I hold my first paycheck in my hands a week later.
A fair-sized envelope was presented to me by Lucas after jazz last night, with a knock on my loft door and a kind smile.
For a moment, I stared at his outstretched hand and the paper between his fingers, before understanding what Lucas was offering me and snatching—not too eagerly—the envelope from him.
Then I realized the number penned on the check inside was irrelevant, since I didn't have a bank account, nor any method to acquire one by myself.
"I . . ." I haphazardly ripped open the envelope anyway, and I found my name, the signature of Tiberias Calore, and a sum of money so large that my eyes bugged. "I don't have a checking account."
Any normal person would argue for me to sign the back of the check and hand it over to my parents the next time I visited them, but Lucas did no such thing. Whether Maven had told a few people about my circumstances, or Lucas was perceptive enough to understand, he only tightened his smile.
"I'm sure I can something set up," he said and asked for an I.D. card. That was that.
This afternoon, he returned with a debit card and a set of directions to the bank he'd set me up at. I didn't ask how he'd managed to do it without either of my parent's consent, a birth certificate, a social security number, or even having me present. I stood at my door, bewildered, but took the card and my returned I.D., along with some documents.
With that, Lucas and I went our separate ways, Lucas back out into the world while I returned to my loft. And that was that.
The documents include a fresh copy of my birth certificate, I notice now as I flip through the pile of papers in between classes. The rest are from the new bank, just informational and nothing I have to read thoroughly or sign.
Between these and the debit card . . . everything I need to be a fine and proper adult.
It should terrify and unnerve me how Lucas was able to obtain a new birth certificate and an account at the bank for a minor he's not related to. The Calores had to be involved in it somehow, whatever weaseling Lucas went through today.
It's rather apparent their reaches extend far, if they held sway over the police department when Cal's motorcycle went missing. Plus, investments and finance, after all. Maybe they have a connection at the bank, or own the bank for that matter. Yet it doesn't explain the birth certificate . . .
None of it seems especially legal, but it's not hurting anyone. Without a bank account, this check would be no good; no good for me and no good for my parents when I send half of the money home. So I won't worry about the means by which Lucas did this. I won't think about it, as long as it benefits me and my family.
I hold up the check again, The cream paper glints in the evening light of my bedroom and reads over a thousand dollars. With all of this money, I'll not only compensate for my pickpocketing and pay for my weekly necessities, but I'll also start putting away money for myself.
For some sort of future.
The dancers turn and turn and turn.
I myself feel dizzy while I watch them as they at last plunge down from their turns into a classic lunge, switch feet, and roll out of it.
Pop music that I've never heard and don't listen to filters into my ears from surround sound, almost loud enough to bother me. Given the years Julian's been doing this, I have to wonder how he hasn't gone deaf.
I divert my attention from the choreography—which I'll be performing soon enough—to Julian, standing at one of the four corners in the room, the one where the two glass walls meet.
He has to be in his forties, with his chestnut brown hair streaked with grey. Age has not been kind to him. His ordinary yet keen eyes are brown, and he has the complexion of somebody who doesn't go outside often. Round face, thinning eyebrows . . . Julian is the complete package for an older middle-aged man, but there's something more. He carries a wisdom about him.
Maybe it's his strange outfit: a tan cardigan and cuffed-off capris of the same color. He wears a plain black T-shirt under the ensemble, but the red scarf he's knotted around his neck offsets the basic colors. For the week I've been dancing in Julian's class, he's barely danced, but worn black jazz shoes every day. Today's no exception.
A couple of days ago, I heard one of the girls I sat by tell her friend about Julian and the opera. Apparently, aside from his devotion to modern dance, he's also a talented singer whom few theatres would reject back in the day. Yet in recent years, he's toned it back to focus on his history and philosophy teachings at New York University, still spending about five hours at the Academy a day.
I garnered all that from a measly one-minute blabbering conversation. Regardless, he sounds like a successful man, but somebody who prefers to watch from the sidelines now, having tired of the spotlight.
"Good job girls," Julian says as the track ends, clapping his hands together. Everybody else gathered follows him, and the claps fade out after five seconds.
Unlike Blonos or Elara, Julian compliments just about everyone. He smiles, close-mouthed, as the three girls who finished their performance sit down in the circle again, and another pair of dancers rise.
His studio shares little in common with the ballet studios, unless you count that they're both rooms with floors and walls. The lighting is warmer and duller than it is in Blonos and Elara's studios, as if the two women are intent on never missing a mistake and Julian's okay with letting an error slide once in a while. He has photographs of his past dancers hung up on walls, miniature versions of the massive canvases outside. And Julian has us sit in a giant circle around the room when we aren't learning or dancing, just so that every angle of a dance will be seen.
Currently, I sit criss-cross-applesauce next to Maven in the circle. He stares ahead passively, waiting for the next group to begin like most of the others.
A few pick up side conversations between acts, something that nobody would ever consider doing in ballet. But Julian only shifts his weight from foot to foot in the corner, on the opposite side of the room.
Maven notices my glance, and he turns towards me with an inquiring brow. "Yeah?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm excited to dance, that's all."
I've watched Maven in ballet and tap and jazz all week. He's good, I'll say that. At seventeen, he's one of the best tap dancers at the Academy, and just as good as I am at turns, leaps, and everything else. He holds his own . . . and yet . . .
His brother's across the room from us, a group of guys on one side of him and a group of girls on the other. None of them speak to him, including the girls, to my dismay; they all think of him as a legend for his age. And the girls . . . the girls. While the guys more than likely want to be Cal, the girls . . . oh, the girls. They glance at him every five seconds, whispering into one another's ears ideas and thoughts I probably don't want to hear about.
Safe to say that corner of the room contains the most teenagers.
Though I've been watching Cal too, both when he's dancing and when he isn't. Not because of romantic interest, but because he merely intrigues me. Ever the star of attention, there's something magnetizing about the way he dances; he pours his entire soul into it, like every time he dances it'll be the last time. I've seen it both in ballet and here. Aside from his flawless technique that I can only dream of acquiring, there's this thing about him. I can't define what it is, but . . . it makes him stand out. Worth watching.
I already mentioned what I see when he isn't dancing.
"Me too," Maven says breathlessly, drawing me back to him. "The song's good tonight."
Nodding, I agree, in spite of the fact that I can't recall its name. Back at home, I rarely listened to music, aside from the seventies rock Dad had on from time to time, and the two-thousand's pop Mom had a strange affinity for. Bree and Tramy listen to whatever they listen to in their room, and Gisa's the one who always has the phone.
At my studio, it was either classical music or pop, none of this ultra-new electronic stuff.
God, I sound like an old woman. Julian appears to be more with the times than me.
"Yeah. Yeah, it is," I say even after my nod.
I've had little time to talk with Maven since classes began—in fact, the conversation I had with Cal on Tuesday beats out any of the conversations I've had with Maven this week in length—but I did find out a bit about our partnership following an intense tap class on Wednesday.
Maven and I are partners in the Corps de Ballet. We'll rarely dance together, Maven admitted, saying that we'll start practicing as a pair in technique class when the schedule changes, and perhaps—perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, we'll dance as background courtiers or revelers in performance or two this year.
I like Maven. He's down-to-earth, personable . . . the opposite of everything I expected after our first interaction. I've never danced with a partner before, but with him, I would feel comfortable to begin.
The term "partner" is a formality more than anything else, a promise that in the coming years we'll dance together. Like an arranged marriage, almost. I laugh at the thought.
Though it's not totally a joke, especially between Cal and Evangeline. Evangeline's talk with her mother still rings in my ears sometimes, how they spoke like becoming Cal's partner was life or death. But she got the part, after being for all intents and purposes threatened by her mother. As though her family would disown Evangeline if she failed.
Like an arranged marriage. Truly.
All this time, while I've glanced from Maven to Cal, in attempts to understand the two brothers, I've also followed the dancing. Since the trio of girls sat down, a guy and a girl have entered and left the circle, along with a set of girls. Throughout my pondering, I still manage to analyze their movements and the ease brought with them—accompanied by the low sun filtering between buildings and the calm, self-effacing lights of the studio.
The jazz and hip hop majors range in age similarly to the Corps, anywhere from eighteen to edging on their forties. I take great entertainment in breaking down their movements, almost frame by frame, to at last discover the secret in how they manage to appear so relaxed as they dance, yet with so much technique.
Julian hasn't called me out on it, but I'm too stiff. I know it for a fact, and ballet's to blame. While pointe's made me light on my feet and have exemplary posture, Julian doesn't care. For hip hop, during the second half of class especially, he likes us to slouch and stomp like inept brutes—sorry.
That was rude.
But it's difficult, bending my knees when I usually wouldn't, turning without a turnout, and sometimes being so heavy and limp. I did take these types of classes back at the studio, but they weren't as carefree and easy, and the instructor happened to also be the lead ballet teacher. On top of that, I haven't put in nearly the amount of effort in keeping up with jazz and hip hop as I have with ballet, nearly forgetting about the genres some days.
Would Blonos want me to loosen up? Sara and Julian have both claimed it's good for us ballet dancers, but I wonder if she'd agree. What about Elara? Tiberias suggested it too.
A new figure approaches the center of the circle.
I look up from my interlaced hands to find Cal's spot across the room vacant, and Cal himself standing up, taking his last few steps to his beginning position.
All alone. Whenever we've done this sort of thing during jazz, Cal's always gone alone. A few others do as well, but the vast majority of the class picks a partner or two for our performances. Moral support, Julian calls it with a chuckle.
He faces my side of the room, eyes pinned on the wall above my head.
Without further ado, the track plays once more.
I'll die before I admit it, but Cal makes the less stringent genres of dance more appealing to watch and learn. Somehow, he's managed to find control in the total chaos I've found in this class.
Delightful and totally stressful chaos.
Today's dance is fast but methodical, and Cal sinks into a wide second position—not turned out—with utter focus on his face. The mood of the dance isn't of hope or joy or sadness or despair: it's almost a madness, every person who's yet performed looking like they just broke out of an insane asylum. Cal's no different, his eyes holding a quiet wickedness, and a concentration behind that, while he stares over my head. I half expect him to tilt his chin down and wink at me, considering it wouldn't be so out of character for him.
After the first eight counts, he begins the same dance I've seen a dozen times prior to this. Within it, there aren't many skills that demand flexibility, but Cal being the way he is makes everything eye-catching whether it's a big or small gesture, easy or difficult.
The dance starts out with him pulling his body side to side, reaching his arms out, and slouching his spine in. I'd cringe if Cal did it without complete confidence, without owning it completely.
So comes a series of steps that are plainly and shamelessly modern. With every note is a new step, if not two or three, Cal twisting around himself to set up for a turn.
Doubletime. Ten a la secondes instead of five, and he settles into a lunge, switches feet, and rolls. Identical to the other groups, but—
With an arch of his back in the midst of getting up, his shirt rides up the slightest bit, exposing a tanned, muscled abdomen—
I find myself watching his reflection in the adjacent mirror instead to lessen any risk of eye contact, though he's absorbed in his dance up to the hilt, probably not even seeing the people gathered around him. Who also watch intently, I see from the glass: backdropped by the growing darkness of evening and the electric lights outside, men and women alike trace Cal's movements, knowing eyes wandering from one side of the room to the other with him.
The song slows, and so does Cal. The combination itself is barely a minute long, now with slower, dramatized movements. Julian likes this kind of stuff. Sudden shifts of speed and emotion and whatever.
Cal ends up on his side on the floor at one point or another. If it was somebody untrained, the collapse would be messy and unplanned, but with him, it's ruggedly tasteful as he descends, slapping his palms against the floor.
Any tiredness from the intensive routine is masked well, and Cal's face remains calm, if not a little cold while wrapped up in his current persona. Granted, Julian blasts the air conditioning in his room harder than most, giving into his fear of heatstroke before his concern for our muscles—he said so himself—and with the sun perched at a low angle, Manhattan is cooling down anyway.
Quickly, I glance to my new instructor, who tracks Cal like the others, but with a small, tentative smile to his lips. Julian hasn't ceased standing in the corner like a statue, content to observe and comment from afar when he isn't teaching. Still, when Cal's up, I always notice how Julian leans forward a number of subtle inches, in hope of getting the slightest better look.
Maybe Cal is Julian's little protégé. Though Cal's an easy six inches taller than Julian.
Claps reverberate around the room, modest and no louder than the rounds before. While I watched Julian again, Cal finished up the last counts of the combination unbeknownst to me. Now, he exits the circle, without so much as a bow of his head, and sits down where he had been before.
Without delay, the claps die out, and Julian nods to me and Maven. He's come up with a random order for all of the groups to go in and somehow keeps track of us in his head.
I smile coolly at Maven and push myself off the floor, as does he. Schooling my face into a killing calm, I settle into a wide second halfway across the floor.
Not turned out.
The bank's open late on Saturdays, don't ask me why, Maven said after I told him about my check. Then he offered to walk me the few blocks downtown separating the Academy and the bank, and I accepted, returning to my room to change into street clothes.
It's cooled off enough that I wear jeans, rolled at the ankles. Maven walks alongside me in similar attire, hands shoved in his back pockets. Still seventy, but the weather hasn't been so kind since the rain storm on the night of announcements. And I'm not the only one taking advantage of the reprieve: plenty along the street wear full-length pants and long-sleeved shirts when lately, the only people who have worn such things have been businessmen and women of New York.
"Tell me: what do you usually do on Saturday nights?" I ask, holding my small purse close to my body. This can't possibly be what his excitement is on the weekends.
Just past the Academy's doors at the intersection, Maven chuckles, scuffing his shoe on cement. We just missed the walk sign.
"For everything that my father is, I have an extraordinarily boring life outside of the Academy." He says it shamelessly and with a shrug.
"Can't be more boring than mine. I haven't left the Academy all week, besides for another trip to that expensive grocery store a block away." I point down the way towards Bryant Park and the library, shivering as I remember the prices.
I have the funds for it and no intention of hauling my groceries through a subway station, so I begrudgingly used more of my Wall Street savings this week to restock my fridge with organic goods. That's Midtown for you, though.
"Hmm," Maven murmurs and shifts his hands from his back to his front pockets. "I'll probably go over to Cal's apartment later." Maven points the opposite direction that I did, towards the Hudson River. "We'll hang out, continue our endeavor to make it through all twenty-three Marvel films. Then I'll go home," he continues, this time pointing north towards Central Park, "and do my physics homework."
The stop sign blares on. Pedestrians are growing anxious, tapping their feet and pulling phones out of bags to check the time.
With whatever jealousy exists between Maven and Cal, a brotherly companionship does too. As much as I love Gisa, she and I never connected, not fully. The closest I've ever come to what Maven describes with Cal would've been Shade. But even he left and—
The echo of an explosion followed by a whining noise pierces the air.
The shrill pitch worms into my ears, ringing over all the conversations on the block. It doesn't take long for those conversations to stop altogether.
I whirl around myself, looking for the source of the sound. For the infant who's ticked off, or the firetruck shrieking down the way. But it's near, no more than a block away. The explosion can't be explained by such things. And I see no sniffling kids at the intersection, no flashing emergency lights.
At first, it could be mistaken for a crying child or a siren, but the note goes on for too long, grows too high and far away as I struggle to find where it's coming from. It sounds like a bomb, but instead of coming down it . . . goes up.
"What the . . ." Maven trails off and cranes his neck skyward.
The glow of Times Square and the surrounding skyscrapers dulls most stars, making for a plain, dark-blue sky. No sign of the moon, either. The walk sign still makes no appearance. Others at the curb look up now, sensing that whatever's making the awful sound isn't at eye-level, but ascending higher and higher above.
Just swaths of indigo, broken up by the apexes of buildings and their antennas. Squares of neon advertisements that can leave stars in your eyes. The occasional yellow street light, though it's hardly needed.
A man holds up his cellphone camera, angling it almost parallel to the street. "That ain't no bird," he says in a rich southern accent. A tourist.
I follow his camera, taking a few steps backward, almost crashing into Maven in the process. I tilt my head farther up, past the advertisements, past the skyscrapers. Past everything.
Indeed, a red flare blinks stories and stories above the street, climbing still.
"Hell."
Confusion crosses Maven's face. "What?"
"What the hell? I finished your sentence."
Whatever it is, at the very least it's going away from us. The red flare was launched from nearby, judging from the soft explosion and whining that's growing softer and softer.
Something tells me the walk sign is never coming.
Traffic lights are red, all four directions.
People are getting loud, having gone from talking at the normal rowdy volume of the neighborhood to silence to clamorous yelling. The southern man's exited his camera app and has dial pad on his screen. I see his fingers type out each number.
911.
Every police station in Manhattan will see the flare. A call will serve no purpose.
I look up in time to see the red beacon explode.
Into a magnificent circle of red. A dark red, the color of garnet, of blood, not exhausting to look at the way the advertisements are. Within the outline of the circle are jagged shapes, like a very torn up and obliterated leaf. Or a very strange and crippled flower.
It puts the skyscrapers' height and steely fury to shame, soaring above the tallest one in sight by a hundred feet.
"Who the hell got clearance to set off that in Midtown?" Maven asks. The question sounds stupid, but I remember he doesn't know what it is.
That's right. It's nothing more than a pretty design to Maven Calore and the other denizens of Time Square, who slap one another on the shoulder and laugh it off. The traffic lights return to normal and the walk sign flickers on.
But what would be the context? The symbol, quickly dissolving, a very ephemeral sort of beauty, doesn't make sense to anyone who hasn't seen it before. It's not as though a business or the city decided to set off a massive red firework in the heart of Midtown.
"Who says they got clearance for it?" I try to keep the concern, the graveness from my voice.
Maven snorts. "How could anybody illegally buy and set off a firework that big?"
Great question. Then again: how could anybody break into Cygnet Hydrotech and steal millions worth of tech? How could anybody hack into a major news network?
The red's faded into smoke. Harmless, meaningless smoke.
I remember the tattoo on Farley's neck so well. The black ink making up the circle . . . the red flower petals within . . . the firework was a match.
"I know who," I say weakly, more than likely stupidly. "The Street Fighters." Their motto brays in my head.
Rise, Red as the Dawn.