Michael felt heat flow through his face as he stepped off the bus. He knew it was completely unreasonable of him; no one absolutely KNEW where he was headed. But he knew, and that made it embarrassing.
The fifteen-year-old slouched, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his second-hand blue jeans. Did they have to have such a huge sign on the front of the building, to make this experience even worse than it already was? Why couldn't Lincoln do this? But he knew the answer to that. Lincoln wouldn't do this. And since Lincoln was, yet again, between jobs, without Michael's sacrifice of pride, he and LJ would go hungry.
He ducked his head as he walked through the door into the building, just like he always did. He didn't have to read the sign to know the place anymore. Chicago Area Food Shelf.
"Oh my God, are you serious?" she heard another dancer say as she entered the dressing room. "I thought that was just a joke."
"There is no way she could make it in that part, as tall as she is—" another girl replied, giggling.
Both girls froze when they saw Sara. Finally, the first dancer, a girl named Michelle, said, "Hi Sara," sounding extremely uncomfortable.
"Hi," Sara said. She put her dance bag on one of the benches and opened it, taking out her neatly folded leotard and tights and turning her back to the rest of the girls changing into their dance clothes.
She changed quickly and stashed her bag in the corner, leaving the other dancers behind as she moved into the studio.
They'd been talking about her, Sara knew it. The fifteen-year-old was 5 feet 8 inches tall, and she prayed that she was finished growing. But there was nothing she could do about her height…except be a damn good dancer.
Michael struggled to open the door with his arms full of bags from the food shelf, but finally he got the key to turn. The door flew open, and the bag he'd been leaning against it went flying into the main room of their apartment.
"Shit!" Michael cried as the cans of food flew across their dirty carpet. He watched in horror as one of the cans hit LJ where he was sitting on the carpet, playing with a matchbox car. The almost-five-year-old let out a loud wail. "LJ, I'm sorry!" he said, rushing over to the little boy.
LJ kept crying. "Oww!" he whined. "You threw it at me!"
"I didn't throw anything at you. The bag broke," Michael said. "Let me see your leg."
LJ showed his leg to Michael, who inspected it. There wasn't even a red mark. "You're alright," he said. "Shh. Where's your daddy?"
"I was asleep," Lincoln growled. "What the hell is all this noise about?"
Michael straightened up and looked over to Lincoln, who was standing in the hallway and leaning against the wall. He looked angry, and his eyes were bloodshot. From a lack of sleep, or from pot; Michael wasn't sure which.
"The bag broke," Michael said.
"No shit," Lincoln replied. "Why the fuck does that require screaming?"
Michael bit back a groan of frustration. Lincoln was going to be difficult, of course. Why did he always have to be difficult when Michael was already at the end of his rope?
Michael shook his head. "Sorry," he said. He turned and stooped, picking up the cans from the food shelf.
He could feel Lincoln watching him. "You went to the food shelf again." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Michael said, carrying the first armload into the kitchen.
"Stop doing that," Lincoln said. "We don't need that kind of help. Don't you think food stamps are enough?"
Michael flung open their cabinets, which were empty except for a box of Saltines, half-gone. "I don't know," Michael replied sarcastically. "There's no food in here. It's not like YOU were gonna go get us more food. Or did you find some magical job while I was doing the food shelf trek?" His embarrassment over having to go to the food shelf was just magnified by Lincoln's anger that he'd done such a thing. They needed the food, didn't they? What else would they eat?
He turned his back on Lincoln and put one of the cans inside the cupboard.
He heard Lincoln's footsteps crossing the carpet really fast, and he turned instinctually, just in time for Lincoln to grab his shoulder and slap him, hard. Michael reeled from the unexpected attack. He flinched and threw his hands up.
Lincoln shoved him back against the counter. "Don't be a smart ass with me," he warned. "I'm doing all I fucking can, so don't mess with me! You think you can do it better, be my guest! Otherwise, you can just shut the fuck up about what a goddamn bad job I'm doing!"
And then Lincoln was stepping across the living room in huge steps, and he was gone, his coat in his hand. Michael flinched again as the door slammed hard after him.
He blinked a few times, then took a deep breath and brought one hand up to his stinging cheek. That had been one hell of a slap.
"Uncle Mike?" He heard LJ's voice, and he looked down to where his nephew was sitting on the floor. Oh God. "Why did Daddy hit you?"
Shit. "I did something bad," Michael replied, without thinking. Then he winced inwardly. What a great thing to teach his nephew, that his daddy would hit him if he was bad. "And I'm too big for a spanking," he added, figuring his nephew would understand that concept.
LJ nodded, looking sage as only a little kid can. "You should be good, Uncle Mike," he said solemnly. "Daddy's spankings hurt."
Michael hand touched his cheek again. It still felt hot from Lincoln's hand. "Yeah," he said. "I know."
Sara checked her posture in the mirror again. She felt gargantuan suddenly, and it was all Michelle and Leanne's fault. Too tall for the part? She could get it; she was a really good dancer! They were just jealous, that was all.
Around her, the other dancers seemed so petite suddenly though. Even the next tallest girl, Hannah, was shorter than she was by two inches. And smaller-boned, it seemed. Her shoulders were so wide, compared to theirs.
God. She'd never noticed how huge she was, before today. How had she stared in the mirror since age six and never noticed her outrageous height? Her completely less-than-optimal bone structure?
"Miss Tancredi!" Madame cried. "Stand up straight, please! We are ballerinas! We do not slouch!"
Sara blushed and corrected her posture. She saw Leanne turn her head slightly and whisper something. Michelle giggled primly. Neither girl faltered the least in their sequence.
"Alright, ladies, that is enough for today," Madame said. "Go change, and I'll post the parts on the dressing room door. I know you've all been waiting impatiently for the results."
Sara hurried into the dressing room with the other dancers and stripped out of her tights and leotard, carefully folding them and placing them inside her dance bag. She stepped into her street clothes quickly and followed the rest of them out to where Madame had posted the parts.
"I got it!" she heard Michelle cry. "Yes!"
Oh no. She and Michelle had been vying for the same part. Did that mean…well, she wouldn't assume.
She pushed up to the door and hunted for her name. Finally she came to it at the dead bottom of the list. Her heart sank.
Sara Tancredi…………2nd Understudy.
She felt her throat get thick with tears, but she blinked hard and turned away from the door, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder.
She left the dance studio quickly.
Her part? She wouldn't even be onstage unless two people got ill, or broke their legs. She wasn't a really good dancer. She wasn't anything. Except a giraffe. Michelle and Leanne were right. What had she been thinking?
Her father's driver was sitting out there in the black sedan. She got in without a word and buckled her seatbelt.
"Are you alright, Miss Tancredi?" the driver inquired politely.
"I'm fine," she replied.
His job done, he put the car in drive and started towards the house. Sara forced herself to hold in her tears.
She would not cry. Crying was not productive. Crying would not get her the part, nor the next part, nor the next. She couldn't fix her height…but maybe she could do some exercises. Make her body look more dancer-like? Some toning, or cardio? She didn't exercise much out of the studio…but she could start. If she was really, really fit, maybe she could make herself into a better dancer. The best dancer. And then Madame would ignore her giraffe-like height, and just see Sara. Just see how Sara could dance.
It was a plan. And Sara could do that.
"I think that's a great idea, Sara," her father said.
"Really?" Sara said. "You'd pay for a personal trainer for me?" She couldn't believe it. She'd thought she'd have to argue with her father for a long time, but he was just going to give in, right away.
"Well, yes," Frank Tancredi replied. "It's always good to try to improve your health and get in shape. You wouldn't want to get fat like your mother, after all."
Sara winced at her father's cruelty, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Anyway, I know that you're a bigger girl, genetically, and you just have to work a little harder to stay trim. That's your mother's fault; you just inherited that."
Sara looked down into her lap, feeling her ears get hot. Was her dad calling her fat? She stared at her thighs. Maybe with good reason; they suddenly seemed huge.
"Don't worry. I'm sure a few months with a personal trainer and you'll be in the best shape of your life. I'll have one of my people find one for you. You just decide what you want out of it, and he or she will show you how to get it. Make it worth my money, Sara. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," she replied.
"Okay then," he said. "Go on, then."
He nodded at her, and Sara nodded back, then let herself out of her father's office.
She raced to her room and shut the door, locking it behind her. She needed to assess right now, exactly how bad this situation with her body was, and decide what she wanted.
She stood in front of the mirror on her wall and pulled off her clothes, leaving them in a small pile on the floor next to her. Then she studied her body, trying to look through someone else's eyes.
She was horrified.
"It would be easier to list what not to change," she muttered to herself, running her hands over her stomach. "No wonder Dad was calling me fat. He was just being honest!"
Suddenly, her reflection made her feel ill. She reached for her clothes and yanked them back on as fast as she could. Then she grabbed her journal and opened to a fresh page, falling facedown on her bed.
"Diet. Exercise," she wrote. "I am going to get a dancer's body, with thin arms and legs, tight muscles, narrow torso, small breasts. No wonder I'm just the understudy…it's not a show for dancing zoo animals. And even if it was, what do they do with a combination of giraffe and elephant? Put it in a freak show!"
She put down her pen and thought. There were diets in all those magazines. She'd do one of those…or maybe the trainer could help her out…but until then, she'd do a magazine diet.
She shook her head. However she'd let herself get so bad, she wouldn't let herself stay that way.
Michael wasn't hungry. He plopped a plate of macaroni and cheese in front of LJ and said, "Eat."
LJ picked up his fork and dug in eagerly. Michael watched him, thinking that at least LJ didn't have to look at that food and think about everything Michael had gone through to get it. The food shelf, and the bus ride home with those bags of food, feeling like he had a sign on his back…and then Lincoln's crazy over-reaction to a little bit of angry sarcasm…no wonder Michael had no appetite.
On the other hand, because Michael wasn't eating, there was enough macaroni and cheese left over for tomorrow's lunch for LJ too, and maybe dinner, depending on how much his nephew actually ate.
This lack of appetite thing could be good, he mused. It would mean less trips to the food shelf. That would be great. Lincoln always said he ate like a horse anyway; it wouldn't kill him to eat less.
Michael pinched at his stomach. There was a definite roll of pudge there; not a huge one, but enough. He remembered reading in health class that if you could pinch an inch of fat, that was too much. There was at least an inch there. That was supposed to be bad for your heart.
So he could kill two birds with one stone then. Less trips to the food shelf and get healthier. He wondered if he could get his hands on that old health book again and see what kind of advice it had.
He heard a key in the lock, and his muscles tensed. Lincoln was back. Would he still be angry? He didn't want to have it out in front of LJ, not again. Especially not after that display earlier. LJ was getting old enough that Michael worried about the effect Lincoln's temper would have on him. Lincoln didn't often lose his temper like he had earlier; he'd only slapped Michael a handful of times in his entire life. But when Lincoln got angry, he got physical. He grabbed and pushed and yanked and shook; it was just how he dealt with things. But Michael knew that watching that would be scary, in the eyes of a four year old.
"Michael?" Lincoln said.
"In the kitchen," Michael said, forcing himself to keep his voice normal.
Lincoln walked in. "Hi Daddy," LJ said, still shoveling macaroni into his mouth.
"Hi, LJ," Lincoln replied. He ruffled his son's hair before turning to look at Michael. "You okay?"
Michael knew he was asking about earlier. He nodded. "I'm fine," he replied. He'd been surprised, but Lincoln hadn't harmed him. "We're both fine."
"I went to Vee's," Lincoln said.
Michael nodded again. "You want some mac and cheese?" he asked, pointing over his shoulder towards the stove. Usually he would have made some comment about how it was the best money couldn't buy, but not today. He and Lincoln were still on that shaky, stilted ground.
"Ate at Vee's," Lincoln said. "I just came by to check on you two. I'm heading over to Derrick's for a little bit. I'll be back later. Lock the door, alright?"
"Yeah," Michael replied, feeling strangely glad that his brother was going again. The tension was too thick; he couldn't imagine trying to tiptoe around all night like this.
"Alright. I'll see you later, okay buddy? Listen to Uncle Mike," Lincoln said, leaning down and kissing the top of LJ's head. "See you later Michael."
"Later," Michael replied.
He watched as Lincoln crossed the apartment again and left. The door shut more quietly behind him than it had after his last exit. The silence seemed stark.
LJ was still eating, but Michael stood up and crossed over to the door to lock it. The lock clicked into place.
Michael was tired. This day had been so strange. He blinked a few times, his eyes suddenly feeling heavy.
"You tired yet, LJ?" he asked.
"Uh-uh," LJ said around a mouthful of orange macaroni. "I'm done though." He held his bowl up.
Michael took the bowl from him and deposited it into the sink. "You wanna watch TV?" he asked with a sigh. He knew the answer to that already, and he had a lot of homework he had to do. It would give him the time he needed to get his homework done and the dishes cleaned up without LJ whining around him every three minutes.
"Yeah!" LJ said.
"Okay." Michael hit the power button. They didn't have cable, but LJ would happily watch almost anything, and Michael took advantage of that. "Sit down, okay?"
LJ settled about three inches away from the screen as a rerun of 'Everybody Loves Raymond' came on. Perfect.
Michael sighed and grabbed his backpack from its place near the door where he'd deserted it much earlier. He'd nearly forgotten about all his algebra, but he knew Mr. Gibson wouldn't forget about it.
In the background, he heard the laugh track.