Okay so I started a new story...and wow this is long...I'M SORRY! And for this story please ignore everything you know about the boys except the fact that they're in Minnesota (You'll see why later). Ummm... I think that's all! Enjoy!
I wish I could say the day Carlos came home was extraordinary from the start. That I woke up knowing something special would happen that Thursday evening in October.
But the truth is, it's like any other day of the week.
I go to school, then I get on the train and go to ballet.
People fawn over the beauty of dance; the long legs and elegant shoes and expertly twisted buns. And it's not that they're wrong. Those are all part of the reason I was drawn to ballet at the age of three. But I'd be willing to bet those same people have never set foot in the dressing room of a dance studio. Because you can't quite look at it the same once you've been on the other side.
Straight chaos.
And I'm late, because the Metra never wants to run on schedule when I actually have to be somewhere that matters. I squeeze into an empty corner by the lockers and toss my coat to the floor as I step out of my flats. Everyone is chattering away in various stages of undress, but I'm the only one still wearing all my street clothes. Logan once mentioned he'd like to be a fly on the dressing room wall, and I laughed in his face when I realized he was serious. It's all A-cups and square hips in here and he said it didn't matter, that boobs are boobs, but I think he'd be underwhelmed. Also, it reeks of body odor and feet.
I glance to my right, where Ruthie Pathman perches on the edge of the bench, already slipping on her toe shoes. Her back is set in a perfectly straight line and there's not a curl out of place in her tight, tight bun.
"Staring at me won't help you get dressed any faster, Cartwright." She says this without looking in my direction."
"Not all of us have the luxury of driving ourselves into the city," I say as I tug on my tights. "The train was late."
But I pull them up too fast, and a run appears mid-thigh, fast and final. I probably have a new pair somewhere in my dance bag, but I don't have time to deal with that right now. The other girls are already beginning to file out of the room and I'm not even in my leotard.
Ruthie shoves her bag into her locker. "You'll have to think of a better excuse than that. Nobody likes the blame game."
She winks at me after reciting one of our ballet instructor's favorite lines, then snaps her combination lock shut. In a certain light, Ruthie looks like one of those angels pictured in the Bible—pale skin and wheat-colored curls and big-soulful blue eyes. But the only angelic thing about her is her dancing. She's tiny but she's been in more physical fights than anyone I know, guys included. And that's saying a lot—I go to school with a disproportionate number of assholes.
She walks through the doorway then pokes her head back into the dressing room. "Three minutes." Her lips curve into a canary-eating smile before she closes the door firmly behind her.
I can get away with lacing my shoes in the studio, but I still have to put up my hair and Marisa flips when she sees so much as a stray hairpin. It's all regimented: solid black leotard, blush-pink tights, no loose hair. I am so screwed. I gather up the pile of clothing pooled around my feet and throw it all in my locker. And I'm just going to have to chance being screamed at about my hair because I'll be locked out if I don't run.
The ribbons on my pointe shoes tangle around my ankles and heels with every step, conspiring to trip me as I dash down the corridor. Thanks to the snug elastic against my ankles, I manage to stay upright and fly into the studio only seconds after the official start of class, before Marisa will lock the door for the next hour and a half. She never lets anyone watch the senior company practice.
Marisa is also serious about punctuality, so much that if you are even two minutes late, she will open the door only to stare you down and ask you to leave. We all learned long ago to set our watched to the studio's clocks. I'm never late and I am her favorite, so I expect a warning at the most. But she's not standing near the door at all. Instead, she's in the far front corner of the room, going over sheet music with an accompanist I've never seen before. She's so preoccupied that my lateness doesn't even register. I smirk at Ruthie as I use the extra time to tie up the ribbons on my shoes and fashion the thick black hair that crests my shoulder blades into an acceptable bun.
This place feels more like home than home sometimes. There are three studios in the building and they all look the same: sprung floors to absorb shock and protect our feet and joints; long wooden barres running along two sides of the room, their surfaces worn from the grip of so many hands; one whole wall made of mirrored panels that can make you feel like the Swan Queen on your best day and a bloated, dizzy mess on your worst. This is the only studio without windows and it's my favorite because it means there are no outside distractions.
There are twelve people in the senior company and most of us have danced together since we were kids. Nine girls, three boys; attitude and ego for days. Caryn has amazing turnout, and some days I'd kill for Elissa's arms and the height of Toby's leaps as he propels himself into the air. But I have good feet—these arches were made for pointe shoes—and good musicality, and it may sound conceited, but I know I'm one of the best dancers in this class.
Ruthie stands at the barre, stretching her hamstrings. "Saved by the substitute accompanist. Impressive."
"Where's Betty?" I ask as I take my spot next to her. Kaitlin is on the other side of me, sitting a few feet away from the barre in her right split. I can see the muscles in her legs tense under her tights as she stretches to the tips of her toes.
Ruthie shrugs. "No idea, but where'd they find this guy? He looks kind of…grungy."
"You're a snob."
But then I turn to get a better look at him and—oh.
Ruthie looks at me curiously. "You know him or something?"
I do. He goes to school with me in Ashland Hills, our little suburb outside of Minneapolis. He's a year older. A senior. And he is Logan's dealer.
"I think he goes to my school," I say, and face the barre so I won't have to wonder what he's doing in my ballet class.
Marisa finally crosses the room to close the door, then stands in front, waiting for our attention. She doesn't have to wait long; she's the kind of person who commands attention, whether she's trying to or not. We're all intimidated, but not because she's scary, not like the tales of evil ballet mistresses patrolling the room to poke us when we mess up. More because she's a former professional dancer and this is her studio and we've all seen what she can do on a stage. I found her old bio once, and according to my math she's in her mid-forties now. She doesn't look much older than her twenty-year-old head shot, though.
"Before we start today, I'd like to introduce you to our new accompanist," she says.
New? Marisa is careful with her words. She would never introduce a substitute as someone "new". When I glance at him, his eyes are already on me. It turn back to Marisa. She tells us Betty's husband is sick. Alzheimer's. everyone is quiet because we know Betty has been with her husband since high school. They had children and she always said the only two things that mattered in life were her husband and the piano, in that order. It's not fair that she won't always have both.
"In the meantime, everyone please welcome Kendall Knight, the newest addition to our studio family," Marisa says with a smile. "Kendall comes with a strong musical background and we're lucky to have him."
A strong musical background? Either this is the best-kept secret in all of Ashland Hills High or Marisa is totally fucking with us, because I wasn't aware he could play any instruments. Kendall gives us a nod followed by a smile you would miss if you looked away for even a second. His blonde hair is long, like he hadn't had a haircut in a while. He wears the same clothes I've seen him in for as long as I can remember: faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and black boots with a heavy sole.
Our eyes meet again. He knows me. Not very well, but I see him at school sometimes and at most of the parties. And once, I went with Logan to pick up and eighth at his house, and Kendall looked out at the street from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt and saw me sitting in the passenger seat of Logan's car. Kendall is pretty much focused on pills and Logan usually sticks to pot, but they're friends, so he makes an exception for Logan.
Until now, my school and ballet worlds have been segregated, except for a handful of recitals Camille has talked her way into attending. But now Kendall is here and I don't know how I feel about it and he just keeps staring at me, until I give in first and look away. Ruthie catches all this and flicks her eyes to the ceiling as we line up at the barre in first position for plié.
I've been dancing so long that ballet has become an extension of me. I can no longer stretch my kegs without pointing my toes, and I'm always aware of my arms, my back, the roll of my shoulders. As I walk between classrooms, while I'm rinsing dishes, even when I'm picking out apples with Mom at the market.
Some people associate memories with music, but I can align most of mine with dancing. The mere mention of chicken pox send gold-sequined swatches through my mind as I remember secretly suffering during my fourth-grade recital, how I dug my fingers into the stretchy fabric of my costume again and again when no one was looking, because if they knew, they wouldn't let me dance. The slightest whiff of menthol reminds me of two years ago, when I developed tendinitis and kept slathering my ankle in smelly ointment to numb the pain.
Dancing on pointe reminds me of Trent. I got my first pair of toe shoes when I was twelve and he became my first boyfriend a year later. It's not just the timing, though. I fell for him as fast as I grew to love pointe work, so for me, the two are forever linked. He asked to see my pointe shoes a couple of weeks after we'd been together. I slowly pulled them out of my dance bag in the front seat of his car and slipped one onto his lap, the ribbons swimming between us in silky waves. I'd just gotten a new pair, so they were still unmarred; a soft, sweet pink against the dark blue of his jeans. He slid his hands around the satin almost wonderingly, then looked over and said they were pretty, like me. Sometimes I'd complain about the pain in my feet and he'd say I should quit if it hurt so much. I don't think he understood that it was all worth it, sore feet and ankles included. The only thing he seemed at all passionate about was me.
Some days, in the beginning, I was so tired from dancing on pointe that I didn't feel like going to class. And some days, I didn't feel like doing what I did with Trent. Lots of times, he was exactly what I wanted, and I felt sexy when he pinned me to the backseat of his car with just his torso as he whispered in my ear that I was special. But sometimes I wished we could go back to the kissing and slow touching with all our clothes on. On those days, I couldn't understand why sex with him made me feel a little dirty. After all, we'd been doing it for months.
We stretch and strengthen our ankles and feet as we work through tendu and dégagé, rotate our hips through the arc of rond de jambe. My favorite barre exercise is grand battement. It's so powerful, thrusting one leg as high in the air as you can and returning it to the supporting leg quickly, but with total control. To really pull it off, both legs have to stay perfectly straight as we execute grand battement devant, à la seconde, and derriere—to the front, side, and back—on both sides.
Once we're finished at the barre, we move from our place along the wall to start center work. The center exercises are similar to what we just finished, but we're warmed up now, so we can perform them without the additional support of the barre.
By the time we get to allegro, my muscles are limber and my legs lengthen straight and assured. I hold myself up with the invisible string Marisa always talks about, the one that makes my leaps sky-high, my neck long and elegant. Even now, even with his music serving as my soundtrack, I am able to put Kendall out of my mind and dance like no one else is in the room. I feel Marisa's eyes on me. I'm worried she thinks I look tired, so I make my next jeté count even more than the others.
I allow myself to sneak another look at Kendall. He's good. Very good, like he's been playing piano as long as I've been dancing. It's the same classical music we've danced to for years, yet there's also a personal connection that makes each note seem fuller, more meaningful, as if the piece was crafted specifically for our ballet class. I couldn't be more surprised, and I wonder if there are rules about revealing that kind of thing in his world. Like piano is for sissies and you damn well better hide it if you don't want to be labeled as such.
I'm exhausted when Marisa dismisses class. I dance three nights a week and every Saturday. Each time, I leave dripping with sweat, my chest heaving and my legs burning. Today, I wonder just how bad I look and avoid glancing at the piano before I leave the room.
I have a standing dinner date with Camille and Logan after ballet on Thursdays. It sounds fancy, but it's not like we're sitting in a dimly lit restaurant with tablecloths and heavy flatware. It's always Casablanca's and always the back booth with the cracks vinyl seats and a dirty sugar dispenser in place of sweetener packets.
Sometimes we drive around and smoke a bowl before we want to go into the diner. Today would've been a good day for that. The winters are shitty, but nothing beats October in Minneapolis. I know it means everything is dying, but I could stare at the leaves for days—the burnt gold and burgundy and flaming orange hues bursting from tree branches. I like the fat pumpkins perched on front porches and how the air is perfect—cool but not freezing, warm enough under the sun but not stifling.
But we can't drive around today because Logan has a trigonometry test tomorrow and wants to study. His boxy sedan and Camille Robert's powder-blue Bug already sit in the lot when I arrive from the train station. I slide into the booth just in time to hear Logan extolling the virtues of Goodwill over independent thrift stores. Logan Mitchell has an opinion on everything and it's usually the least popular one if he can help it.
"How was class?" Camille turns to me almost gratefully. Logan's impassioned rants are too much for even her sometimes.
"Fine. Except—"
"Except what?" She moves a strand of brunette-colored hair behind her ear and reaches for the menus tucked behind the ketchup and mustard bottles.
"Except…I was late because of the stupid train," I say as I stack my bag and coat on the empty seat next to Logan.
"He stops pulling his trig textbook from his back to look at me, his dark eyes narrowed. "Good story, Abbi."
I made a face at Logan before proceeding. "I have a question."
"The answer is probably no."
"I'll take my chances." I lower my voice a little. "Do you still get your pot from Kendall Knight?"
"Of course." Logan looks at me carefully. "You in the market?"
"No way." Camille shakes her head emphatically across the table. "Half the fun is freeloading from Logan. You can't buy your own."
"I'm not," I say, laughing at the look Logan shoots her. "But a friend might be. In the market, that is."
"Pills or grass?"
"Shrooms," I say, just to throw him off his game.
His face creases. "That's random. What friend is this? Everyone at school goes through Kendall."
"A friend from dance. She doesn't go to school here."
"I can check and get back to you."
"No, it's okay." God, what would Kendall do if he knew I was asking about him? "She said all the guys in the city are flakes or creeps, so she was looking for someone chill."
"Kendall's the most chill dude I know." Logan raises and eyebrow at me like this is common knowledge. "If he can't get them, he'll find someone who can."
"No, it's fine." I pretend to search for something in my bag so Logan can't see my lying eyes. "She probably wasn't serious anyway."
Camille twirls a straw among the ice cubes in her cup. "I don't think I've heard Kendall say more than twenty words that whole time I've known him."
"Probably because he can't get a word in around James." Logan opens his book to the study guide section.
"Why are they friends anyway?" I ask, buttoning my cardigan all the way to the top. It's pilled from too many washings and the once-vibrant green has faded into a murky olive, but I keep it in my bag for trips to Casablanca's because it is always freezing in here. Too much A/C in the summer, not enough heat in the winter.
"It's not that complicated." Logan shrugs, scratching the side of his nose. "Kendall has the drugs. James has the money."
"Kendall is cute," Camille says thoughtfully before she sips from her straw. "But I do not like his big black boots. They're oppressive."
The sixtysomething waitress who's been giving us the stinkeye since I got here trudges over from behind the counter to take our order. Jana. She hates us and is here every time we are. Or maybe that's why she hates us. She taps the sole of her dingy canvas sneaker against the floor as she recited the daily specials, sighs when Camille takes too long to decide between fried pickles and onion rings to accompany her grilled cheese. Logan orders a bowl of chili.
Everyone bitches that the lentil soup here is bland but I choose it because I know exactly what I'm getting. They put it on the menu after someone complained about the lack of vegetarian options, and the cooks either don't know or don't care how to prepare it well. So it's kind of mushy and virtually tasteless, but at least I don't have to worry about creams or cheeses in my soup.
Someone asks Jana to turn up the television when she walks back behind the counter, and that's when I notice. Every person on a stool and in a booth, every server and busboy and fry cook is staring at the television hung in the corner of the diner. Usually it's tuned to soap operas or Wild games or crappy made-for-TV movies.
But today everyone's eyes are glued to the breaking news report on the screen, and our eyes follow. At first I think it's the exhaustion from class catching up to me now that I'm able to relax. Because as I look at the news anchor, the camera flickers from her face to the picture of my old best friend.
My dead best friend.
I'm standing and then I'm walking toward the counter without thinking, oblivious to Camille and Logan, who are close behind.
Carlos's name comes up once or twice a year—on the anniversary of his disappearance or when someone submits a false lead. Like, someone saw him in a Burger King in Vermont, or he was spotted in line at an amusement park in Utah. I figured out a long time ago to stop believing I would see him again. He was my best friend, but everyone knows kids missing longer than twenty-four hours are sexually abused or killed or both.
But this time is different. The news anchor's glossy lips are stretched into a smile and she stumbles over her words, trips over the last-minute script. She's telling us that he's alive. Carlos has been found.
My ears are the first things to go. I can no longer hear voices, just this buzzing. Raw and unstoppable and I can't tell if Camille and Logan and the rest of the diner hear it, too, because then my eyes get stuck on the school picture that was taken the last year I saw him. I used to keep that picture in my nightstand, separate from the photos of my other classmates. Seeing it on-screen, I feel like someone has stolen my journal and displayed it for the world to see.
I am somewhat aware of the silence as I take in that for the first time ever, no one in this greasy spoon is saying a word. That they're all looking from the television to one another, slack-jawed. That Camille is stepping forward for a closer look, and Logan is rubbing my back, searching my face with his huge, dark eyes.
Carlos is alive.
"They found that boy," Jana says, her hands gripping the black handle of a coffeepot.
I try to hold myself up, but these legs, these same legs that will dance me all the way to New York—they can't. They are made of jelly and I would fall to the ground if Logan didn't catch me. The particular combination of relief and confusion and elation is too big to comprehend, too big to do anything but lean on Logan in front of the counter, tears streaming down the hills of my cheeks until he and Camille lead me out on my jelly legs.
Outside into the brisk autumn air, where I catch my breath for the first time in minutes, where I say it aloud to convince myself it's true:
"Carlos is alive."
Carlos came back to us.
*Hides behind hands* Okay how bad was it? Please review!