Predominance (8 page)

Yvette's face lit up. “You remember!” Her smile as bright as the moon.

“Of course,” I said softly, remembering the first time Yvee showed me a picture of her mom—a woman who shared the same amazingly black, straight hair, and that perfect contrast of pale white skin. In the picture, she was frozen in what they call the arabesque position, wearing her full ballerina outfit. I remember Yvee dancing around in her bedroom, wanting to be like her. Unfortunately, she never got the chance to meet her mother, who died giving birth to her. Stories from her aunts and dog-eared pictures of her mom's performances on the stage were all Yvette ever had of her growing up. But that never stopped her from adoring the memory of her mother.

“Anyway…” She continued. “I settled in New York, hoping to catch my big break. But all I got was rejection after rejection. Some directors wouldn't even let me audition for them, you know?”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well,” her tone turned just a tad bitter, “according to some critics, I'm just a little too well-endowed to be a professional ballerina. So they always kept my resume at the bottom of the pile.
Pff!” she scoffed. “Idiots!”

“That's ridiculous!” I blustered. “You, you're perfect!” The wry look on Yvette's face made me realize that I'd actually uttered these words aloud. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. “I mean…” I trailed off nervously. “What I'm trying to say is that, uh…”

“Shut up,” she said, fighting an embarrassed smile.

I obeyed and looked at the ground, too embarrassed to say another word.

“Anyway!” she sighed, running her fingers through her untangled hair, just before she tossed it back over her shoulders. Her words began to flow in a hurry then, as if trying to put the awkward moment behind. “I didn't let that break me, you know? I kept practicing and auditioning. Until one day I got the opportunity to prove them all wrong. A big ballet company in Manhattan was seeking dancers for their new production of Swan Lake, and they called me up for an audition. I remember a lot of people telling me I was wasting my time. But I didn't listen. After two days of nonstop rehearsals, I drove myself up to the studio and waited for two hours in a room full of experienced dancers auditioning for the same role. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest.” She sighed wistfully.

“What happened?” I urged, completely caught up in the story.

She took a deep breath and raised her eyes to the stars. “Three days after my audition, they called me up and let me know that I've been cast for the role of Odette. That was the lead role,” she explained, realizing that the character's name hadn't meant much to me.

“Well, that's great!” I cheered. “I bet you brought down the house.”

Her beautiful blue eyes dampened with tears. “No,” she murmured. “I never got to perform.”

“What? Why not?” I demanded, disappointed.

She spoke as if fighting something stuck in her throat. “I was coming out of rehearsals, two evenings before opening night, and, uh… well, a drunk driver thought it'd be fun to run through the red light while I was crossing the street. He didn't see me until it was too late.” A lonely tear escaped from the corner of her eye; she wiped it off in a hurry, almost angrily. “When I woke up from my coma three days later, I was informed about my head trauma, and about my leg being broken in two places, along with a couple of ribs, and a shoulder that was now out of whack. But nothing was as painful as learning that my understudy had taken my place, and that her name was now replacing mine on all the billboards and marquees.”

She growled in frustration. “She came to visit me in the hospital. I couldn't even look at her. I know it wasn't her fault, but I was just so angry.” The line of her jaw went taut as she tried to suppress her tears. Then she went for the flask again, and took a big sip. I didn't stop her this time. “I went to visit her in the theatre after I got better, and I apologized to her. She understood.”

Her eyes went thoughtful. “I decided to count my blessings and be grateful that my leg had healed so well, and that, although I didn't get to perform, I was still considered part of the company. So as soon as I felt strong enough, I went back to the theatre to try to get my life back. But I didn't last more than two weeks. I, uh, fell on stage, when one of my legs began to shake uncontrollably. I went to see a doctor, who thought I was developing Parkinson's. But then I was informed about the intracranial pressure, which was not only producing all the motor symptoms, but was eventually going to put an end to my life.” She paused ruefully. “After that, I moved back to my Aunt Teresa's in Long Island, and um… I locked myself in my room for the next two years. You know the rest.”

She stopped and took another sip.

After listening to her story, I was surprised to realize that sadness wasn't the only oppressive feeling in my heart. Anger was there, too; anger towards her father for not being there when she needed him the most; anger towards the stupid driver who caused the accident; anger towards this damned condition that was now haunting us both. But most of all, I was angry at life, which had taken umbrage against a sweet and innocent person like Yvette. She'd always been the one and only memory from my past that I had considered good and pure and perfect, and thinking that all these vile things could have happened to her just made me furious.

But I soon realized that my irrational views were only projections of another mood-swing triggered by the frustration of it all. Looking at her, I couldn't help but think: She's just a sad, little angel whose wings have been cut off. 

“I'm sorry,” I said finally, laying my hand over hers, my own jaw tight.

Another tear slid down her face as she swung her gaze to meet mine. She wiped it off, swiftly, and smiled. “It's okay—”

“It's not okay!” I snapped, “None of it is!” My fingertips flew to my temples then, as I felt my dreadful headache grinding down on me again. I groaned.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “I'm fine.”

She scrutinized my face for a minute.

“All right,” she blurted, wiping any lingering tears from her eyes, her smile bright again. “Enough about me! It's your turn. Tell me everything.” She stretched the word playfully, making me laugh. 

“I'm afraid we're going to need a lot more Scotch for my story.”

“We'll make do.” She handed me the flask with a crooked smile and waited.

I tried to be as thorough as she wanted me to be with my story, although some facts were too painful for me to detail: Like my dad's final days in the hospital, and his funeral. I breezed through those as fast as I could. She did stop me for a moment, though, and gave me her condolences. I thanked her and moved things along. I'm sure she noticed my avoidance of the subject. But the truth was that I had already embarrassed myself enough in front of her that night to let her watch me break into tears, too. And I had suppressed so many through the years that I knew it wouldn't be a pretty sight, so...

Anyway, I did tell her about the accident and Xavier. She stopped me there, too, and gave me a rueful “I'm so sorry.”' But after all the doleful things were said, I tried to lighten the mood by talking about our accomplishments rather than our frustrations. In my case, I told her about my getting my bachelor's in physics and mathematics despite of my condition, and she told me about her years in the conservatory.

The hours flew by.

There was a moment of silence, after all of our talking, in which Yvette lay her head back against the tree and raised her eyes to the night sky. I, on the other hand, took advantage of her remoteness to admire her; she looked like a perfectly chiseled marble statue. I became so enthralled by her beauty that I didn't care anymore if she caught me staring. To see her was to love her—and I think… I wanted her to know.

Her sapphire eyes widened then, with a surprise that made her lips part, just enough to let out a small sigh. “Look!” she prompted, pointing at the night sky. Her request (more than my curiosity) made my eyes stray from her face. “Isn't it amazing?” she exclaimed, as our eyes beheld the extraordinary wonder of the Northern Lights. “I was told you couldn't see them this time of the year. It must be a sign or something!” She gazed in wonder at the fluttering bands of colors that glowed across the darkness.

I wondered, too; but I was wondering if my sign wasn't sitting right beside me rather than on the threshold of space. And though I'd never seen the magnificent aurora before, my eyes chose to move back to the mortal angel to my left, taking a rain check on the natural marvel in the sky. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” she asked.

“No,” I breathed, my eyes fixed on her.

She threw a glance at me from the corner of her eye and noticed my staring. “You're not even looking,” she accused.

“Oh yes I am.”

She turned to me then, and allowed me to monopolize her absorbing eyes for the longest moment. “What?” she breathed, as a coy smile lit up her face.

“Do you really believe in signs?” I asked meaningfully.

She nodded. “Don't you?”

“My father wanted me to.” I considered thoughtfully. “But I never did. Not until a couple of days ago. Something happened back in my apartment that led me to this place—and now I'm here… with you.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Forget it! I'm probably just losing my mind.”

“You're not,” she comforted me, laying her hand over mine. “Tell me.”

I deep sigh escaped my lips, as an old familiar impulse made our hands fold together. I don't think either of us noticed it until it happened. “Do you remember our last day together?” I asked, trying to resort to memories to make my point.

She let out a cheerless sigh. “We were twelve, Victor—”

“Do you remember?” I insisted. 

She looked into my eyes; her gaze was overwhelming. “Of course,” she said. “So many things happened that day… I couldn't forget if I tried.”

“Tell me.” My request sounded more like a plea.

Her brow puckered as if in disappointment. “You don't remember?”

“I do,” I assured her. “But if you don't mind, I'd like to relive it through your eyes.”

She tried to suppress a smile, and nodded. “Okay. Where should I start?”

“What's the first thing you remember?”

“A bike ride!” she began. “Yeah… You came and took me out for a bike ride. But you left something at home… your wallet! You wanted to get me one of those, uh, bocconottos from Rosa's Bakery, because you knew I loved them so much. So we went back to your house, but you got derailed. Your dad's car was parked in the driveway, and you weren't expecting him so early. So we went back inside through the back door, and we heard him talking with an older man in the living room. He was a realtor. He was telling your dad about the house having been sold as he'd requested, and that his offer on the new one, a hundred miles away, had been accepted.

“I remember you went pale and staggered backwards into the wall. But then you grabbed me by the hand and ran out with me into the backyard. You told me you were running away, and that you were taking me with you.” She snickered sheepishly, avoiding my eyes for a moment, our hands exploring each other’s as if with minds of their own. “I remember smiling and saying okay.” she added, blushing.

“You wanted to leave right away. But I convinced you to wait until midnight, because I knew everybody'd be looking for us otherwise. So we readied our backpacks and hid in my Aunt Becky's cellar. I thought she'd never find us there, because of the old armoire, remember?”

I nodded in response, remembering the large, stand-alone wardrobe Mrs. Montgomery kept in the cellar. The tall, double-door, mahogany monster used to serve us well when playing hide-and-seek during the endless summers at Mrs. Montgomery's house. She could never find us, especially with all the clutter she kept around the cellar. As strange as it sounds, this piece of furniture became our secret hideout after an incident that happened when Yvette was about ten. She went missing after a stupid kid from school said something cruel about her father abandoning her. Mrs. Montgomery went crazy looking for Yvette.

But it was me who found her, crying in that closet. She was crouching in a corner with her arms wrapped around her knees. I remember crawling inside and hugging her. I cried, too—not only because I understood the pain of being abandoned, but because I saw my little blue-eyed angel hurting. We made a promise then that if we ever felt the need to cry again, we'd do it in there, where no one else could see us.

We cried a lot.

“Yeah.” She let out a sigh and continued, “I remember you pulling me into the closet when we heard people coming into the house. We knew we were busted. But you still closed those heavy double doors on us and asked me to be quiet. Then, as we heard them descending the squeaky stairs, you cupped the back of my head and told me the strangest thing.” She paused and frowned into space. “You said… 'Don't worry. Not even Space and Time can keep us apart. We're bound to find each other again.' …And then you promised.”

Her face went blank for a moment. But then she snapped out of it and laughed quietly, tightening her hold on my hand. “You sure were a strange boy,” she added. “Always adding science to everything you said, always trying to make sense of things when you knew they were senseless. It made it very difficult to read you sometimes. To this day, I have no idea what you tried to say to me in that closet.” She smiled.