Disclaimer: Jackie, Mae, and anybody else you recognize belongs to Joseph Moncure March and, in this case, also to Michael John LaChiusa. I know it's short, but if you read this at all, please, please, please review. Thanks and love.
"This'll make it easier, make it better…"
I'll never know, I guess, how in hell I remember those words. It was the fall I was with a dance corps for the first time, at a conservatory in New York City. I think I was 18, but again, who knows, it was a long time ago.
It was the year I tried to bleach out my hair, and the year the boy who said those words to me found out I wasn't a virgin after all. And for the record, 'this' had nothing to do with my saying yes. My consent had never been an issue. The boy was the head of my line, the special favorite of our instructor, Madeleine. In reality, he was the only boy in our class she could tolerate. When I came to that first rehearsal with borrowed dance shoes over my shoulder he was the first dancer I saw onstage, and he was beautiful. Classically beautiful, chisled and handsome, with a power and control that informed every movement. Every girl in the corps was in love with him. And then there was me. I was the youngest among them, something I've been careful to avoid ever since.
My first dance partner was a girl named Mae, a little blonde chatterbox who swallowed half her words when she was trying to flirt, which she did ineffectually and almost constantly. When I bleached out my hair, Mae didn't waste a second telling me I looked like an angel. She's always been a kid in my mind, maybe because I've heard both Boston and New York described as the nicest and rudest cities on earth, while Mae was too far displaced from Poughkeepsie to know her ways yet. But at 22 with a little sister she didn't see and one shining night at the Palace Theater to her credit, I'm sure Mae considered me the child, the protégé. Time has been less than kind to her. 10 years later, nothing has changed about her manner except the pink costume dress I remember ripping after rehearsal one night in our desperate rush to share skin.
I remember watching the boy, the head of the line, moving on the stage the night after the first rehearsal, moving with a taut grace like he was in a trance. Madeleine had already shut off all the lights, but she granted him time to practice as late as he liked. I watched him pause whenever his song ended. I watched him come awake, remember where he was, and then start up the victrola once more. He practiced until midnight, and as he stayed, I stayed.
"This'll make it easier, make it better…"
Maybe I remember those words still because they were new to me. Father neer used them, words almost, but not quite, of permission, and almost, but not quite, of apology. He would only ask me so imperatively, "Don't you want to be good…?"
I wanted to be good for a long time. But the city didn't have rules like that.
When I watched him that one night on the stage, I didn't hide. I liked to be seen. He liked to be alone, and so neither of us got what we wanted that night. A week later, it was common knowledge that we hated each other. Only now we were combatants for Madeleine's attention and elusive praise We both stayed late every night, dreaming of sabotage and our names in lights as we circled each other, always watching, always watching.
This boy was older, graceful, beautiful, a worthy opponent. I hated him, and I wanted him for the same reasons. Maybe there's something wrong with that. Maybe not. But I'm past caring about him. I don't even remember what his name was.
One late rehearsal he tripped me up at the knee in the middle of the run. I heard him laugh in a voice hoarse from disuse, and leap off the stage like a cat. "It's Jackson, isn't it?"
No one called me that anymore. "Jackie." I didn't want to put any weight on my left leg, but I tried hard to walk as though it didn't hurt. The line leader watched me, and then he followed.
He never seemed to make any sound when he moved. We argued, maybe I hit him, maybe not. Whatever I did didn't hurt him enough. All I remember clearly are those words in a strange mouth. "This'll make it easier… make it better…"
He took something out of his pocket, a paper tube, particles of white powder in the grimy light. And with those words of desperation and near-apology, he offered his handful to me, trying to distract from the movement of his left hand. The rest of the night rushed by, with certain scenes remaining clear and sharp as photographs. I found out later that he was engaged to another girl from the corps. A girl with a timid, poetic face and black hair. Pretty enough, no one could dispute that, and a perfect cover. I was his first real conquest. I don't know why I was upset or even surprised when I found out. I started to walk away when he said my name. I turned and slapped him hard across the face. Not hard enough to hurt. Not nearly hard enough. I turned again, and I ran faster and harder than I really needed to. No one was chasing me.
When I started meeting that boy, I hated him because he was better than me, and somehow he knew it and didn't know it. I wanted him for the same reason. I thought there may have been something wrong with that. I still felt that way; shaken and alone with my own stash of poison, but I felt a new answer rising inside the haze. It was only wrong if you were the one being chased. If you believed it was wrong and so you ran from it. But if you were the one with that power, if you hated and wanted something and would stop at nothing to get it, you could take it and run and never, ever look back.
Those jumbled words in a strange mouth sent me forward into the night. And now… now look again. See what, if anything, has changed. Maybe I didn't understand when I reached for my own stash of poison and whispered those words to you that my place had switched in my roleplay, my story, my life.
At some point, we can't change any more from what we once were. Maybe you understand that better than I. Because I've never stopped running. Who knows anymore what we were, what we are, and what, if anything, has changed.