If (5 page)

I can’t even tell you how many thoughtless adults said to me in passing how beautiful I
could
have been. How my one-of-a-kind looks could have been successful in the modeling or dance world. The world of dance is harsh. You are shamelessly hectored about your weight. Your body is treated like a commodity, as if your legs, and breasts, and butt aren’t attached to a soul that can be damaged. Ironically, I was blessed in ways that many other dancers might have issues with: I was tall, thin, my breasts were small and unobtrusive. It was my face, the thing most people didn’t have to worry about, that held me back. Especially in ballet, where one’s hair is to be pulled back. A pristine face is important, and half of mine looked like Edward Scissorhands went to town on it.

It was something I was always conscious of, I suppose the way other women might feel about having a big tummy or some other “flaw.” But mine wasn’t just some common human flaw. It was a story that begged to be told. You couldn’t look at my face without wondering . . .
why?

Beauty is symmetry, and one half of my face did not match the other. It was the artifice of my deformity that was especially unsettling. I wasn’t born with a big nose, a lazy eye, or cankles. Someone did this to me.

And yet, I came to LA anyway. Naively, I thought people would see my talent as a dancer and be blown away enough to forget about my face. But I had been here for well over a year, and I had hardly gotten past the first round of an audition. When those negative thoughts crept in, I shoved them back into the dark crevasse of my brain where they lived. I was already poor and I couldn’t afford doubts.

I never uttered my insecurities out loud. Not even to Jordan. I pretended as though it didn’t bother me, that people less talented than me got more work, because to say it would make it real. I know others might call that delusion, but don’t you have to be a little delusional to follow a dream?

“Let me at least show you a picture. He’s gorgeous.”
That’s why I know it would be pointless.
In LA, beauty abounds, and I was no beauty.

“Maybe tomorrow, but I’m tired,” I said.

“Me too.”

I wondered if Jordan would spend the night with me or go across to his place. The truth was, I was still a little shaken up and I didn’t want to be alone, but I didn’t want to admit that after all the assurances I had given earlier.

I opened my futon and laid out a pillow.

The popping of the record player stopped as Jordan pulled the needle off and gently placed the vinyl back in its sleeve.

“Lay a pillow down for me too,” he said.

ASH

I MOANED IN
near-ecstasy as the steaming hot water sprayed over my bruised body. The night before, I slipped out of the hospital as quickly as I could. I hated closed spaces and I especially fucking hated hospitals. So, I got myself stitched, answered the cop’s questions, and then I got the hell out of that sterile, soulless place.

The incident shocked some life into me and I wandered for a bit, trying to figure out what to do next. I had a lot of nervous energy and nowhere to place it. After several hours, the jitters settled and the first thing I wanted to do was take a shower. The second, was get some genuine rest. The pain meds made me woozy, so I used every bit of waking energy to get into this shower with the ultimate reward of passing out on a fresh bed.

Once I finished showering, I gently stepped out and wrapped a towel around my waist. My entire torso ached from wrestling that waste of space and the stab wound emitted this pulsating throb that spread throughout my left side. The pain killers could only do so much. I suspected that with my background, the doctors intentionally didn’t give me enough to completely knock out the pain.

“I didn’t know you were here,” my brother, Miller, said.

“Jeeeesus!” I spun around in a fright, and that pulled on my stitches something fierce. I winced.

“Holy shit, Ash. What the fuck happened?”

“Nothing man.”

“Dude, this is not the time for your bullshit.”

I hated how he just waltzed in, unannounced, and I barely had the energy to keep my eyes open, let alone explain the incident which led to the stabbing. But this was his guest house, his rules.

“Some guys were messing with me and some chick tried to interfere. Then they started messing with her, like seriously I think they were gonna rape her. So, I had to step up.”

Miller shook his head. “Why can’t you just stay here, man? None of that would have happened if you just stayed here.”

“You know why.”

“Actually, I don’t. Why? Because you hate being enclosed? Well, it’s warm and I have a pool, a yard . . . you can be outside most of the time. It’s not safe out there, man.” He gestured to the world far beyond his manicured lawn.

We both knew the real reasons were beyond my bouts of claustrophobia. But we were guys, and we didn’t want to discuss the heavy stuff. So we went through this probably once a month, Miller insisting I stay for longer than a random night here and there when I showed up to do laundry and shower. Then I would tell him I wasn’t going to live in his guest house, it wasn’t right for me to just live there like that, and I preferred to be out on my own with no constraints. I was like a wild animal, attempts at domestication only made me snap at the ones who cared for me.

Miller sighed and sat down. “So what happened to the girl?”

“She was fine. She didn’t get stabbed or raped, so there’s that.”

“Ballsy move on her part. Is she . . . ?”

“Homeless? A crackhead? No. She was just a normal person walking down the street.”

“Real ballsy.”

“Arrogant.”

“Dude, you should be thanking her.”

I grabbed a fresh T-shirt from my bag and slung it overhead. “Maybe. But she shouldn’t have put herself in that position for me. And I would’ve been fine. Her getting into the situation blew it up. Those disgusting fucks saw a pretty girl and it was like a pack of wild beasts.”

“Nonetheless, I’d say it was admirable of someone to do. Especially a girl on her own.”

“I guess. I can’t afford that kind of idealism. Whatever. I’ll never see her again anyway, but if I do, I’ll give her your number so you can be friends.” I was in pain and exhausted and still pissed about, you know, getting stabbed in my torso. I sighed. “Sorry man, I’m being an asshole. I am just tired and a little moody.”

“Moody?”

Ugh,
how I hated that he was always trying to monitor my damn psychological well-being.

“Moody like you normal folk, not Asher moody.” I was fibbing. At that moment, thanks to the whole adrenaline rush, I was leveling out to something resembling normalcy. But I was in an Asher mood when those assholes came at me.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Nope. Just exhausted.”

“Hey, you know I gotta ask this,” Miller sighed. I knew what was coming. Holidays were around the corner. “Mom and dad are hosting Thanksgiving.”

“I can’t, bro.” I was an asshole for rejecting my parents, but I could not look them in the eye. They thought that they wanted me over there, but I was the source of all their problems. I was doing them a favor by staying away.

“I know,” he said sadly. “They miss you though.”

“Miller!” His wife, Ella, called out for him. She usually didn’t come to say hi and that was fine by me.

“That’s dinner,” Miller said, pointing his thumb in the general direction of his house. “Alright, well get some rest. I’ll save you a plate and bring it over. And please stay safe. See me before you leave?”

“Yeah.” My eyelids were starting to rebel, shutting mid-word.

“Rest up, man,” he slapped me on the shoulder and I jerked to brace for the soreness.

“Uh huh,” I said drunkenly, sliding onto the cool bed sheets.

BIRD

I lay on my futon, binge-watching The Walking Dead on Jordan’s Netflix account.
Thank god for less-broke friends.

It was my one day off that week and all I wanted to do was lie on the couch and move just enough to allow my lungs to inhale and exhale. That was the problem with the grind: it zapped so much of my energy that hardly any was left to practice the very skill I came out here for.

The benefit to teaching a few classes was that it forced me to revisit and hone my own skills several times a week, and since I was already at the studio, I could stay behind to get some work in. But increasingly, my energy was being saved for, and drained at, auditions. Dancing began to feel more like a chore, amplifying my insecurities when it used to be the thing to make me forget them.

I started to doze off into a glorious afternoon nap when my phone rang. It was my sister, Jessa, who I spoke to at least a couple of times a week and who I had made a point not to call since the mugging. Ever since she had her kids, she had grown increasingly motherly towards me, and I just knew she would spontaneously combust when I told her about the incident. I had already ignored a couple of her calls, so I had no choice but to finally take this one.

“Hey Birdie!”

“Hey . . .”

“Were you asleep?”

“Sort of.”

“Oh, well anyway, what’s up?” The sound of a children’s TV show played in the background.

“Are the kids watching TV in surround sound?”

“Is it really that loud? Hold on, let me turn it down.” The sound of the TV was replaced by a baby cooing and gurgling.

“Is that Emmie?” I asked.

“Yes it is,” Jessa said in a cutesy voice. “She just woke up from her nap and she’s surprisingly in good spirits, considering. Wanna say hi?”

“Of course.”

“Say hi to auntie Bird!”

Emmie’s nonsensical baby sounds came through, making me feel all warm and fuzzy.

“Hi, little Em!” I said into the receiver.

“Okay, let me drop her into the playpen.”

This was usually how calls with my sister went, about 85% of it was her verbally wrestling with motherhood peppered with our fragmented attempts at conversation.

“Okay, Em’s safe and Benji is napping, so you have me all to yourself. How’s everything going?”

“Good, work is the same. I picked up an extra class at the dance school teaching five-year-olds. Oh my god, they are so cute. A handful, but cute.”

“And how’s everything with money? Are you doing okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” My sister was the reason I could afford to live alone, even in a tiny apartment in LA. She was the only true family support I had. And I tried really hard not to ask, but occasionally it was do that or a bill went without being paid. “How’s Alec?”

“Good, he’s busy with work as usual and the holidays are coming so we’re revving up for that. Are you coming home?” She already knew the answer to that.

“No . . . I can’t afford it anyway.”

“I’d get you a ticket.”

“It’s not just that. You know that. It’s not like I’ve been invited.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If a formal invitation to come home is what you need, I’ll tell mom—”

“No. Don’t. I have plans here anyway.”

She sighed a sigh that admitted yet another defeat in the battle of getting Birdie home.

“Anyway, something happened earlier this week. I’m okay though.”

“What? What happened?”

“I was mugged while walking home from work.”

“Mugged? Oh my god! You see? That’s it, I am talking to Alec. We are going to help pay for you to live in a better neighborhood. I can’t have you living like this.”

“No, it’s fine. I like where I live. My building is in an okay part of Downtown LA, I just have to walk through a couple of not so great blocks to get there.”

“Well, then that’s just as bad.”

“I don’t want to move. And you guys do enough for me. It was my fault anyway.”

“How could it be your fault?”

“I tried to be a Good Samaritan and it backfired.”

“I could kill you sometimes, you know that? You and your big mouth.”

“But you love me for it, too.”

“I don’t recall that growing up.”

My sister and I are different in so many ways. Of course, since I’m adopted, we’re not biologically related. She is actually the biological child of my parents. My parents had just the two of us. Let me be clear—I was never meant to feel different in any way. My parents were equally strict with us. But while my older sister did everything they wanted—the perfect petite blonde with the perfect accountant husband, and the picturesque little family—I was always wandering. I was the redheaded mixed girl (of what, I don’t know, but I think some percentage of black and white. The point is, I was physically different) with
gorgeous
facial scars. I wasn’t born ugly, just different from the norm, and as if God thought I didn’t feel different enough, he got someone to mark my face up for that extra umph. I never could focus in school, though my teachers always said I was brilliant. That was the reason my parents put me in dance. They thought it would build my confidence because I hated going to school, hated how the kids mocked me, even though my popular older sister did what she could to protect me. They also hoped it would help expend some energy and improve my focus in school. It did expend energy, but I think their hopes backfired. They wanted dance to be a tool to make me compliant, and all it did was make my desires wander more.