The walk signal is still flashing and I should be okay. As I start again, there’s more honking, and I finally look to where it’s coming from.
But it’s Jayhe, leaning hard on the horn in that junky old black van, the one we made out in countless times. He looks completely confused, but he’s waving me over. I run back to the other side, and open the passenger door and climb in.
He pulls over, and just stares at me for a second. “Took you long enough” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. He’s not smiling or frowning or doing much of anything. I guess this is all on me.
“I didn’t realize you were waiting.” I have the envelope in my lap, and it’s taking everything in my power not to shove it at him, to let it do the talking. “I thought that you didn’t want to see me again. But I decided not to give you a choice.”
He doesn’t say anything. Anger simmers below the surface, hot to the touch, even in the silence between us.
I hand him the envelope. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I disappeared. I’m sorry I kept pushing you away. I’m sorry you had to see me—like you did.” I know he’s seen it now, sized up the familiar emblem in the corner, the shape and thickness of the packet, the fact that I’m here at all. But he doesn’t say a word. I wonder if it might be too late for us. But I have to say what I came to say. “I’m working on it. I’m trying. Really.”
I pull my tablet out of my bag. I push it toward him. “Look. It’s part of my treatment, a food diary, therapy sessions, scheduled workouts, and PT. I’m busier than ever. I mean, you’d think I’d barely have a minute to miss you.” He’s looking at me now, waiting. “But I did.”
He’s quiet then, focused on the little tablet, pushing keys. I realize then that he’s looking at the menus and my notes. He sees when I felt good and when I was miserable, and when I wanted to throw up and didn’t. And when I wanted to throw up and did. I want to snatch them away, all my secrets.
I know I have to let him in, trust him, if this is going to work. “I’m trying. I’m not perfect. I’ll never be perfect, or fixed. It will always be an effort, maybe not like it is now, but—”
“Do. Or do not,” he says. “There is no try.”
“You sound like your dad.”
He laughs. “It’s a Star Wars reference.”
We both laugh, but then he’s looking at me, all serious and intense. He pulls me in, closing the small space between us. The gearshift sits in the middle of the front seat, and it’s the only thing keeping us apart right now. “It’s too painful to watch you do that to yourself. And you can’t promise me—”
I don’t know quite what to say to that. I applied to NYU because he wanted me to. I came all the way here. I tried to fix things. And he can’t give me an inch.
“There are no promises, Jayhe. Because those are always broken. But I mean this when I say it: I’m working on it.” I pick up my bag, reach for the door, and leap out of the van. He doesn’t stop me.
But when I climb down and hit the street, he’s standing there, waiting. His strong arms surround me, and I can smell that familiar scent—dusty and rich, like charcoal pencils. He looks at me and smiles, waiting for the words. “Kiss-jwo!” I say, and he laughs and leans down.
We kiss for what feels like forever, as the cars honk down Union Street, and people climb on and off lumbering buses. We kiss until the words become unnecessary. We kiss until Jayhe’s uncle shouts from inside the restaurant. “Joka! You gonna make those deliveries or what?” Then he sees me, tucked under a blushing Jayhe’s arm. “Oh, hey, E-Jun. Didn’t see you there.”
Jayhe grins and heads around the other side of the van to get back in. I climb into the passenger seat, and I just look at him as we drive away. It feels like I will smile for the rest of the night. Even for the rest of my life, maybe.
40.
Gigi
I HOVER IN THE STAGE wings. It’s the night of our performance, and the energy at Lincoln Center is electric—I keep wanting to sneak to the stage and stare out into the audience, to see each face lit with delight and expectation, but it would be too distracting to the other dancers, who are already out there making magic.
Still, I can sort of feel the audience there, even though they’re all shadows and the lights are blinding and the big curtain hides the stage from their view. The noise of their movements, the squeak of the seats, and their energy pushes back to us.
“Curtain in fifteen,” the stage manager calls out backstage.
I slip back to the dressing room. One of the stage moms waves me over to her chair. I wonder which petit rat belongs to her.
“Your forehead is all sweaty. Let me add more powder.”
“Thank you.”
She smiles down at me. “You look beautiful.”
The tiny word fills me up. Tonight I have to dance beautifully. I have to make sure Damien sees that.
“Curtain in ten,” someone shouts.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror. White swan feathers frame my face, strings of jewels interlock over my head and into a crown, and a diamond sits in the center of my forehead. I inhale, calming my too-quick heart. Stagehands with microphones move in and out, giving people directions.
Riho, Isabela, and the other new girls are hovering by the door, itching to go out toward the stage, to watch from the wings until it’s their turn. I wonder if it’s their first time here on the Lincoln Center stage, and try to remember what that was like when I danced here for the first time last year in The Nutcracker. I remember the power and the hugeness of it—both in real life, and in your head. Next year I’ll call this stage home. I have to.
June dresses in the corner, putting on her first costume of the night—the Baroness—and looking at herself in the mirror. She takes a wig and slips it on. The tumble of dark curls transforms her into eighteenth-century royalty. Our eyes catch in the mirror. She gives me a little nod.
“You look great,” I say.
“And so do you.”
“Five minutes!” the stage manager tells me as the others go on.
I turn back to the vanity and I practice my stage grin in the mirror, flashing teeth and then closing my mouth into a soft smile.
I step out into the hall and warm up my feet again. I listen for the crunch of the pointe shoe shanks and know they’re broken in perfectly to support my movements tonight. I point, flex, and bounce until my feet feel warm and ready to be used.
Arms circle around my waist, strong and familiar.
Alec.
His hands linger in all those secret places. “You ready for this?” he whispers, his breath hot on my ear, sending shivers up my spine.
I turn around in his arms, letting him press his body up against mine, the heat seeping right through the glitter, tulle, and gossamer of my costume. I can’t wait to be onstage with him again. I can’t wait to see if this means we’re back together. I can’t wait for this part of my life to settle back into place. I answer him with a kiss, long and lingering. Even though it takes off some of my lipstick.
“Act two!” the stage manager shouts in our direction. “You’re on!”