When did a boy loving a girl become a prerequisite for a girl loving herself? The way I see it, boys are good for one thing and one thing only. And no, it's not sex. It's something much less useful, and quite honestly, much less de-stressifying.
Picking fights.
Whether old or young, full of faux-wisdom or raging hormones, males are abominably, inexcusably filled with bloodlust. I don't know whether it's a need to prove superiority in intellect or dick size, but males always find violence to be the solution to any and every problem. But when is it actually a viable solution? Never, I tell you. Absolutely not for even one damn pea-brain-pencil-dick-sized problem.
So based on this infallible logic created by the genius female psyche, or at least one genius female psyche, my best friend does not, in fact, need her prone-to-use-fists-over-the-beauty-of-the-English-language-pea-brained-pencil-dick problem, aka one Jasper Dipshit Whitlock. Especially when said Dipshit strings along my perfectly imperfect, yet insecure and hopelessly, emphasis on the hopelessly, romantic bestest best friend in existence.
"Maybe he just got confused...You know, we are very frequently on-again-off-again, and s-s-sometimes it's just hard to keep track," Alice tries to justify, after hours of silent tears and cartons of chilly Ben and Jerry's.
My eyes roll into the back of my head as I turn away from where she's sitting on my twin bed to grab another Cherry Garcia from my hot pink mini fridge, a regrettable leftover from my extreme teen girl phase. I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out the very obvious flaw in her reasoning. Alice is not a Jack Nicholson type of gal, if ya catch my drift. She definitely couldn't handle the truth, at least not without some comfy mental padding supplied by a generous, compassionate bestie. Fortunately, my ass has found a loyal friend in my delightfully giant beanbag, and so, I have the patience to coax her into accepting the truth.
"My dearest, most darling Alice, I, personally, don't understand why it's so hard for him to keep his hands and other unmentionables out of other girls' pants. You, on the other hand, no pun intended, seem to have no problem with this sort of confusion. Moreover, I think his hands seem to have a mind of their own. Why else would they possibly assault poor little Ben Cheney and lead to his own suspension, without any regard to your concern for his well-being?"
Alice looks up during my speech, pausing her sniffling into an otherwise perfectly edible Chunky Monkey. She scrunches up her eyebrows, then lifts one.
"First of all, why are you talking like that?"
I pull the spoon out of my mouth with a pop as my cheeks heat. Possibly, I overdid it with the wise and righteous nanny routine, but it was a justifiable act of love to spare tender feelings. Anyway, back to the case at hand.
"Second of all, I am a little overbearing sometimes, and maybe he just wanted a some space. And for your information, Ben Cheney is not a poor little anything. He's a drug dealing cheater."
I sigh. With this kind of stubborn insecurity saturating my loved ones, I'll be out of grand-speech-juice by the end of the day. I start again.
"You are overbearing, but that's what makes you such a loveable cuddlebear. If he can't see that, then maybe he needs more than just a little space. You need to break it off for good, especially because he makes you doubt who you are. Never doubt yourself; you are the best part of you. You aren't responsible for anyone's happiness but your own, and a little bit of mine on special occasions."
I smile at her playfully, trying to brighten her day with a little shine. Hopefully, self-confidence undergoes the same process as Vitamin D.
"Also, Jasper hanging around with Ben Scumbag Cheney should have been your first, and last, indication to drop him like Beyonce's newest album. Speaking of which, we need to get on that. Enough of this moping around shit!"
Alice blinks twice, pondering the wisdom of my words. Since I did basically convince her that she doesn't need Jasper's devotion to love herself unconditionally, I'm positive she knows my words are chock-full of wisdom.
"You know what? You're right! At least about Beyoncé, not Jasper. We just need some time, that's all, and in the meanwhile, we can properly give Queen Bey's unexpected release all the attention it deserves," she says determinedly, wiping tears off her face. After another moment, more tears stream silently down her cheeks. She continues to stare numbly down into the vast, cold nothingness of her ice cream.
...Or maybe not. But it's fine, as long as she accepts that they don't have a healthy relationship. And maybe acceptance is stretching it a bit, but it's a process. It'll take some more time and effort, but we'll get there.
The front door slams open downstairs and Charlie gruffly yells, "Bells?" I can picture him stomping snow off his worn L.L. Bean boots in the doorway and hanging his old NYPD winter jacket on the rack.
"Yeah, I'm upstairs with Alice!" I yell back. "Come on," I say to her, "I know exactly what we need."
I grab my black and pink dance duffel, stuff my dance slippers in, and dump the empty cartons in the trash on the way. Wiggling my purple socked toes on the scuffed hardwood floor, I stand, back straight, and pirouette three times, shimmy up to her, and jazz hands with a triumphant smile at my perfect execution. Grabbing her meticulously manicured hands, I use them to rub the tear tracks of her cheeks and drag her unwilling, tiny body off the bed. Quickly, trying to use momentum in my favor, I prod her down the stairs.
Charlie looks up as we dash past him to grab our coats, mostly me doing the dashing and Alice doing the Debbie Downer. "Hey, Poppa Bear, gotta skedaddle. See ya tonight. I'll be the one in white...just kidding. I'll be the one with the box full of yummy pizza. Bye," I throw back at him.
"Freeze! Turn around slowly and keep your hands where I can see 'em," he hollers. "Just where do you young ladies think you're going this time of night? Without parental permission, might I add." He directs this last part at me as he grabs a beer and sits down on the ratty couch.
I roll my eyes heavenward, as if asking Jesus for some patience. Curiously enough, nobody in my family has ever been remotely religious.
"Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. It's four in the afternoon, which means not even close to 'this time of night', might I add, " I make finger quotes to stress my point. "And we're just going to the dance studio to work off Alice's troubles with Beyoncé's latest and greatest to keep us company."
The lines around his eyes crinkle and he immediately turns concerned eyes towards my bestie. "Anything I can help with?" Ahhhh, sweet, sweet Charlie, the reason I often retract my harsh criticism of the male species. Fathers and daughters may not always see eye to eye, but my dear dad's gentle countenance reminds me of the reliable and compassionate nature that's well hidden behind the gruff facade of fathers everywhere.
Alice finally reawakens from her apocalyptic-zombie-state and reassures him, "No, no. Just boy trouble, nothing to worry about." She puffs up her chest bravely under her thick, white jacket, and gives him a timid smile.
Charlie glances at her puffy, red eyes dubiously. "Well, anytime you need me to keep the kid in line, I'm there," he warns ominously.
Alrighty, then, time to get this situation back in hand. "Yes, yes. Thank you, Terminator, but this is just something we gal pals need to do on our own. So can we go now, please?"
Charlie begrudgingly sighs and peers at the clock. "Only for you, Alice. Are you sure your brother will let you guys in?"
Alice nods. "Of course. Ty says we're always welcome there. He lurrvvess Bella," she says, nudging me playfully.
My lips quirk up and I stare at my tiptoes as I try to en pointe in my converse. "Who wouldn't?"
Charlie raises both eyebrows and says at the same time, "God knows why."
He chuckles at his own glorius wit and goes back to the inquisition. "And what time are you getting back?"
"By 10:00."
"Do you have your pepper spray and keys?"
"Yeah."
"Your phone is fully charged with 911 on speed dial?"
"Yes, Charlie."
"Hey. No attitude. You're my responsibility right now, and I don't want you getting hurt. Brooklyn is a dangerous city, no matter how short a distance you're walking. Got it?"
I pout. "Yeah, I know."
Finally, he turns on the plasma screen and waves at us. "Alright you two kids have fun and be safe."
We both wave back and step outside into the brisk wind and powdery snow. The screen door slams shut behind us, and we nimbly bound down the stairs. Alice has her contemplation face on, so I stay quiet, hoping she's really put some thought into the Jasper business because I really believe he's not right for her.
At least, not the way he is right now, uncaring of anyone but himself. He can't handle the idea of someone else's happiness relying on him, can't handle the responsibility of having a girlfriend who loves and trusts him to be his best possible self. And, yeah, maybe it's a little much to expect from an eighteen year old, but bruh. Please. If that's the case, then try to pull an Elsa and Let. It. Go. No more stringing her along.
Hmm.
This is all well and good, but I should actually probably say this out loud. Preferably to Dipshit. I shrug to myself. Oh well, Rome can't be built in a day and all that jazz. Next time I see him, he's going down.
As we stroll down the freshly paved sidewalk, I stare at my feet, twirling and skipping on the concrete to avoid stepping on the cracks. Alice eventually comes out of her trance and the corners of her mouth tilt up in a grin. Mine mimic hers in response and I start twerking backwards, seeing that we're only feet away from the studio. She joins me in my antics. We giggle up a whirlwind, quite literally, as tufts of snow blow around in our wake.
Finally, we stand in front of the bright neon lights that proudly proclaim, "Brandon's Ballet Studio." Alice's, quite frankly, hottie older brother opens the door, jingling the bell overhead. We step inside and I set my duffel down.
"Bella! How are you, my dear? So good to see you!" he calls exuberantly, flipping his 17-again-Zac-Efron-esque dark hair with a twist of the neck.
"Tyler...my best and brightest broski! Things are great any day I get to see your beautiful face," I giggle playfully. "How's Lauren? You guys still going strong, or is she boring you along?"
His baby blues sparkle, "Still as in love as ever and she's still quite the math genius, you know. Oh wait, you do know!"
"I don't know how you do it. Ugh, math. I guess opposites really do attract," I say, dodging his hand.
In all honesty, I enjoy Lauren's company, despite her questionable tastes. I couldn't think of a better couple than these two, both successful in their respective fields. Even though I crushed on him fiercely the first few months I knew him, now it's evolved into a platonic crush. He's too much like Alice to be anything more for me, full of far off dreams, daydreamt adventures, and the determination to make them come true. Not that these are bad things, but the resemblance between them is a bit too uncanny to be comfortable.
Not the least of which is their talent as dancers. Alice is more of a flutterby, letting her sugar plum fairy feet sweep across a floor seemingly made of air and clouds. Tyler is more of a sturdy ship, letting the wind blow his sails and steer him in the right direction.
That was the reason my tween heart pitter-pattered in my not-fully-formed chest in the first place. He was the Channing Tatum to my Jenna Dewan, or so I thought. In fact, I later realized I was the Alyson Stoner to his Tatum, and we were only ever meant to have a bro-sis relationship. Oh well, that just means I'm meant to have a badass dance sequence as a soloish artist like Andie at the end of Step Up 2.
Maybe. Kind of. I don't know, it made sense in my head.
Tyler interrupts my useless internal monolgue slash epiphany, "Anyway, are you guys participating in the Rose Festival?"
Ahhh, yes. The Rose Festival. A recurring theme in my nightmares and daydreams. A competition masquerading as a "festival" in order to hide its true nature as a soul-crushing event from hell that comes around to the Manhattan area every two years. Only the most elite, talented get scouted for some of the top dance academies in the country. The kicker is that each scout only picks one participant, and sometimes, that one participant gets most of the offers, leaving a few measly morsels for the rest of the raggedy mutts.
Alice gushes, "Umm, of course! Where else would we get an opportunity like this? And I for one plan to make the most of it!" She turns toward me expectantly.
See, this is the problem. Talented, overachieving dreamers like Alice feel that it's an "of course," but directionless, indecisive nobodies like me feel like gently resting their heads on the road in front of a speeding eighteen-wheeler.
"I don't know, Alice. I don't know if this is what I want to do for the rest of my life, and we both know that people who don't put their heart and soul into it get picked off like a bruised apple in a Californian, low labor cost orchard."
She rolls her eyes upward. "Where is this coming from? You've been dancing since you were four. Don't argue, Renee told me. And don't tell me it's a self-esteem issue, not for you."
She's right, of course. I do have incredibly high self-esteem. Borderline arrogance, even.
I look around the studio where we've gotten into our shoes and are now stretching. My pale face and colors of warm brown and dusty pink reflect back at me in the studio mirror. I raise one eyebrow at myself, then the other, making my eyes wide and popping my mouth open in a surprised face. I see Tyler watching me goof around in the mirror. I turn my surprised face at him, and he laughs silently.
I turn my attention back to Alice. "It's not about that, Alice. I know I've been doing this for a long time, but how much longer am I realistically willing to go. For a career? Maybe as a hobby that I love as much as anything, but I don't ever want to feel forced into doing it and start resenting it."
Tyler nods his head in agreement. "It's a personal choice, Alice. You can't force her into it." I hand him my phone with the downloaded Beyonce album to plug into the speakers. He grabs it and walks away to let us do our thing.
Alice sighs her consent and adjusts her tights on her waist. "Fine, but you better make that choice quickly. Video submissions are due next week. You can just submit your last showcase." I nod to show I heard her. "And I don't want to think about boys, I want to Queen Bey to speak to my soul. And, right now, I'm feeling a little Flawless," she smiles, shimmying her shoulders at me.
I put a smile on my face, but my mind is still stuck on the Festival. I can just imagine the petals falling off the "Rose," one for each day I put off making a choice. Unfortunately for me, no matter how hard I try, a choice will be made, even if I don't actively make it myself. The only thing worse than choosing the wrong future is letting the wrong future choose itself because of my hesitance. My lungs feel one size too small, enough for me to just barely breathe, but not enough to let my chest fully expand. I push those pesky thoughts into a padded box in my mind.
As I fall into the rhythm of the music, matching my feet and shoulders and hips to the beat, I let my mind wander over the day I just had. I think of the nervous tightening in my chest in regards to the future, of Alice, of Alice's boy, of boys in general. Who even has time for them and their dirty minds, dirty hands and dirty fists? Not me, that's for sure.
Psh. Please.