What You Wish For (23 page)

Dimple Learns to Fly

J
ulian was standing on the pier, bent listening to the spitting image of Estelle Getty. I was sure he’d gotten better looking in the three weeks since I’d seen him. When he caught sight of me, he spread his arms wide, wind flapping his canvas army jacket. His companion patted his arm and shuffled off.

“A grasshopper walks into a bar. The barman says, ‘We’ve got a drink named after you.’ The grasshopper says, ‘You’ve got a drink named Dimple?’ ”

I was ready. “Two hydrogen atoms walk into a bar. One says, ‘I’ve lost my electron.’ The other says, ‘Are you sure?’ The first replies, ‘I’m positive.’ ”

He beamed.

“I’m glad you could come.” His call had been more request than command, but it didn’t matter. After the Daisy yoga-off, I would have walked barefoot, uphill (both ways) in ten feet of snow to get there.

“I was free.” My mother could get new drapes next weekend.

“Come.” His paw enveloped my hand as his other arm swept wide, encompassing the pier. “Isn’t this great?!” He pulled me along.

I wasn’t sure. It was an overcast, grey day, and the pier was swarming with children in matching T-shirts. Keeping up with Julian had me scrambling, and the uneven boardwalk required concentration. Early rain had left everything slick. “I thought only tourists and funnel cake addicts came to the pier.”

He grasped my shoulders. He was a touchy guy, but I wasn’t minding. LaMimi purred.

“Dimple Bledsoe, have you ever wanted to fly?”

I was suspicious. “As in ‘A fly walks into a bar’?”

“As in ‘through the air with the greatest of ease.’ ” He turned me around and I was facing the entrance of the Trapeze School of Santa Monica. Fifty feet overhead, a woman clung to a bar, swinging out over the grey, choppy ocean, a human eclipse against the sun breaking through the clouds. She soared among a jumble of ropes and platforms and nets, pumping her body faster along its pendulum before rolling forward and down onto a net far, far below.

“Oh no. I don’t want to die.”

“Too late. You’ve been stabbed by a deranged clown, electrocuted by a radio in the bathtub, poisoned by a jealous lover, and ravaged by Lymphangioleiomyomatosis.” He ticked off on his fingers. “And died beautifully every time, I might add. You’ve lived through a shooting spree at close range, exposure to Ebola, emergency brain surgery in a janitor’s closet, attempted strangulation by a crackers patient, a chase by a tiger that somehow ended up in an L.A. hospital, and mean looks from a jealous coworker. Your survival skills are impeccable and I have great hope you’ll make it to the end of today.”

I stared. “You saw the deranged clown thing?”

“I saw everything.”

“I had to pay the rent.”

“Even future Meryl Streeps start out in horror.”

“Did she?”

“No. But she would have if she had to pay the rent.”

I frowned at him.

“She did
Mamma Mia
.” Appeasing.

“Not funny.”

“
River Wild
?”

“What on earth makes you think I’m going to go up on that thing?” I stared at the girl clambering up the platform ladder. It was a long ladder.

“You did the deranged clown movie. You’ll do anything.” His eyes were laughing as he tugged me under the sign. I looked skyward, all too aware that he was holding my hand.

His charm doesn’t matter
, I chided myself. I opened my mouth to tell him where to put his trapeze when I remembered Daisy’s smug face. Julian Wales was all too comfortable and it was easy to forget this was an audition, no matter how bizarre.

“Technically, this is still public,” I said.

Julian smiled like a winner. “I have blue toenails.”

“I’m Monty. I’ll be your instructor today.” If Satan had a helper he’d look like the elf who popped up at my elbow. He was actually elbow height, and square like a cement block, with red curly hair and shoulder-to-wrist tattoos. A carrot-haired cage fighter. “Ready to fly?”

“Yes,” Julian said, in unison with my, “Not really.”

“Let’s get you suited up.” Monty’s enthusiastic clap emitted a cloud of chalk. He grabbed my waist, leaving two white prints on my black Lycra hips. “I’d say you’re a small.”

“May I ask your qualifications?” Anxiety was making me bitchy.

“Two jumper cables walk into a bar. The bartender says, ‘Hey, you two. Don’t start anything,’ ” Julian said.

“I went to the California College of Clownology then worked Cirque de Soleil in Vegas until it seemed like a good idea to move away from the baccarat tables.” The demonic cherub cinched a safety belt on me tight enough to crack a rib.

“That’s a little . . . ,” I gasped.

“It’s supposed to be tight. If you could sign this waiver.” Monty shoved a clipboard under my nose.

“Where’s your belt?” I asked Julian.

“I’m going to watch.” Julian popped a piece of Big Red in his mouth.

“What??”

His joviality evaporated. “That sounded pervy, but it isn’t.” Julian was serious. “You know I’m not here to laugh at you, or tell stories later at the bar. I respect you, respect any fears you may confront doing this, and respect your privacy.” He met my eyes. “You can trust me, Dimple.”

I was struggling for a reply when my Monty smacked my ass.

“Let’s hit it!”

I shoved my face in Monty’s so fast I don’t remember moving. “Listen, you evil sprite, if you touch my ass, waist, or a single strand of my arm hair again without asking permission first, I’ll use my dad’s dull fishing knife that hasn’t been sharpened since 1982 to saw off both your hands and turn them into an educational tool for today’s youth on the importance of politeness.”

Then I smoothed my yoga pants, because I’m a lady, and began climbing the platform ladder. When he recovered, Monty clambered after me like a monkey.

On the platform, we had a little lesson. It was hard to pay attention so high above ground, but I absorbed the basics.

“When I say ‘Hup!’ you move,” Monty instructed. “Hup one for jump off the platform, hup two for swing your knees over the bar, hup three for drop your hands and swing from your knees, hup four for hands back up, hup five for legs down, and hup six, drop into the net. You can drop sitting or flat on your back, but make sure you land on your butt, not feet down.”

“People really do all that on their first lesson?”

“Every day and twice on Sunday. The main thing is timing. If you move on my command, gravity will work with you. If you anticipate me, or go late, you’re fighting gravity and it’ll be a lot harder.”

He unclipped my belt from the stationary line and hooked me to the trapeze safety line. I inched to the edge of the platform.

“Remember, I’ll be holding you, so lean your weight forward. I won’t let go until you’re ready. When I say ‘Hup!,’ do a small hop off the platform.” He gripped my belt and encouraged me to the edge of the platform.

“One small hop for Dimple, one giant lawsuit for Dimple’s estate,” I said.

“Remember the position?”

“Casually lean my face into space a hundred feet above-ground with my butt sticking out?”

“Exactly.” My sarcasm was lost on him. “Shoulders back.”

I precariously held the bar, suspended over the net far below in an awkward tree pose. Monty said, “Hup!” and I was out. It happened in a blink. Each time he shouted, I flung my legs and hands as commanded. There wasn’t time to be scared before I was hanging from my knees, arms wafting free. In less than a minute I was bouncing on my butt in the net.

Another redheaded instructor, female this time, helped me roll-flip off the net to the ground ten feet below. Maybe red hair was a requirement for professional trapeze artists. Raggedy Ann and Andy.

“Was that really your first time?” she asked.

“Yes!” I was exhilarated.

She looked impressed. I was ready to dye my hair and join the circus. I hurried back to the ladder, sneaking a quick glance at Julian smiling on the sidelines, totally full of myself. “Great job!” Monty smiled when I reached the top. He didn’t look at all demonic. “Ready to go again?”

“Let’s do it!” I chalked my hands and grabbed the bar. I set my position. This time I was more prepared. The first time had been too fast to think.

“Hup!”

I hopped off the platform, thinking about how soon Monty would give the command for legs up. When he did, I was ready. I swung my knees toward my abdomen to get them over the bar, but I couldn’t. I put every ounce of core strength behind it but my body couldn’t manage. The window passed, and I swung back to center, dangling, impotent, from the bar. There was nothing to do but drop to the net.

What the hell? I didn’t wait for Raggedy Ann to help me flip down to the ground, and almost overrotated onto my butt in my haste. Was my core strength so puny I couldn’t swing my legs up twice? I didn’t look at Julian as I hurried past.

At the top of the platform, Monty said, “You started early and were fighting gravity. That’s why it was so hard.”

I nodded, intent. I hadn’t felt fear the first time, but now my adrenaline was pounding.

“Wait for my command.”

I focused my attention on Monty’s commands but I was worried that Julian was watching, and I was worried about what would happen if my arms got tired and I fell off, and I was worried about messing up again, and I was worried about starting too early. I refused to mess up. At his “Hup!” I swung out.

“Hup!”

I struggled mightily to raise my legs. Every fiber of my being strained.

I couldn’t do it. I dangled there, frustrated and pissed, then dropped into the net. I hated Julian Wales. All of Santa Monica could see me failing. How was this relevant to acting?

“You anticipated me again,” Monty said. He looked like a gargoyle.

“I’m too weak.” I worried. “Maybe I can’t do it. Maybe my stomach muscles don’t have what it takes.” My adrenaline was getting worse each time. I was fluttery and anxious. I was having a stroke.

“You can do it. My grandmother can do it.” I didn’t doubt that. His grandmother was Satan’s mother and could do any damn thing she wanted. “Let gravity work for you, not against you. Let’s try again.”

The third time I was dangling uselessly, Monty said, “Let’s do a backflip dismount. Swing your legs forward, back, forward on my command, and then let go and flip.”

Again, I was surprised by how fast the commands came.

“Forward, back, forward, flip!” Monty shouted.

I executed a flawless backflip into the net.

“Was that your first time doing
that
?” Raggedy Ann asked. “You looked like a pro.”

I wasn’t flattered. The backflip was a consolation prize for losers who couldn’t get their legs up.

“Can you show me what I’m doing wrong?” I hated needing help, but I wasn’t getting better. The whole pier was surely pointing and laughing.

“Have you ever jumped right when an elevator drops, so you feel like you’re falling? It’s the same. When you swing out, there’s a moment at the apex of the arc when you’re suspended and gravity helps lift your legs over the bar because your momentum is upward and the bar’s is downward. That’s when you have to hit it.”

“You’re sure it’s not because I don’t have the stomach muscles?” Doubt gnawed. Maybe I was the one person in the world who couldn’t do it.

“I’m sure.”

I walked slowly to the ladder this time and chalked my hands. I sneaked a glance at Julian. His expression was open and bright.

“Ready?” Monty said at the top.

I nodded, trying not to let defeat take over. Just follow his commands.

“Hup!”

And it was perfect. I closed my eyes and blocked out everything but the sounds. When the “Hup!” came, my legs slid smoothly over the bar. I struggled a little to bring my arms back up to the bar after dangling from my knees, but not too much. It was a perfect routine, including the backflip dismount.

When I rolled off the net, Raggedy Ann was effusive. I headed for the platform.

Monty was surprised to see me pop up the ladder.

“Got one more in you?”

I was exhausted and my lady parts were crushed from the belt, never to yield children now, but I nodded. I needed to make last time not an anomaly.

I completed the routine a second, then a third time, before I was too spent to continue. I brushed the chalk off my leggings and T-shirt as well as I could (black was not the best choice) and slipped on my white button-down before joining Julian. I didn’t sit, afraid I wouldn’t be able to stand again. He smiled without saying anything, and I thanked the redheads as he paid.

“Forget fear. Worry about addiction.” Monty’s parting words had been the school’s slogan. I doubted I’d get addicted, but I was feeling all-powerful.

We walked past clamoring kids in blue T-shirts, to the quiet of a few fishermen at the end of the pier. “Watch the lines.” He guided me away from the men casting along the edges. We walked toward a deserted section and leaned on the rail over choppy water.