Page 93 of Crash into me

“We may need to clean some glitter.”

* * *

The wind whipsoutside of the country club, and rolling hills give way to crawling dark clouds that will be over us any minute.

The floor is sparkling—not because of any glitter—and we’re nearly exhausted. Grace bolts through the doors, a flurry of helpers behind her carrying chairs and cloth. She snaps her fingers, pulling everyone in the directions they need to be in.

“Girls!” She sets down a cooler in front of us. “Normally I hate these things, but we need them.”

She lifts the lid, revealing an onslaught of energy drinks. I pluck out a red bull, ready to get hyped. “Let’s do this.”

I don’t know how we pulled this off, but as I peel the curtain back and look at the crowd waiting for us on the other side, a proud sense of purpose pricks at me. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life, be on the stage.

We’re wearing all black, with sheer white, simplistic skirts.

Although I love this feeling, the nerves are eating at me as we take the stage. The lighting isn’t on us yet, just a dim ambiance through the crowd. I get into position, raising my leg and bending my knee.

A crack of lightning pops outside, illuminating the crowd, and that’s when I see him staring back at me from the front row.

He didn’t race.

Foster sits with a bouquet of black roses, looking devilishly handsome in a matte black suit. His hair is slicked back, and he’s watching me with hooded midnight eyes.

I want to run out and hug him, but this is a serious dance, and I have to pull this stupid grin off my face before the lights blare on us.

The music begins, a somber song. I allow the tempo to guide me as I sweep in sync with the girls across the glossy black stage.

We’re telling a story through dance, and I had the opportunity to write it.

I was going to have all the girls play my part, but they said to keep attention on the story and they’ll mimic what happens to me on stage. I’m nervous to be the center, but I’m ready. Expression through art is what I’ve been taught with my new degree.

I have a camera set to the side recording so I could show him later.

After all, It’s our story.

We start on the ground, our hands covering our bodies as we hug ourselves.

I’m positioned in the middle with three girls on either side of me.

Scared looks dawn our faces as a man walks out.

Brett, bless him, walks out in all black, strutting around and pointing his finger at each of us. Acting like my father. Brett’s hand slaps the air above us, and we collapse onto the ground.

He retreats into the shadows.

Grace pirouettes out, a reflection of Kate, pulling her hand above my chest to bring me back to life. Always there for me even when she didn’t know it.

We all sit like puppets on a string and stare forward.

Then, a new man walks in, Maria’s boyfriend playing my favorite roll. He sits beside me and smiles, bringing his hands to cup my cheek, but I shy away. The rest of the group stands, circling us, trying to protect us with a barrier, but Brett returns, stomping his way inside and ripping apart the wall we’ve built.

Like during choreography, instead of using the actors’ names, I said who they resembled.

Dad pulls one of my hands, Foster the other. Foster is carefully nudging me in his direction while my father violently pulls.

Finally, I fall towards Foster, and he catches me while Dad leaks into the background. But he doesn’t leave … he looms.

Like a shadow waiting to spill out at our feet and trip us.

---