by Lily Foster
“You’re forgetting about Marcy Price. She dwarfed us. But yeah, with the whole preemie thing and being twins…My mother thought we’d be better off if she held us back. You should see our kindergarten picture.”
“Taller than all the boys?” she asks, laughing.
I nod. “It’s me and Sienna standing together in the center of the top row.”
“We’ll toast to your birthday tonight then.” She lets out a breath and smiles. “I’m an awesome role model. I went and ordered your underage butt an alcoholic beverage and didn’t even ask if you like red over white, or if you even drink at all.”
“Everything I know about wine is from watching cooking shows, but I like to try everything.”
The server sets our glasses down and asks for our order but we haven’t even looked at the menu yet.
“Is there anything you don’t like, Skylar?” When I shake my head, she goes ahead and orders us a pie with brussel sprouts, pancetta and ricotta, and another with sausage and broccoli rabe.
“Sounds good.”
“Trust me. You’ll be daydreaming about this pizza from now on.”
“Do you come up here a lot?”
She sips her wine and then shrugs. “Once or twice a month maybe? My boyfriend is a professor here.”
“What department?”
“Humanities. Jack teaches philosophy.”
“I wouldn’t know him.”
“What are you majoring in?”
When I answer, “Education,” we both smile. “I’m concentrating on Early Childhood, though. I don’t think I’m cut out for dealing with obnoxious teenagers the way you are.”
“It can get pretty crazy in high school but that’s where I’m meant to be.” She takes another sip before placing her glass down on the table. “He doesn’t get it either. He wants me to move up here and get an adjunct position, settle into academia.”
“But you don’t want that.”
“No. I love what I do. But I guess it’s always good to have a back-up plan.” That pensive look is gone, her eyes now smiling with mischief as she leans in and whispers, “Especially since those old crows on the school board are always grumbling about getting me fired.”
“Still?” I shake my head when she nods. “They’re idiots. I’m seriously not blowing smoke up your butt when I say you were the best teacher I’ve ever had.” She raises her eyebrows and laughs as I take another sip. “I’m not tipsy. Not even close.”
“Then thank you for the compliment.” Miss Dawson lets out a breath. “I had to order new uniforms for the girls this fall. Those adorable spangled numbers were apparently too provocative.”
“The red, white and blue ones?” When she nods, I add, “I loved those outfits. Our uniforms were lame compared to them.”
“I always wondered why you were a cheerleader instead of focusing on dance. Nothing wrong with cheer, it’s just that you’re a talented dancer. I’d watch you doing the routines with your sister in the gym sometimes.”
The server comes and sets our food on the table, and I’m glad for the break in conversation. I love dancing, always have, but I held back from doing anything Sienna was involved in when we were in high school.
As kids we always played the same sports and were on the same teams. I played piano, so did she. I mean, it made more sense in terms of arranging activities around our parents’ schedules, but it reinforced this idea that me and Sienna were one in the same.
“Since you watch cooking shows, I’ll go out on a limb and assume you’re a foodie.”
I take a slice of the white pie. “I make this one at home myself, except I use pancetta instead of prosciutto.”
“Where on earth can you find pancetta in our town? Seriously, I’d think you’d have to sub in deli ham and green beans for this recipe.”
We both bite into our pizza simultaneously and moan. Then we laugh, and I almost cry because this connection, this feeling of friendship is so good.
She raises her glass to mine. “I’m so glad I ran into you today.”
“Me too.”
“So?”
“I’m getting there. I think transferring in as a junior is what’s making me feel so out of the loop.”
She considers this, takes another bite, sips her wine and then looks at me. “You’ve also been through a devastating trauma. Let’s not leave that out of the equation.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to attend the funeral. Jack and I took an extended trip over the summer. I went to see you two when I heard the news but you were both gone, moved out. I know Sienna is still in town.” She looks guilty when she adds, “I have to reach out to her.”
I squeeze her hand, wanting to reassure her. “It’s all right. We’ve been getting through it. And Sienna is doing really well. She’s—.”
“Having a baby.” Her look is somber. “I heard.”
“I mean, she’s married. It wasn’t some unplanned, out of left field situation. But I get it. I was a little disappointed when they told me too.”
She rolls her eyes. “Listen to me, like I have all the answers.” She reaches for the other pie, slides a slice onto my plate and then hers. “He was always a nice kid, Garth. I just hope she doesn’t regret it.”
Shaking my head, I can’t help but smile. “That’s the thing with the two of them. They’re so damn happy I don’t think it would ever occur to either one of them to think they were trapped or that life had passed them by.”
“Sienna was always a dreamer, and I mean that in the best possible way.”
“Garth is the same.”
She tips her glass my way and then drains the last drop from it. “Then here’s to them. Maybe I need some of that blind optimism. Maybe you do, too.”
“So…Jack?”
“His name is actually Jaxson,” she pauses, “with an x.” She leans in and her eyes light up. “Which kills him, by the way.”
“Why?”
“He fancies himself a serious academic, but he’s been saddled with a name right out of a CW teen drama or a bad reality show. He’d prefer to be a Theodore or an Arthur, or maybe even a Thaddius.”
I giggle, the wine now doing its work. “So he goes by Jack? That doesn’t exactly give off the philosopher vibe, now does it?”
“Nope. But in the eyes of other people, at least that nickname affords him the possibility of being named John, a solid old-world name. Or even Jackson spelled traditionally, like he’s descendant from some established southern family.”
“He could change it legally.”
“I’m sure that’s crossed his mind.” She sighs. “I’m making him out to be ridiculous and he’s not. He’s a good man. We’re just at a crossroads, I guess.”
I nod, even though I’m not really sure what she means. Miss Dawson seems as young and bubbly as she always has. Back in high school all of the boys crushed on her. She barely seemed old enough to be a teacher, but when you sat in her class there was no question about who was in charge. No one ever dared to make a crude comment or to challenge her in any way. And who in their right mind would want to be on her bad side? No, she had so much positive energy that you wanted a piece of it, for some of it to rub off on you.
“But enough about me.” She signals to the waitress for some water. “Do you think maybe you have too much time on your hands? I know classes can be tough, especially when you’re balancing a full course load, but maybe a part-time job or joining a club would help?” Before I can answer she breaks into a seated full-body groove. “Maybe joining the dance squad would be just what the doctor ordered.”
I look around to see if she’s making a spectacle of herself, while it’s obvious that she couldn’t care less. I need some of what she’s got.
“I have a work study job in the education department office, but it’s only eight hours a week. That’s all I qualify for since I have a full scholarship, which is bananas. I’m not exactly a Rockefeller.”
“And what about da
nce? It would be a great way to meet people.”
Feeling more hopeful than I have in weeks, I nod. “Yeah, I will look into that.” I look down for a moment, fiddle with my napkin in my lap when I say, “I always wanted to dance in high school.”
“Oh my God! What stopped you?”
“I made this dumb pact with myself when we started freshman year. No more twinsies. I’d be different. Sienna took Spanish, I took German. She stayed with piano, I took guitar even though I hated it. Sienna joined the dance team, I became a cheerleader.” Looking back up to her I add, “I mean, we were basically joined at the hip otherwise, so there was really no point.”
“Look on the bright side. You now sprechen sie deutch and play guitar.”
A laugh escapes. “Um, no, I don’t deutsch sprechen. You got that translation wrong but I’m hardly any better. I barely got through that course. And I can only play the opening chords of Smoke on the Water, same as every other failed rocker.”
She channels Madonna. “But you can dance.”
“Yup.” I find myself imitating her ridiculous seat dance. “At night, I lock the doors so no one else can see.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “I’m coming to the recital this spring and you better be up on that stage.”
I sound ballsy to my own ears, accepting the challenge. “Maybe I will be.”
On the sidewalk outside, she hugs me close and I do the same, feeling like I just got a shot of much-needed adrenaline.
“Hey, in a few weeks I told Jack I’d go to some faculty benefit concert thing with him. They’re boring as all get out and he usually abandons me to kiss up to the department chairs, but sometimes the music is good. Want to come? You’d be doing me a solid.”
Being that I have absolutely nothing on my social calendar, I accept. She takes my number and I program hers into my phone.
Before she turns to go, I hug her again and thank her.
“For what?”
“For dinner and…For everything.”
Part Two
It’s Hard to Be a Saint in the City
Chapter Six
Skylar
I’m here twenty minutes early. It’s become routine.
I like practicing in front of the mirror for a little while before the rest of them show up to start stretching. I’m rusty and I don’t like feeling as if I don’t belong.
None of them make me feel that way. This is just a club, not a bona fide dance team or anything. But still, it’s easy to see that most of them have been enrolled in dance classes since they could walk.
A few just like to dance as a way to let off steam, same as me, but the majority are hard core. I find myself looking up terms on my phone after practice or texting Miss Dawson. They go something like this: Kick ball change? Um, hello?
I think she’s loving this as much as I am. She reminds me that she’s coming to the spring show, making it sound like a threat. There’s a performance right before Christmas break, but I’m pretty sure I won’t have enough rehearsal time under my belt to even make it onto the stage for that one so I’m keeping it to myself.
“You’re not blowing us off again tonight, are you Skylar?” Pilar walks into the studio—make that glides in—and sets her bag down on the floor next to mine.
“Um…”
“Nope, nada, no way.” Her boyfriend Devon shakes his head. “Last week you promised, so no more lame excuses. I want to see that fine ass out on the floor,” he turns and winks at his girl, “and so does Pilar.”
Pilar, Devon, Isadora, Misha—they even sound like real dancers. I’m even more sympathetic to Grace’s boy Jax than I was before. This crew reads like the lineup of principal dancers at the Bolshoi. And while Skylar Perillo doesn’t exactly read working the pole, it doesn’t have the same ring as say, Simone Hamilton, just another one of the insanely talented dancers in this group.
“If she doesn’t want to go, leave her alone.” Simone always sounds like she’s bored, so when she’s talking about me it’s unnerving.
Isadora sits between me and Pilar to start her stretching. “Simone doesn’t want you stealing any of her thunder. She thinks she’s Beyonce once she gets out on the dance floor.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of any competition from you slags.”
“Slags?” Pilar teases. “For the one hundredth time, you’re not British. You’re from Cleveland, remember?”
Once I stand, Devon comes up behind me and gets me going in a slow samba step. “Come with us. You look like you need some fun.”
And he’s right. So after practice I rush back to the dorms, take the quickest shower known to mankind, and slip into the only thing I own that just might pass for club attire.
There are no clubs where I’m from. There are a few bars that have line dancing on Friday and Saturday nights, but those are even considered out of town. The majority of my dancing has been done at house parties, where jeans and a tight top are considered cosmopolitan, so getting into a cab in high heels and a minidress feels downright foreign.
I’m in the dorm that houses scholarship and foreign visa students, so none of my dance troupe friends are nearby. And while I’m not usually one of those people who can’t walk into a party alone, right now I’m wishing I would have arranged to meet Pilar and Devon outside.
Standing on the sidewalk at the address they provided, there’s nothing to indicate that I’ve arrived at the right place. It’s dark out here and the building looks like some old abandoned factory. I was expecting, I don’t know, a red velvet rope, a few beefy bouncers—something to indicate that I’m not on the set of some horror movie.
I text Pilar: Are you here?
Yes, she writes back. Thought you were flaking out.
I’m here, I think. But…
Before I can type anything else, Misha pushes open the warehouse door and the pulsing beat of dance music fills the air.
“Devon told me to come get you. We forgot you’ve never been here before.”
“Oh my God. I thought I got the address wrong or something. I was expecting—”
“Studio 54 circa 1978?”
I don’t answer because I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me or not. Odds are that he is.
“C’mon…You’ll love it. The DJ is a friend of mine.” Wrapping one arm around my waist as he leads me inside, he leans in and whispers, “And you look smokin’ hot.”
Mischa is not into me, I’m one hundred percent certain of that, so I take his compliment and the fact that he insists on buying my first drink as kind gestures meant to make me feel more at ease. I feel like a fish out of water right now so I must be looking the part, too.
“I didn’t peg you as a martini girl.”
“This is the first time I’ve had one. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Taking my first sip, I do my best to hide the fact that it tastes like poison going down. People seriously drink these for pleasure?
Mischa laughs and squeezes my hip. “Just think of it as liquid courage.” He points towards the center of the dance floor. “See where we are?” I nod when I see a few familiar faces. “Have a few more sips of that and then come join us.”
I nod and then watch as he makes his way back out onto the floor as if he owns it. And once he gets back to his boyfriend, the two of them begin to move together in this perfect way, as if their bodies are channeling the music. A mash up of one of my favorite Artic Monkeys songs with Harry Styles’ Woman is playing. The beat is slow, pulsing and hypnotic.
As the song blends into another track, Simone wedges herself between the two of them and they become the sexiest threesome I’ve ever seen—make that the only threesome. Misha’s hands are caressing Simone’s hips, and his boyfriend is pressed in close behind her body. It’s beautiful, and hotter than any choreographed routine because this is natural—it’s second nature to people who were born to dance.
Absently sipping on my martini, which I can’t say tastes all that bad now, a tap on my should
er breaks me out of my trance. I didn’t even realize I was moving to the music until the man leans in to whisper, “I like the way you dance.”
“Um, thanks?”
He looks me over from head to toe, his attention making me so uncomfortable that I gulp down the last few sips of my drink. I only register the basics on him: tall, dark and handsome, expensive smelling cologne, and a vibe that makes me wary.
“Can I get you another drink?” Before I can tell him no, he orders another martini from the bartender, a dirty martini. I don’t even know what that means but it doesn’t sound good.
“Hey, um, no thanks. I’m here with friends and I’m good, really. But thank you.”
He looks to the bartender behind us who’s doing some elaborate gestures with the martini shaker. “No pressure. But he’s already made them, so just let me enjoy having a drink with a beautiful woman and then I’ll send you back to your friends.”
Skylar Perillo on a normal day? When I say no, I mean it. If anyone tried to override me or boss me around on my home turf I’d laugh in their face. But that confidence that always came naturally to me just isn’t there lately.
The bartender pours the martinis and I take mine directly, knowing enough not to let this stranger handle my drink. I take a few polite sips as he makes small talk. He asks my name. I lie. Where I’m from. I lie. And the effort it’s taking for him to keep this up is like pulling teeth, so I think he’s actually relieved a few minutes later when I tell him I have to get back to my friends.
I walk away from him laughing to myself, giddy from the alcohol and just pondering the absurdity of this whole big city mating routine. We are a bunch of wild animals out here in the night. Dressed to impress, faces painted, everyone struts their stuff in the hopes of landing a partner. And looking down at the high heels I’ve only bothered to strap myself into once before, I have to acknowledge that I’m no different from the rest.
