Pictures of my dead mother doing things I have no recollection of litter the walls and tables: holding my pudgy toddler hand as we walk through a park, wearing a flowery bathing suit and splashing in the surf, kissing my father under the mistletoe. I stop at a picture by the front door. It’s a family portrait taken outside Miss Macy’s dance studio on the afternoon of my first recital. Dad looks nearly unchanged: ruddy complexion, mussed beard and hair, flannel shirt. I think he was happier then.
In the photograph Mom’s holding me tight. My legs, in white tights, wrap around her waist. The tiny bun on top of my head is pulling loose, but there’s no mistaking the resemblance to my mother. Even at three years old I favor her. Blue eyes, red lips, fair skin. Her golden-blond hair sits in waves upon her shoulders in a way I’ve never been able to replicate. Instead, mine hangs long and straight. Still, I have her soft round cheeks and small chin. I run a finger over her face. I don’t remember her at all.
Dressing as warmly as possible, I pull on my parka and gloves over everything else. I step onto the porch and fumble in my bag for the car keys I haven’t needed in two years.
We live on a fairly empty stretch of road. The view from our porch shows a spattering of trees, the highway, and then acres and acres of abandoned farmland. The old Miller place sits to the east, and a mile or so beyond is the Stratus cemetery. There’s also a road leading back to the interstate. The rest of the town sits to the west.
With an anxious sigh I climb into my hand-me-down Volkswagen Beetle. She’s a 1967, black with a rack on top, and we call her Slugger. Slugger was Mom’s, so Dad’s always taken good care of her, but she’s not allowed out of town. Too old, Dad says. Too slow, I say. Either way, Slugger’s a piece of Mom, and I love her.
Stratus High isn’t far: just a short drive up the highway and across Main Street. Almost everything in Stratus involves a drive across Main. When you see the neon grape jelly jar towering above, you know you’ve arrived. Jelly’s, the closest thing Stratus has to a café. Across the street is the small theatre. An old-fashioned clock sits out front, surrounded by metal benches. We call this the town square. A quick glance at the clock tells me I’ve still not reacclimated to small-town life. Everything here starts so much later than in Portland.
I’m twenty-five minutes early.
The stoplight marking the center of Main turns red, and I consider flipping a U-turn. A cup of something hot from Jelly’s doesn’t sound half bad and would kill some time. But there on the corner, just past the stoplight, is Miss Macy’s. The dance studio I all but lived in until two years ago.
I danced there. I taught.
I sweated.
It’d be nice to sweat again.
The windows are dark, but I’ve still got my key. It rattles against my steering column with a handful of others. By the time the light turns green, I’ve decided. Slugger putts through the intersection, and I park in front of the studio.
My hands are safe inside my gloves, but they tremble. It’s been a long time since I danced just for myself.
The glass door is clean. I imagine the teacher who closed last night sprayed all the tiny fingerprints away. I unlock it and step inside. Leaning against the door, I breathe deep, expecting familiarity, but it smells different than I remember. New paint maybe?
The reception area is small and mostly unchanged. A small wooden desk, blue binders stacked on one corner, a white vase with plastic roses on the other. Eight folding chairs line the front window and the adjoining wall in a tidy L-shape. Pictures of students, past and present, fill the room, on shelves and in cases. Younger, warmer versions of myself smile back from many of them. It’s like walking into a scrapbook of my life.
I step through the connecting doorway and into the studio. There’s just the one. The wintry daylight outside does little to brighten the room as it trickles through the wall of windows looking out onto the street. I flip the switch to my right, and the studio fills with warm, yellow brightness. It spills across the wood floors and reflects off the mirror on the far wall.
Beyond the window, beyond my car parked at the curb and across the street, three old men sit outside a doughnut shop. They’re bundled in flannels, jackets, and scarves—coffee mugs fogging the air, but still they sit.
Same thing they were doing when I left two years ago.
One of them, a thin stick of a man wearing an aviator cap—Bob, I think—catches me staring and waves. I wave back, but he’s already turned back to his friends. I shake my head and crouch at the CD player sitting just inside the door. Against it leans a white CD sleeve. Purple writing loops across the front.
B
RIELLE
, it says. W
ELCOME
H
OME
.
I run a gloved finger over Miss Macy’s winding script and am ashamed of myself. I could have written. I could have called. But, happy to move on, I soaked up life in the city and pushed Stratus and the ever-constant Miss Macy to the back of my mind. Still, she knew I’d find my way here, and she left this for me. A CD she probably mixed herself.
My chest tightens as I insert the disk into the slot and push Play. I don’t bother removing my gloves or jacket. I’ll just be a minute. My feet find the center of the floor as the music begins. The selection is very Miss Macy. Floaty. Flowery even. I don’t recognize it. Sounds like a movie soundtrack. Jane Austen or something.
The mirror’s in front of me, but I close my eyes. I know what I’ll see there. A skinny girl disguised as a marshmallow. Parka, gloves, hat, boots.
Still, I dance.
And I cry. The music pulls my arms out and up, pushes me onto my toes and into myself. For three or four minutes I’m lost. Just the music. Just me. I move across the floor, my boots squeaking, my jacket swishing. I pause just long enough to turn the music up, tune out my mountain girl apparel. And then I rise on my toes and begin again.
The music fades away, and my body settles into first position. I rest, waiting for the next song.
When it begins I snort. Good thing I’m alone. The song is from my fifth-grade dance recital. A ridiculous ditty about jungle animals. The thumping drums and twanging guitars couldn’t be more different from the gentle piano and flute duet of the first number.
But I can’t help it. My feet tap to the rhythm. The music grows louder, and I stomp. My back curves out and in, out and in. My arms swing over my head one after the other, and when the animal noises start, I beat my chest like a gorilla, just like I did when I was eleven. I tip my head back and howl.
And then I catch my reflection in the mirror. I’m not the only one howling. Outside, standing just inches from the glass, leaning against a blue mailbox, is a boy. A boy I’ve never seen before.
And he’s laughing. At me.
I lurch and turn toward the window, my hair flying. The boy jerks upright. Caught staring and he knows it.
His bright hazel eyes are what catch my attention first— green with a russet flame bleeding from the center. I take a step toward the glass. Brilliant hazel eyes trimmed with thick black lashes—the kind women buy and glue to their eyelids. His brows are dark, too dark for the sandy hair falling around his face.
And there’s something very . . . tan about him. He looks out of place standing on the sidewalk in our frozen town, but I can’t imagine him in the city either. Not part of the eclectic sect I hung with: ambitious dancers, plastic models, tragic actors, cutthroat talent agents.
I can’t imagine an appropriate setting for him. Somewhere tropical maybe. Somewhere hot. He’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt advertising some band I’ve never heard of, distressed jeans, and Chucks—an outfit so incredibly understated that every bit of my attention returns to his face.
He just looks warm.
I shove my hair over my shoulder and smooth my parka. Blood rushes to my face and neck. I’m mortified, but I stand really, really still. That’s what you’re supposed to do to avoid a bear attack, right?
Does it work with boys?
Apparently not. His hands come up in the universal gesture for
Whoops,
and his full-body guffaw is replaced by a pair of penitent puppy-dog eyes. But it seems he can’t stifle his amusement for long. His face cracks, and a smile slips through.
At least he has the decency to cover his mouth.
Then his hands fall away to reveal a grin. A stupid, stupid grin. He steps toward the window and presses a hand to it. The glass fogs over immediately, and his mouth opens like he’s got something to say. I cock my head, waiting.
Apology? Hello!
But his mouth closes, and he pulls his hand away. With his index finger he carves a single word into the misty fog his hand left behind:
Sorry
. It’s backward, of course.
I can think of no adequate response, but for some reason my hands land on my hips. He turns away, that stupid grin still smeared across his face. He disappears beyond the frame of the window, leaving me huffing and puffing. Out of breath, embarrassed, and, if I’m honest, warmer than I’ve been in forever.
Across the street the old guys wave their coffee cups at me. Bob stands and claps. His friend whistles—a piercing sound I can hear even inside the studio. It seems they’ve enjoyed the show as well. I’d curtsy, but my jungle animal routine sucked all the snark out of me.
I creep to the window and press my face against it. It’s cold, but the boy is gone. The town square juts out from the sidewalk like an octagon-shaped peninsula, and the clock catches my attention again.
I groan and zip my jacket.
Now that I’ve humiliated myself on Main Street, school should be a breeze.
S
tratus High looks cold. It’s always looked this way, I guess, but after my morning . . . workout, I was hoping for something balmy. At least temperate.
Metal roofs top the white, weather-resistant structures: a gymnasium, two classroom buildings, and a multipurpose room. Against the white sky and the white, functional buildings, evergreens grow in abundance: holly, pine, cypress.
My first class is advanced calculus, or so says the schedule I’ve been handed by a well-informed, excessively sympathetic secretary whose name I can’t remember. The calculus teacher, however, is new and apparently uninformed.
I nearly lose it when he introduces me to the rest of the class. My hands shake so fiercely I have to shove them into my pockets to keep them from becoming a point of attention. I’m sick again but force myself to swallow it down. As fast as humanly possible I take my seat at the back of the room and lay my head down on the desk. It’s pathetic but necessary.
I’m dizzy. Very dizzy.
Two-thirds of the kids in this classroom have passed through each grade with me, and every single one of them saw the news story three weeks ago. A fact utterly apparent by the pained looks on their faces. After my impromptu dance performance this morning, I’ve had quite enough attention. There’s no need to point more of it my way. Not when I’m convinced there’s some cosmic spotlight trained on my biggest failure.
I tell myself to keep breathing, to relax. Focusing on the teacher’s voice helps. Monotone and austere—I wonder how many kids will be asleep by the time the class is over. I keep my eyes shut as he begins the lesson, reviewing material I can’t make myself focus on or care about. Half the period passes before anything he says registers, and then his drab little voice surprises me.
“Ah,” he says, absent inflection. “It appears you’re not the only new student, Brielle. Everyone, meet Jake. Jake, everyone.”
Without lifting my head, without looking, I know who it is, and I burrow deeper into my parka. Two new students at Stratus High in one day?
It has to be him.
“There are a few open seats in the back near Miss Matthews. Take your pick.”
Mr. Calculus gestures haphazardly, and I duck into my parka. The entire class turns in my direction, but they’re not looking at me. Not this time. They all seem captivated by the boy sliding into the seat next to mine. An entire row—all girls— cranes around to get a better look, and a couple jersey-clad football players nudge one another as they size up the new kid.
The teacher trudges on, but the atmosphere in the room feels downright awkward. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad the class’s attention is no longer focused on me, but I feel bad for the guy. On principle, I refuse to join the stalkarazzi as they giggle and bat their eyes, but their worship has me curious.
Did I miss something spectacular about the kid this morning? Does he sparkle in the sunlight? Does he have fangs? What?
The teacher raps his ruler against the blackboard to garner attention, and I roll my head sideways to get a better look.
Yeah. It’s him.
The boy with the front-row seat to this morning’s jungle-girl routine.
In the confines of the classroom, though, he looks even more out of place than he did on the sidewalk. His skin looks darker, his shoulders broader, and his eyes have an intensity to them—both dark and light at the same time.
For the first time in nearly a month, my hands stop shaking. I pull my gloves off a finger at a time and do my best not to stare at the stranger who so openly stared at me this morning.