I search out the bathroom and scrub my face and scour my teeth with my finger, then just roam around the airport checking out gift shops, trying my best to ignore the hunger in my stomach because I haven’t eaten in far too long. Before I know it, it’s 9 a.m. I check in and pass through security, then make my way to the gate. For the longest time, I don’t recognize any of the people who arrive at my gate after me, seemingly in pairs. But I scan eyes and faces hoping to catch some quick glimpse of her flushed cheeks, her long, silky hair.
I remember this one time, a few years ago. It was after auditions for the production of Coppelia that Katina was putting on. I’d been so nervous. I told myself I wasn’t going to get cast as Swanilda, even though I’d been practicing her part for a month and had it down.
The audition came and went. Ten minutes later, Katina posted the results. Swanilda was mine. Not Abby’s or Quinn’s or any of the other girls that had tried out with me. I was going to dance the lead. I deserved it.
One by one, though, all their mothers came to pick them up outside the studio, congratulating them for the parts they did get, for working so hard. I waited and waited for Rose to show up but fifteen minutes passed and everyone left and she hadn’t come. So I started walking home. The sun had already set and I didn’t like walking around after dark, for no other reason than it made me feel like I was all alone.
But then like five minutes into my walk, Rose’s old Pinto pulled up alongside of me. It was packed with balloons in every color, filled so full there were no remaining spaces in the car for her or me. On every single one she had written the words GO SWANHILDA in big black letters. I hadn’t even called her to tell her that I got the part, but somehow, she knew I would, and that was everything. Sure, she’d spelled the lead’s name wrong—adding an H unnecessarily—and sure, she was late, but I don’t remember caring about either of those things. The balloons were filled so big that they were all just on the verge of popping. When she pulled me into the seat next to hers, about eight balloons popped and made us jump and cover our ears like we were under siege, but together. We cracked up. She put the car in drive, which popped another four. Every time either one of us moved or laughed or spoke another balloon would burst and we’d piss ourselves and eventually we were just popping them for fun. By the time we got home, there were no balloons left. Just a car full of latex mess. But she had come for me. And it was the best thing ever.
Now, watching this airport get busier by the second, I pray that one of the hundreds of people dashing around me, in and out of doors, to and from departure gates and arrival gates, turns out to be Rose. I’d give anything to see her. I’d fill this whole airport full of balloons just to make her appear like she did in that ratty old Pinto.
But she never comes.
Eventually, a bunch of other people from my flight do though, most of them sleek dance types or cheesy television types, as well as a lot of older, parent and grandparenty looking people. One by one, the cameras start to appear all around me and, until this moment, I’d almost forgotten how it felt to be surrounded by them at all times, watching, scrutinizing, judging, like the eyes in Summerland.
I spot Liquid with his groupies playing Hacky Sack near the big window and Jacks slumped forward in a seat on the other side of the room, sleeping, snoring, his body like a volcano ready to blow. Nobody’s really doing much so the cameramen put their equipment down, except for one or two who film the few kids who are stretching and pointing their toes, which definitely isn’t me.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone—two someones—walking toward me.
It’s George and Rio. I take a series of deep breaths and tell myself that I’ve judged this all wrong. Maybe the two of them are simply hanging out the way George and I hang out. Have always hung out. Every single day of my life until yesterday.
But then I see Rio grab George’s hand and pull him behind a row of vending machines. I lean forward in my seat to watch them, but at this angle, there’s no way I’m within spying distance. So I get up. But really, a better view of the two of them, smooshed up against the machine that sells Cokes and Sprites and all the stuff dancers try to avoid, isn’t exactly what I need right now.
They’re not kissing. But their bodies are pressed together, her back against the hard plastic of the machine and his knee hitched up between her legs. They’re not kissing. But her right hand is spread flat on his chest while he whispers a bunch of God-knows-what into her ear.
“Will you look at the two of them?” a voice says from somewhere near.
“I know,” another, different voice says. “The show hasn’t even started yet and they’ve already coupled up. It’s so gay.”
I search the crowd for the faces that have said it because I hate it when people use that word like that and because I know who they’re talking about. It doesn’t take me long to spot that tapper, Hayden, coming toward me, with Juliette glued to her side. The girls make eye contact with me. I have to hold myself back from jumping in front of them and yelling, “It’s not gay, he’s gay!” so loud, the entire airport will hear me. The entire world.
I want to tell them about that time I saw him with Sammy Baker. I want them to know about the millions of times before the time with Sammy Baker, that were just like that moment he had with Liquid. Hot. Passionate. Full of hormones. And with guys.
But I don’t yell anything at the girls. Instead, I cover my face with my bag and scream as loud as I possibly can into the fabric. George and Rio. A couple.
These are the kinds of things I would have talked about with Rose, if she were here, with or without balloons. She’s the one I would have sat with, so I wouldn’t have to be alone.
A couple of the cameramen are on me, probably because of my scream, but I don’t care. I let my bag fall into my lap. I feel around inside of it, its emptiness suddenly very real. Two leotards, a couple of T-shirts, my toothbrush, my hoodie that already needs a good wash, and thirty bucks. That’s all I’ve got. Twelve hours ago, it didn’t seem to matter. But now, under the airport’s fluorescent lights, it feels ridiculous for me to go to LA with almost nothing. At least, before, I would have had George.
Fifteen minutes later, the woman working at the little desk outside my gate gets on her loudspeaker and announces the boarding call for my flight—Flight 201—to LAX. I watch as groups of other contestants line up, hand the woman the same ticket I’m holding, and then disappear through the doors. When most of them are gone, I sling my bag over my shoulder and go. Go through the glass doors, allowing myself to glance back over my shoulder and scan the rows and rows of empty chairs, one last time.
Just in case.
The plane is a lot more cramped than I imagined it would be, and not at all glamorous or luxurious-feeling the way they make it seem on TV.
I study the numbers above every seat I pass, taking extra care so I don’t miss mine, 14B. The stewardess puts her hands on her hips and plucks my boarding pass from my hand. “This isn’t a Sunday drive, sweetheart.” She points to my seat, right in front of her.
“Sorry.” I sit down, place my bag on my lap. “This is my first time.”
She takes my bag from me, and puts it under my seat. “Your first flight to LA?”
“No. My first time on an airplane.”
She steps back. Puts one hand to her chest. “Oh. Oh my. That is something. Well. Welcome aboard! If there’s anything I can do to make your flight more comfortable, don’t hesitate to ask.” She reaches into the front pocket of her apron and pulls out a pin in the shape of a toucan wearing a captain’s hat, with a cartoon bubble coming from his beak. The bubble says, Flight attendants are just plane great!
“Thanks.” I try to smile. I really do. But when I don’t muster the sort of enthusiasm I suspect she presumes I should, she narrows her eyes and saunters down the aisle, hips swaying.
I clutch my armrests, my nails digging into the rubber sides so hard it leaves marks. I search the cabin for a friendly face to make
this trip be okay. I recognize a lot of the other passengers. Like that swing guy, Lawrence, sitting with the hip-hop girl whose name I can’t remember to save my life. Like Hayden, still lit up and smiling, sitting next to the same tired-looking man and woman I saw cry for her at tryouts. Like Liquid, now without his groupies because I guess they aren’t coming with him, but with some girl with a shaved head wearing a fitted tank and low-slung jeans, her arms covered, like sleeves, with butterfly tattoos. And like Jacks, sitting with his knees up and his hat pulled way down over his face, next to some guy who’s wearing the same outfit, sitting in the exact same way.
Everyone here has someone next to them. Maybe they’re not the same people who drove them to auditions or hung with them backstage, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve all got someone here now, coming with them to witness this moment, maybe even the greatest moment they’ve ever had in their entire lives. Everyone but me.
Two seconds later, I spot Legs coming down the aisle. She tosses a magazine in her seat, one row up from where I’m sitting.
I bury my face in the safety procedure brochure from the front pocket of my seat. Until, that is, I actually read what could, potentially, happen on this very aircraft. I shove it back into the seat, where it belongs. Now my face is fully exposed, but it doesn’t matter. Legs and some woman who looks just like her are so busy bickering about luggage and the importance of “packing light” versus packing “in preparation for all things unexpected,” that they don’t even notice me.
“Mom,” she says. “You’re embarrassing me. Can’t we just drop it?”
Her mom reaches across her and pulls the shade down. “Fine. But you’ll be sorry when you’re the only one who didn’t pack one nice dress. You should never go anywhere without at least one nice dress. You know that.”
Five seconds after that, George and Rio and Mrs. Moutsous come down the aisle. They walk closer and closer toward my seat. I hear Rio’s voice all chatty and excited and George’s voice, too. He sounds the same as he always does. Confident and calm. I don’t know why I expected him to sound different. Nothing’s changed for him.
When the two of them reach my row, they swoosh on past me, submerged in their own little worlds like I no longer exist. But Mrs. Moutsous stops. She whirls around, her eyes wide.
“Magnolia, where have you been? I lost you after tryouts and then when I tried to find you to take you back to Summerland with us, you were just gone. I’ve been worried sick.”
“Sorry. I didn’t need to go home. I had everything with me so I came straight here.”
Mrs. M.’s forehead furrows with more wrinkles and lines than I’ve ever seen on her. “That was yesterday. You’ve been at the airport since then?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I had some errands to run first.” My stomach sinks. Such a lame lie. It’s not like I’ve had much practice. Until recently.
“You shouldn’t have run off without telling someone. I was frantic when I couldn’t find you.”
I try again. “I called Rose.” I stare at my lap. “She wasn’t home.”
“Excuse me. Ma’am.”
Mrs. M. and I look up to see that same chirpy flight attendant, hovering next to Mrs. Moutsous. Her frosted pink lips purse themselves in my direction, I guess, because I’m still not wearing her pin. She flutters her eyelashes at Mrs. M., and not in a nice way. “I need you to take your seat. We’re preparing for takeoff.”
Mrs. M. nods at the flight attendant, but she keeps her eyes on me. “I’m glad you made it, Magnolia. You and George have danced together since you were so little. Your mom would be so proud. Everyone will be.” She tilts her head to one side. “You know, no matter where you two go from here, I’ll always be proud of the person you’ve become.”
I inhale, her words feeling like the best, most incredible words a person could ever hear another person say. But when I don’t reply—can’t find the right words quick enough to say to her, Mrs. Moutsous turns around and makes her way to her row. To George and Rio.
To their shared happiness.
TWENTY-TWO
The hotel lobby is like something I’ve only ever seen in magazines. It’s completely white. White see-through curtains that hang between the bar, filled with lounge chairs, and the front desk. White tables and chairs and rugs that look super soft, though I don’t know if they’re the kind of rugs that you’re supposed to walk across. White ceilings where white chandeliers hang, made from tiny white shells.
I’m so busy staring at everything that I don’t even hear the woman—dressed in white—behind the white desk say Excuse me, young lady until she’s practically shouting it and the guy behind me—another contestant I don’t remember seeing try out—sticks his finger in my back and tells me to go.
So I do. “I’m with the Live to Dance group,” I mutter, though I’m sure it’s pretty obvious, what with the cameramen here taking shots of the lobby and the dancers doing twirls and pliés and all sorts of stuff that must seem totally ludicrous to the other, non-dancing patrons mingling in the lobby of this posh hotel. Behind me I hear Jacks’s voice cursing something about the pansy-ass something or other that did shitty-ass something or other on the way here. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Liquid doing more head spins while the girl who was with him on the plane does her nails with a bottle of Wite-Out.
The woman stretches her glossed lips into a smile, exposing two rows of veneered teeth. She doesn’t say anything about us because I guess she’s used to cameras and actors and movie stars and this is normal for her, when it’s anything but normal for me. “Welcome to Los Angeles,” she says. Her head bobs up and down but I swear her boobs don’t jiggle an inch. “Do you have a roommate preference or should I just assign you one?”
Crapola. Roommate? I had no idea we were going to have to share rooms at this place. If I did, I definitely would have chosen George as my roommate. I mean, in the past I would have. “I don’t know. I didn’t think.”
“You can choose your own if you want. Another girl, that is.” She presses a few more keys on her computer. “They’ve told us not to let the boys and girls mix.”
So I guess I couldn’t have chosen George even if we weren’t over. I glance over my shoulder. George and Rio are back there somewhere. I can’t see them, but I know they’re there. Just like they were there at the airport, on the airplane, and in the shuttle that drove us to this hotel once we landed. But now there’re at least two dozen people between me and them, other contestants and their family members, as well as a whole lot of the show’s crew. I wonder whom Rio will choose for her roommate and I wonder if, once upon a time, she would have chosen me. I think about how happy Liquid will be because he’ll finally get George to himself.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’ll share with anyone. I don’t care.”
“Suit yourself.” The woman drones on about spa services and continental breakfasts, and then hands me a rectangular card, her huge smile getting huger. Thankfully, I recognize the card as a room key, because I have stayed in a hotel twice before. That time in Portland when we went to see Giselle. And again in Seattle with George and the Gorge. On both of those momentous occasions, I remember thinking how cool it was to sleep somewhere where someone brought you fresh towels every day and made your bed and folded your toilet paper into cranes and rosebuds and delicate little fans. I remember thinking it was paradise.
I just don’t know why I don’t feel that way about it now.
The woman shakes my hand and tells me to enjoy Los Angeles. She’s so darn nice, except I can’t tell if her kind of niceness is real or not. And I can’t help but think of the one good hotel we have back in Summerland.
People were so pissed when it first went up, all decked out in fancy marble and sparse rooms. But when they started hiring all the locals for housekeeping and maintenance, people sort of forgave them for whatever it was that made them mad in the first place. Rose even applied there. They said they couldn’t hire her because she was only fourteen at the t
ime, but I bet they heard about us Woodsons pretty darn quick and wanted nothing to do with one, just like everyone else in Summerland.
I wonder if this lady would be as nice to me if she knew who I really was.
When I find my room, I stick the little card thing in the slot and when the light goes red, I push on the handle, but it doesn’t open. So I push on the door with my hand and when that doesn’t work, I try the card thing again. But the stupid red light just keeps flashing at me so I insert it again and again until pretty soon I’m so pissed off I end up kicking the bottom of the door with my sneakered left foot, which really freaking hurts.
And just as I’m about to sit down and pull off my shoe to assess the damage, the door swings open.
Only I’m not the one who opened it.
TWENTY-THREE
She laughs and it sounds like nails. It’s so not funny.
“Oh, it’s you,” I say.
Legs, from inside what’s supposed to be my room, rolls her eyes. “I’m pretty sure that’s what I should be saying to you.”
I stare at this girl, my gaze traveling up and down from her blonde head to her bare feet. She looks a little different from when I saw her a few days ago, having it out with Rio in the tryouts lineup and different from when I saw her arguing with her mom. Now, her thirty-plus layers of gloss have faded, revealing two pale, slightly chapped lips. And the rest of her—the rest of her is off, too. She’s wearing sweatpants, an old tank top, and flip-flops so worn even I wouldn’t wear them. Which is when I realize she doesn’t look different. She looks normal. Like she could be any girl out of Summerland, not the viper she was in that line.
Why isn’t this girl staying with her mom when I saw them on the plane together? I squint. There’s something else about her face that’s changed, too. Her cheeks are blotched and her eyelashes are all moist. Yep, no doubt about it. Legs has been crying. Which almost makes me feel a bit bad for her. Almost.
Spin the Sky Page 17
