Spin the Sky

by MacKenzie, Jill;

  “He slipped,” I say as another cameraman pushes two kids next to him away. He comes closer to me and I know what he wants. To capture my truth. To get it all on film so he can blast it on that large screen later.

  “Come on, Magnolia,” Rio says. “He didn’t do it on purpose. He’s your friend. He wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “Screw you.” My voice echoes through these blackened backstage walls. “You can believe his lies if you want to. But I know him better than that. Better than you ever will.”

  One of the show’s producers walks backstage. He eyes Rio and George and me, the anger weaving between us. “Everything okay back here, kids?” He nods to the cameras. They give him a thumbs-up because they’re still rolling. He walks away. It’s all he cares about.

  I push Liquid out of my way and march to the benches where George’s stuff and my stuff are still stashed. I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. Then I pick up George’s bag and chuck it at Rio, hard. It hits her smack dab in the middle of her chest. Liquid pounces toward me, ready to detain me again.

  I hold up one hand. “Don’t bother.” I turn to Rio. “Take him. It’s pretty damn clear you’ve wanted him since the second you saw him. So have at him. He’s yours.” I fling a water bottle at Liquid. He ducks and it hits the wall behind him and all his friends laugh, though Liquid doesn’t.

  “You too. You can all have your god George. I’m better off without him.”

  With my left foot, I kick the garbage can that holds my pillowcase. The pain juts through my leg, all the way up to my throbbing head, but the can doesn’t budge an inch. So I kick it again. Harder this time.

  The wide eyes all around me still feel stuck to my face, my hair. I see Liquid touch George’s cheek and I hear Jacks call me a bitch and a psycho and a bunch of other things that I could call him too if I wanted to. I bolt through the bathroom door. A camera tries to follow me in but I pull the door closed, quickly. I hear the door slam against the lens and I know I’m going to pay for that later, but I don’t care.

  My chest collapses onto the countertop between two marble sinks. I stare at my own reflection in the mirror. Bits and pieces of my mother glare back at me. Her deep-set eyes. Her pointed chin. Her sharp widow’s peak. From outside, someone calls my name.

  Damn you. I shake my head at the person in the mirror. Damn you for leaving us to pick up your pieces.

  I flip the lock on the door, desperate to hide the new tears that form and pour—ones that have nothing to do with George’s betrayal.

  And everything to do with my pillowcase piece.

  Bloodied. Discarded among soda cans and fast food wrappers.

  A piece of trash, that girl.

  Trash.

  SEVENTEEN

  There are cameras everywhere. Five of them, ten, swiveling in every direction, but all I can see when I push through those double wooden doors is Mrs. Moutsous. Her broad smile and blue-green eyes—endless like oceans—warm me. George has those same eyes, that same smile. I wished that she’d come. I can’t believe that she did. The sight of her makes me believe that I can go back.

  It’s happened between me and George before. We’ve had our share of arguments about meaningless stuff when we were six and ten, and even had one last year about something I can’t even recall right now. We’ve always made up.

  My hand feels my collarbone. The empty space taunts me. This isn’t like one of our normal spats. This time is different.

  Mrs. Moutsous searches the crowd. She stands on her tiptoes and ducks left and right around the people and cameras in front of her. When her eyes find mine, they brighten with flecks of light. “Magnolia!”

  I wave and manage a smile back at her. “Mrs. M. You came.”

  “Of course I did.”

  I rise up on the balls of my feet, searching next to her, behind her. Maybe there’s someone with her. A shorter girl, younger, with dark hair and silver eyes. Maybe she drove with Mrs. M. to meet us—meet me—outside these doors, too. I take a couple steps toward Mrs. M., but before I get close, Camilla Sky leaps between us and sticks her mic in my face and her cameraman follows. Camilla’s still wearing that smug expression. And even though I notice she’s changed into a taupe sequined minidress, she doesn’t seem to notice that I’m an altered version of my old self.

  “Let’s hear it, Magnolia Woodson! What do you have to share with our viewers today?”

  The camera comes closer to me. I hold my head high. Breathe deep. Smile. If they’re going to show this on TV, I need there to be some good stuff, too. “I made it.” I hold up my ticket to LA. The excitement is there in the depths of me, somewhere. It has to be.

  Camilla tosses her hair back. “Of course you did! When I first talked to you outside I told the crew you’d make it.” She winks, like she’s sharing some big secret with me. “A woman just knows these kinds of things.”

  I so badly want to ask her if she also knew something—anything—about how my life was going to unravel, pulled apart by the single thread that’s held me together. And if she did, why didn’t she warn me that I would likely never feel the same about anything, anyone, ever again. But I don’t have time. A second later, the next competitor flies through those same wooden doors.

  It’s Happy Feet Hayden. Even when a gray-looking man and woman, with tears pouring down their cheeks, leap over the entire crowd to get to her, Hayden’s smile, glazed like a donut, never wavers. The cameramen zoom to her, her family, their hugs, her smiling, smiling face.

  Two seconds later, the doors open again. Liquid and his groupies. They’re huddling around him and then they lift him over their shoulders while he lies back, their arms cradling him. And the cameras are loving it, fighting each other for shots of the street kid turned sort of superstar. The boy who slept in boxes and needs no one, needs nothing except this.

  Next Jacks appears, one fist crossed over his chest, one fist pumping through the air. “Jacks has arrived! Jacks will dominate!” he shouts. A few people laugh, I guess, because he’s talking in third person and a few more cheer for him. But I don’t have time to see who it is that rushes over to congratulate him. A second later, the next two competitors fly out of those doors.

  George and Rio.

  Their arms are linked together and their faces give away nothing about what’s transpired. Nothing other than total elation, which Camilla inhales. Her eyes meet mine for a second before she scuttles off toward them, taking her cameras and that “gut feeling” she had about me with her.

  “Georgie Porgie. Rio Bonnet,” Camilla coos. “Please tell me that you two will be joining us in LA for Season Six. I just don’t think our viewing audience could take it if you didn’t.”

  “We made it,” George says, and pulls Rio in tighter. “We blew them away.” He turns his face, his left cheek away from the cameras. Rio leans her head against his chest. George leans toward Camilla’s microphone. His eyes flicker to the place I’m standing, back pressed against the cold concrete wall. There’s nothing in his eyes. Nothing that I recognize.

  Mrs. Moutsous makes her way over to George. “You made it, George! My son, my son.” She turns around to yell these same words to the crowd and cameras and everyone claps and cheers because, really, there’s nothing as precious as a mother whose hopes and dreams for her child come true.

  She curls her arms around his neck and then around Rio’s neck, even though she’s never laid eyes on Rio before this exact moment.

  “How did you know?” George asks her. “I wanted to tell you but I couldn’t.”

  “When I went to Deelish and Quinn was there instead of Magnolia, I put two and two together,” she says. “And then I ran into Mark. He was poking around outside Deelish. He said he thought you guys were on your way down here.” She ruffles his hair. “I got in my car and sped most of the way. I never would have missed this in a million years.”

  I close my eyes. When I open them again, I’m no longer staring at them, but out the window, onto the street. Th
e truck driver’s words—the last ones she said to George before we left—float through me, like a spirit.

  Take care of our girl here. Don’t let her out of your sight.

  And then his.

  Couldn’t, even if I wanted to.

  I lean my forehead against the window. This can’t be happening. It can’t.

  And then I hear Mrs. Moutsous. “George. Where’s Magnolia?” she says. The cameras focus in on her, her mouth changing from smile to something else. “Oh my goodness,” she says. “What happened to your face?”

  Before I can hear another word, I slip out the door.

  EIGHTEEN

  My eyes dart left and right, searching the world for refuge.

  Because at some point, while I was in that auditorium changing the entire course of my life, the skies opened up and it’s pouring down something awful now. I gape at the massive drops of rain hitting the pavement while millions of thoughts zoom through my brain, the most important one being: Why on earth did I leave Dolores’s umbrella in the auditorium?

  Across the street, I see a bunch of restaurants and shops, all with green-and-red-striped awnings over the doors. A few people are already huddled under them. I’m just about to run to get under one too when I hear this voice from behind me, shouting my name.

  “Hey! You can’t just leave! It’s in the rules!”

  I turn to see Camilla’s assistant, Billy, holding a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, racing to catch up to me.

  He grabs my arm, too fast, too tight. “I said you can’t leave. You’ve got to go back in there and put on a happy face so they can catch it all on tape.” He shows me his list, with my name on it. “You’re on the show now.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here.” I fling his hand away and try to shield my face with my hands but the rain pelts me on all sides, soaking me through to my core. I shiver. Next to me, Billy doesn’t seem to care that he’s drenched, too.

  “No way. They told me to bring you back. I’m supposed to make sure you’ve got all your flight details, and you’ve signed all your release forms.” He taps his soggy clipboard. “Forms first. Then you can go home and do whatever menial things you kids do while you’re not making TV history.”

  “I can’t go home.”

  The guy sighs. “I don’t care if you pirouette yourself to the moon and back between now and tomorrow. But come tomorrow afternoon, if your ass isn’t at that airport, I’m going to hunt you down. Got it?”

  “Fine.” I grab his pen and flip through his pages. “What does all this say?”

  “That you know the rules, your rights, and what you’ve committed to. You’re on the show. You’re ours now. You’ve got to do what we tell you to.”

  My head snaps up to search his eyes. Once upon a time, I did what everyone told me to. Get out. Get lost. Get away from our families because your family is poison. I won’t be that anymore. This is different. I take his pen and sign my name. My name. Here, it doesn’t mean what it used to. Here, I can be anyone I want.

  Billy plucks his pen from my fingertips. “You’re not off to a great start, you know. Sure as hell ain’t going to win any votes if you’re not where the cameras are.” He turns and races toward the Heritage Building. He’s so right. The cameras don’t lie. Once they’re on me, everyone will know I’m a Woodson, no matter what. I watch him until he disappears through those damn double doors.

  I race across the street and squeeze myself in under the awning with the other businessmen and couples, tourists and buskers, all struggling to keep dry. Standing next to me is a woman wearing a trench coat, clutching the hand of a little girl with eyes so big and brown and perfect looking. Her mother’s eyes meet mine. Her gaze drops down to my leotard and sweats—no jacket, nothing to cover my arms, which are blue and covered in goose bumps.

  Her eyebrows push together as she places one hand on her little girl’s curly, damp head and stares at her like she’s silently willing her to have more sense than me when she grows up. The sight of them huddled together like everything they want and need in the world is right there between them makes me shake, and not because I’m cold. I have to get out of here. I slip away from the awning and sprint down the street, darting puddles and water and mud.

  After a few blocks, I’m out of breath. I slow to a quick walk, letting the rain cover my face until I’m so wet I feel like I’m made of water. I pass a few coffee shops and Laundromats but I don’t go in any of them, no matter how warm and dry they look. As drenched as I am, none of these places will want me anywhere near their fine establishments. I honestly don’t blame them.

  A few streets later, I spot a huge electronics store blasting music and flashing lights. We don’t have anything like that in Summerland, so I can’t help but make my way over to it. The front window is filled with massive TVs, all on different channels. Sports shows and news and commercials and soap operas. And then, on one of the TVs on the bottom row, I see it. Live to Dance. I watch as the screen changes from sweeping shots of the crowd filled with blurred faces that I can’t make out to the Heritage Building to Camilla Sky to a few of the dancers I never saw audition and a few that I did. I see that ballroom couple and Jacks and I see Legs and the tail end of her ballet routine. Underneath, the words: BEAUTIFUL BALLERINA STUNS STAGE run across it over and over and over. I’m sure Legs will be thrilled when she sees it. Then the screen changes to show Rio, her eyes greener on TV than they were in person, if that’s even possible. Under her face scroll the words: GRANDDAUGHTER OF AIMEE BONNET REALIZES HER DESTINY. I close my eyes. Back away from the store. Before it’s my face, my name I see on that screen, too.

  On the corner of the next street, I spy a white brick building lit by old-fashioned lamps that make the place look inviting, in a homey kind of way. I get closer to it and read the sign hanging above its front door: PORTLAND SHELTER. The next thing I know, I’m climbing the steps two at a time and pressing the buzzer. It’s a long shot, I know. Her being here—being anywhere I am is a long shot. But still, my chest gets all tight and achy at the possibility she could be.

  I press the buzzer a second time. The door clicks open.

  Before my whole body is through the doors, a gray-haired woman sitting behind a low desk asks, “Can I help you, young lady?” She raises one bushy eyebrow. So does the younger woman next to her.

  I clear my throat. “My name is Magnolia. Magnolia Woodson.”

  The older woman cocks her head. Exchanges glances with the younger woman. Smiles at me. “Are you looking for a place to stay tonight?”

  “No. I mean, yeah. Maybe.”

  “Okay.” She pushes a clipboard in my direction, gently. “Would you mind signing in? Then we’ll get you set up.”

  I take her pen, poise it over the last blank line, scanning the names above it. Most of the handwriting on this sheet is totally illegible, so I can only read like 50 percent of the names here. And the ones I can read aren’t what I’m looking for.

  “Also,” I say. “I was wondering if someone I know was here. Is here, I mean.” My voice doesn’t even sound like me, the words rattling through my ribs and out my mouth.

  The older woman sits up straight, surprised. “Oh? It’s your first time here, right?”

  “Yeah. She’s a friend. A friend of mine’s mother, I mean.”

  “I’m Eleanor,” the older one says, holding out her hand. She points to the younger one. “This is Chloe. We’re the intake counselors here. If your friend’s mother has been here recently, we’ll definitely be able to tell you.”

  Chloe opens the top desk drawer and pulls out a notepad and a pen. She taps the pen to her mouth. Her voice is soft, careful. “What’s her name?”

  I reach into my bag for my wallet and take the picture out of the plastic sleeve. I stare at it. The face I know so well—yet somehow so little—stares back at me with its dead eyes. When I glance at Chloe and Eleanor, they’re smiling at me but sort of cautiously. Like I might break if they look away.


  I turn the picture around so they can see it. “Patricia. Her name’s Patricia.”

  Chloe nods and flips through a couple of sheets in front of her. “Does she ever go by Patty or Pat?”

  “No. Never.”

  “And her last name is?”

  “Woodson.”

  Chloe’s head snaps up. Crap. I’ve signed my full name on their intake sheet and she’s read it and now they know.

  “Can I see that photo?” Eleanor holds out her palm. “Maybe we’ve seen her when we’re in the field.”

  I hand over the photo but my gaze wanders behind them to a door that someone’s just opened, leading to a second large room. It must be some kind of common area, filled with at least eight different men, and maybe even more women. Some of them are munching on vending machine snacks, a few of them are chatting with each other, but most of them are solo, huddled up in a way that makes it clear they’re not looking for company of any kind. It’s these ones that make my insides cold. Knowing that even here, in a place where the warmth and company is free, they’d still rather be alone in the world than with people who want them.

  My eyes rest on one lady, standing by herself near some kind of old juke box. She’s tall and thin, with the blackest of hair. So black and straight, that I can’t help but think of one person, and one person only.

  I watch her press a couple of buttons on the box, but no music comes out. But she must hear something in her head, because the next thing I know, the woman’s got her arms all stretched out in this perfect, graceful “T.”

  In front of me, Chloe or Eleanor says something. But my eyes and ears are glued to that woman and her fingers, which are so delicate. She starts to twirl, round and round and round. My stomach rolls over. Underneath her weight, her legs are wobbly like a newborn fawn’s.