girl.”

  “Stop. Just stop.” I take a step toward the stage.

  Rio grabs my arm. “Don’t. It won’t do you any good.”

  I turn to her, fire radiating from my limbs. “He slipped! He slipped! Did he tell you that he was going to do that, too?” I shrug my arm free from her grip. Breathe. In. Out. “This isn’t his story to tell. Who I am. It wasn’t for him to share that with anyone.”

  But it’s too late. On center stage, George is letting it all out.

  He tells them about my mom’s addictions. He tells them about her leaving us, again and again and again. He tells them every gruesome detail about Colleen’s death, even though he wasn’t there, even though I never told him the details of what happened because I never want to think about them again as long as I live. He tells them about me. How I rarely go places anymore besides Katina’s and Deelish and home. Scared, always scared, of what they’ll say if I do.

  The cameras zoom in on his face, his body. He takes a deep breath and looks straight at them. And then he tells them about him. Holding me together, every day since it happened.

  Next to me, Rio’s eyes are watery. “I had no idea it was like that for you in your hometown. It’s worse than mine. I should have thought.”

  I bite my bottom lip, but I don’t say a thing. Because if I do—if I open my mouth one teensy little bit—I’m going to scream. At George, at the impossible unfairness of life, at this damn competition and what I need it to be.

  “It’s just too much to handle. I’ve carried this weight for too long,” George says between sobs. “An entire year.”

  Gia nods. “I know, George. The world is cruel that way. Sometimes it’s good to us. But other times”—she shudders—“other times it feels like it’ll kill us.”

  “But that’s why we dance,” Astrid says. “To let it all out. For it to be okay, no matter what happens.”

  “I don’t know,” George says. “I don’t know if she will be okay if she doesn’t win. We need to be here, to fix things. We need to win.”

  I double over, sucker-punched. We. We. We.

  We’ve always been a “we” before—me and George. But this is one “we” I don’t want any part of.

  Gia strains to look behind George. “Where is this friend of yours that might not be okay if she isn’t on our show?”

  George shields his eyes from the light with one hand. He turns and points to me. At me. “There. Magnolia Woodson.” He says my name, loudly. Revealing me. Exposing me. Stripping me down to bone. “She’s on next.”

  I take two steps forward. Out of the wings. Onto the stage. “I’m here. I’m Magnolia.”

  Elliot Townsend whispers something to Astrid, who in turn whispers to Gia. Gia nods her head. Then Elliot speaks. “Hello, Magnolia. Good to have you here. You’ll have your chance to dance, but first we have some words for your friend.” He clears h
is throat. “Your friend who obviously cares a great deal about you and your family’s well-being.”

  I take a step back.

  “We don’t need to tell you that you’re an extraordinary technician, George,” Elliot says. “The quality of your movement is spectacular. You have all the talent we expect from dancers at the end of our competition, and to see it on display when the show is only beginning is impressive to say the least.” Elliot pauses to take a deep breath. “But what amazes us the most is your conviction. You drew your strength from the passion you feel for your friend, and her plight. It was all quite palpable.”

  George inhales and his words come out more as squeaks than sentences. “I promised to help her. She needs this to go on. I don’t think she’ll dance anymore without this—”

  “George!” I shout. “Please, stop. Please.”

  His words halt. His head snaps around. Take it all back. My thoughts burn and I hope they’re burning through him. Take everything you said back. But I know he can’t. Won’t.

  “We’re going to give you your ticket to LA, George, because you deserve a spot on the show.” Elliot nods at me. “Then we’ll watch Magnolia perform. If she’s anywhere near as good as you, she’ll get her own ticket. But if she’s not, well, the next part is up to you. If you’re serious about dance and want a career in it, you keep your ticket. After all, getting in this competition is a guarantee that you’ll be dancing professionally for a long, long time.” He waves the ticket above his head. “But if you’re willing to sacrifice yourself to take care of your friend, we’d never want to stand in your way.”

  What is he saying? The screen behind George shows Elliot talking, saying it in loud words, but I still can’t hear it the way I need to.

  My brain swells, then shrinks, then swells again. And then it all becomes clear. If I don’t make it through on my own, they’ll let George give his spot to me. If he wants to. I don’t want George’s pity place. Yet I don’t know if I can not take it, either. If he’ll give it to me.

  George freezes. I can tell it’s not what he expected.

  Elliot grins. “So that settles it. Let’s just watch Magnolia dance, while you think about how you want your own life to play out. Sound good?”

  The cameras swoop to the front of the stage. Elliot sits up straight. Pauses dramatically. “Magnolia Woodson. Please take center stage.”

  I touch my collarbone to make sure my pillowcase piece is still there. Pulling me back. Pushing me forward. And then I walk out to the middle of the stage and turn around so that my back is to the judges, so that I’m facing that huge damn screen.

  George slinks off stage. I stare at him as he slides on past me, but I doubt he can see the fire speeding from my eyes to where he stops and stands in darkness. Next to him, Jacks gives me a sarcastic two thumbs-up while next to him, Hayden’s smile is paralyzed. But Rio. With sincere eyes, Rio mouths the words, “Break a leg.”

  I whisper back to her. “If I don’t break my own out here, I’m definitely going to break his.”

  I bow my head and wait for my music.

  A million images flash through my mind, none of them clear, but all of them fighting to be. Clamming with my mother. George on our beach. Rose and the clam gun. The money and the names and the drugs and her body her body her empty body, leaving my home, never to return.

  I take one gigantic deep breath and close my eyes.

  I know why I’m here. To beat George’s lying traitor ass.

  And to dance myself clean, too.

  FOURTEEN

  The music starts with a low hum.

  I rise on the balls of my feet in elevé. Close my eyes. Lift further like a doll, an invisible string pulling my head, neck, back, so that only my toes graze earth below. I slide my coiled right foot north, along the strong curves of my left leg. It’s stiff and rigid, supporting every ounce of my weight—though here, in this moment, I am weightless.

  I hold it there until my music speeds, tempo speeds, heart speeds, and then extend it into the air, staying in that position for eternity.

  The beat of my song drops, and I leap. Soar, into the blackness of my own barely pumping heart. But the rest of me. The rest of me stays back somewhere between the wings of the stage and my bed, in Summerland. Warm with the memory of sleep. Safe with the promise of a thousand maybes.

  My music plays on and I dance.

  I fly.

  The shell of my body shatters, releasing my soul from the purgatory of longing. Liberating my heart from pain. My legs are no longer my legs. My arms are no longer my arms. I am a blackbird. I am free. I am clean.

  No longer can I feel my neck attached to my head, moving, in any direction.

  Can’t feel my fingertips—don’t know if my hands are open or closed.

  Can’t hear my music, the rhythms muted by my heartbeat, thumping in my chest heavy and hard and fast and heavy.

  Can’t see the screen, flashing my picture and pictures behind it. Birds. Trees. Waters. Rain. Summerland. Summerland.

  And my brain. Black. Blank. Numb.

  But I don’t know where it starts or stops or if it comes from my head at all, or my heart or my eyes or my ears or my feet or the stage or the music or the memory of what it is I’m doing here, and why it is I’m doing anything at all.

  And then suddenly, the lights come on.

  And I’m here.

  In the middle of the stage. Staring into these lights above me that shine so bright. They’re burning through me. Burning me down to ash.

  My hands are open now—that I know. My palms are pressed flat against my chest.

  No music is playing, but I can hear that no music is playing. Someone out there coughs and I can hear it. Someone sighs or gasps or sucks in air or lets it out—and I can hear that, too. I’m in my position, my final position. I’ve finished my routine.

  A pain shoots through my body, from the toes on my left foot. I’ve felt it before in Katina’s studio. There and then gone. Hurting, but not like this. I don’t remember when it first started. If it came last year or years ago. I only feel it when I feel it. Now, it winds its way through all of my other parts. My calf, my thigh, my hip, my spine, my neck.

  But the lights are on.

  So I pull my head straight. To see what it is I can see.

  “Please step forward, Magnolia Woodson,” a voice says. And I know, as my heart and head and body know, that the voice belongs to Gia Gianni.

  And the pain disappears.

  “Magnolia,” Gia says. “You have a big reason for coming here today, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve heard about it from George. But would you like to tell us about it in your own words?”

  “No.”

  Elliot taps his fingers on his tabletop. The noise magnifies by a million in this auditorium and I think they’re probably capturing it on the screen behind me, though I wouldn’t know. “We want personal stories for our show,” he says. “If you have one worth telling, we’d like to hear it.”

  “He said it all. There’s nothing more to tell.”

  Astrid Scott bites her lip. Her eyes dart back and forth between the other judges. “Elliot means that, well, quite frankly, your solo was exquisite. Look around you. Listen. You’ve taken our breath away.”

  I inhale. “I want to dance. George told you just how much I want to be on the show. If I was good enough, then let me. If I wasn’t, send me home. Please, just let me go.”

  Elliot straightens in his chair. He crosses and uncrosses his arms. Next to him, Astrid leans forward and takes a long drink from her bottle of water. Wipes her puffed lips with the back of her hand. And next to her, Gia folds her hands together and tucks them under her chin.

  Finally, it’s Gia that speaks. “The fact is, there’s just no way we could deny you a spot in the competition. Magnolia Woodson, it would be my pleasure—all of our pleasures—to work in your presence. You danced like the name of our show. You danced like you need it to live.
”

  Elliot waves a small rectangular piece of cardboard at me.

  I take seven steps forward. My hand reaches out and my fingertips open and then close around it.

  “Welcome to the show. We’ll see you in LA.”

  I know there are so many things I should say to him, to them, like thank you. Thank you so much for this opportunity—no, dancertunity—to be on their show. But I don’t say any of it. Instead, my fingers pluck the ticket. My body turns around. And my feet. My feet walk offstage.

  Strong.

  Confident.

  Finished.

  FIFTEEN

  I have no idea how I got backstage, but somehow, I did it.

  I’m shaking and buzzing, but all I can think about is how George betrayed me. I scan the room but he’s not anywhere. Seconds later, I’m surrounded by people I’ve seen and people I haven’t. They crowd me like I’m something special and pat my back and offer me sips of water and say things about me being amazing, angelic, inspiring, perfect.

  I touch my cheeks with my fingertips. The cameras are on me, close to my face and surging chest, but I don’t care. I’m smiling. Big. Hard. Real. I did it. My plan will work. This is going to change things for me and Rose. More than ever, I know it will change things.

  Someone next to me points to the stage and mumbles something about the girl who’s on next. Something about how life pretty much sucks for her, having to go after me. Me.

  Jacks crushes the can of whatever he’s just finished and tosses it across the room into the garbage, like a basketball. “I thought you were going to crash and burn. You were like a scared little rabbit out there.” He sighs. “You weren’t terrible. Better than most people around here.” He eyes Liquid. “Definitely better than that guy.” Liquid doesn’t answer. Just gives Jacks the double middle finger and drops down for a head spin.

  Even though it’s coming from Jacks—pretty much the last person on earth I’d ever expect a compliment from—I can’t help but let my heart feel the warmth and swell of what he’s said. I was better than most of them. I let it hammer through like a thousand beating drums. I was good. And this will change things.