Pointe (5 page)

“Whatever, Theo. It's still not the same as hooking up with him.”

“It was a couple of times. There was no sex. And it was, like, a million years ago, so I'd appreciate it if you'd stop bringing it up.”

I glare at him, but it's not my full-on death stare. Murderous looks don't go with my new sweater. I'm so flat that most sweaters look ridiculous on me, but my mother brought this one home last week and it's perfect. Fitted with a deep scoop neck and made from soft cashmere the color of eggplant.

“Not a million.” Phil won't let it go. “Freshman year. Two.”

“Maybe
you
need to get laid and stop fixating on who
I
didn't sleep with two years ago.” I look to Sara-Kate for support. “Right?”

She holds up her hands, shakes her pale purple head at us. “I am
so
not getting into this. Now let's go find some booze. Mama's thirsty.”

Next stop: the kitchen. Nearly every brand and type of liquor imaginable is spread out on the granite counters—some uncapped, some half empty, and others completely untouched, like the monstrous bottle of butterscotch schnapps. The door at the back of the room opens out to a terrace, where people are gathered around three kegs. Music pulsates through the house at such a deafening volume that even the bottles clink to the beat.

Phil and Sara-Kate go outside to check on the keg situation while I peruse my options on the counter. I'm inspecting the label on a bottle of vodka when Klein walks in. He hasn't changed much since we used to hang out. He shaved off his curls so that his hair is nothing more than black prickles, but it only accentuates his remarkable bone structure.

He stands so close to me, I can smell the soap from his shower. And the liquor on his breath. Better than cologne, I guess.

“Legs. You made it.”

I smile and say hello. I guess I'll always be grateful to Klein in some way. He's not my type, but he's exactly what I needed two years ago. He made me forget what had happened to Donovan and also those months at Juniper Hill. But most importantly, he made me forget about Trent.

Trent, who was five years older, eighteen to my thirteen. Trent Miller, who told me he loved me and wanted to be with me and made me believe every word he said about us. Trent Ryan Miller, who just up and left one day, who was never to be heard from again, who the shrinks decided was a big part of the reason I ended up at Juniper Hill in the first place. That is, when they weren't busy blaming ballet.

Klein was sloppy, but he was sweet and always treated me like I was the best-looking girl in the room. He still does, so long as his girlfriend's not around. As if she knows I'm thinking about her, Trisha wanders in a few moments later, all glassy eyes and fashionably unbrushed hair. Trisha is tall and thin, but not the type of thin that makes people want to send you away.

“Hi, Theo,” she says in this faraway voice. “It's really amazing about Donovan. I sat behind him in fourth grade. Remember? We did that science fair project with the rain gauge.”

I don't, but I nod and start backing up, slowly so she won't notice I'm trying to get away.

But Klein sees everything.

“Wait.” He pulls a red cup from one of the upside-down stacks, all lined up like those hats the Shriners wear. “Let me make you a drink.”

“No, thanks.” I point toward the patio. “Beer.”

“Okay.” He wraps an arm around Trisha's teeny waist. “Well, we're gonna roll later. You in?”

I choke down a “no fucking way” and say that I have to be up early for ballet tomorrow. Which is true. But also? Doing E with Klein Anderson and his girlfriend is about the last thing to check off of my list tonight. They hooked up with Mallory Frank at a pool party last summer. I wasn't there but I'd believe it even if there hadn't been witnesses. Mallory is on the fringe, one of those girls who will do anything to make her way into the circle.

He looks at me now and shrugs. “Your choice. Hey, if you see Hosea out there, tell him I'm looking for him. Dude has no fucking concept of time.”

He and Trisha start fumbling with a bottle of rum and a two-liter of Coke and that's my cue to leave. My friends are no longer on the patio, but the kegs are getting plenty of action from the fringe people—like Mallory. People who are cool enough to be invited, but awkward enough to feel like they have to kiss everyone's ass for their next invitation. I don't know if anyone would call me, Sara-Kate, and Phil popular, but we're cool with the people who
do
hold most of the power in our class—particularly the two messy people I just left in the kitchen.

“You look like you could use a beer,” says a friendly voice to my left.

Eddie Corteen. We've gone to school together our whole lives but I don't know anything about him. He shows up to class every day, he comes to all the parties, and he's so
nice,
it seems like an act until you realize no one could keep that up for so long. But I can't remember having an actual conversation with him, nothing more than hello in passing or asking him for his notes if I missed English class.

“I
could
use a beer,” I say since he's already pumping the keg. “Thanks, Eddie.”

“No problem,” he says, sort of ducking his head as he reaches into a plastic bag near the base of the keg and fills a red cup. “So how's it going? I've been thinking about you.” Eddie flushes so quickly, I wonder how his mind had time to communicate with his body. His white-blond eyebrows get lost in his pinkened skin. “I mean, not like that. I just—Donovan. You know?”

Right. He knew him, too.

He hands me the cup and I sip. Ice-cold, hasn't gone flat, and hardly any head. Normally I'd forgo the beer on a Friday night since I have ballet early the next morning, but after the past couple of days I deserve this. Except . . . thinking about Donovan mars the perfection of this beer.

“I feel like I shouldn't be out right now,” I say, spilling my fears to the person I probably know the least at this party, as if that makes any kind of sense. The words are out before I can stop them. “Like it's wrong because he's at home with his mom . . . recovering.”

Recovering.
Such a crap word, but I don't know what else to say. He was hurt and suffering and now he's home and trying to heal. Maybe he can't close his eyes without launching a thousand nightmares.

So what am I doing? It never occurred to me to skip Klein's party until now, but guilt coats my insides as I think of Donovan while I stand on the terrace, holding a beer and talking to people who used to be his classmates.

“You can't think about it that way,” Eddie says in a careful voice. “I used to sit behind you guys on the bus sometimes and you . . . well, you two seemed real tight. You were a good friend to him when he was here, Theo.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” I say, staring down at the toes of my black riding boots. Surprised that he remembers how we used to be.

But four years apart have turned Donovan's life upside down, and now even the familiar pieces of his former existence—his mother, his house, his bedroom—must seem so far removed from who he is today.

“Try not to think about it,” Eddie says, his hair winking silvery blond in the bright lights shining over the patio. “We're gonna get a game of flip cup going later, if you're up for it. You could be on my team.”

He gives me a smile so wide and genuine, I smile, too. And for a moment, it makes me feel a little less stupid for confiding in him.

“Maybe,” I say, glancing behind him, where the two guys I always see him with are hanging back, watching us. I don't know their names. They turn their heads as soon as I make eye contact. I look at Eddie again. “But thank you.”

“Anytime, Theo.” He tips an imaginary hat to me in such a nerdily endearing way, I can practically hear his friends teasing him already.

I turn toward the lawn and start across the perfectly manicured grass toward the Andersons' gazebo. I navigate my way up the steps and sit cross-legged on the floor. I sip my beer and close my eyes but I can't shake this. Him. Donovan.

• • •

Footsteps are crossing the yard, crackling through the layers of fallen leaves. I open my eyes to Hosea Roth's dark figure silhouetted against the autumn night sky. I stand, hold carefully to my beer.

He stops.

“Oh. I didn't know anyone was out here. Sorry.”

“Wait,” I say. “It's Theo.”

I step out of the shadows; he squints up at me.

“Well. I guess it is.” He pushes a few loose strands of hair behind his ear. “Twice in one day.”

Which is strange, considering he always blended into the background before. This morning seems so long ago, though I remember every second we were alone together.

We stare at each other. He says, “I can leave . . .” just as I ask, “Do you have a cigarette?”

He laughs, then pulls a packet from the front pocket of his hoodie. “Cloves okay?”

I nod and sit down on the steps. Hosea sits next to me and leans against the cool, painted wood. His usual black T-shirt has been replaced by a thick cotton hoodie, the kind you have to pull on over your head. Or maybe the shirt is underneath. My face goes warm when I think of this, as if I were undressing him in my mind.

He knocks loose a clove, holds it out to me. He lights mine first, cups his hand around the flame until it sparks on the tobacco. Then he leans back and lights his own, takes a long drag. His face is defined by a square jaw, hard lines that make him look angry even when he's not. I wonder if he ever wears his hair down, if it makes him seem softer. Less stoic.

“What does Marisa think about this?” he asks, moving his clove around in lazy circles, sending tendrils of smoke curling out from the end.

“About the smoking? It's more of a don't ask, don't tell situation.”

“And the beer?” He grins and even in the dark I can tell it's a nice grin.

“A girl can't live on ballet alone.” I smile at him and look away and I wonder how this snuck up on me.

Hosea Roth. He's always just been there. I was in eighth grade when he moved from Nebraska, started at Ashland Hills High, but even when we were at the same school the next year, he never stood out to me. Not for more than what he was already known for. Now I don't know how I ever could have missed it, that something deeper was lurking behind his image.

“You look like you could,” he says as he returns the lighter to his pocket. “Live on ballet.”

“I do?” His words make me feel shy but understood. Happy but nervous. I take a sip of my beer as I process this.

“You're so in your own world at that place. Like nothing could ever bother you.”

“Oh.” My skin burns again as I think of him watching me dance. I was practically in my underwear in front of him, slick with sweat and stretching my muscles to their limit. Maybe it doesn't seem like a big deal in the moment, when we're all in a room together, when he's there for the strict purpose of musical accompaniment. But now, thinking about it like that . . . I know he's not playing specifically for
me
but it seems so intimate, dancing to the music he makes.

“I didn't know that was your . . . I wouldn't have just shown up like that if I'd known you go there. You looked like you wanted me to get the hell out.”

“Maybe a little,” I say slowly. “But only at first.”

I sort of laugh and it makes him laugh, too, and there it is again. I could listen to that sound for the rest of the night.

“What do you think about?” he asks. “When you're dancing.” And when I look up, his eyes are already on me. Mine sweep across his face and I wonder why I never noticed how much I
like
his face. Even parts I never thought I could care about. Like his nose. It's a good nose. A strong nose that fits the rest of his strong features.

I hesitate, but his voice is softer and I don't think he's making fun of me.

Still, I can't quite say it. Not yet. I've never talked to anyone outside of dance about ballet. Not beyond the basics. No one else understands that when my feet are laced into pointe shoes I feel like I can do damn near anything. And I'm embarrassed to say I have no clue what I'd be doing if I didn't have dance.

I clear my throat and take a drag so I can stall some more. Finally, I say, “It's dumb.”

He taps his long fingers against his knee, then looks at me with his clear gray eyes. “When I lived in Nebraska, I worked on this Rachmaninoff piece until I could play it with my eyes closed, play it backward, whatever. My piano teacher loved it. She stared at me like a goddamn groupie. And then I played it for my mom and she cried. Through the whole thing.”

Rachmaninoff. So he knows his shit. I wonder how people would look at Hosea if they knew music is such an important part of his life.
Real
music, not the crap like Donnie Kenealy and his garage band play. It makes
me
look at him differently, now that I know we really have something in common.

“How old were you?” I ask.

“I don't know. Maybe eight? But I guess . . . when I play, I wonder what people are thinking. How they're interpreting the song.” He points his clove toward me. “Your turn.”

“I think about my future . . .” I pretend that Hosea is Ruthie or Josh or Marisa, the people who get how much ballet means to me. If I think about him like everyone else, even like Sara-Kate or Phil, I won't be able to finish. “Dancing on a real stage in front of a real audience. With a real company. How different it will feel.”

“That's what you've been working for this whole time?” He stretches his long legs down the steps of the gazebo, his feet pointing toward the enormous, shedding sycamore tree across the yard.

I nod because I don't know how to say ballet is the only thing in this world that makes me feel alive, that doesn't disappoint me.