Page 24 of Your Echo
“Desolé, Maman,” I plead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
I trail off when I see the tears in her eyes. They form a shiny film over her pupils but don’t quite spill over.
“I don’t want you to live that kind of life,” she whispers, “so full of hate there’s no point in you feeling. You told me the meditation was helping, that you were happy, but if it’s not—”
“It is!” I’m practically begging. “It is helping. Iamhappy. I’m so happy. Everyone is always telling me how happy I seem. I was just upset about the plumber thing, that’s all.”
She doesn’t look convinced, and with good reason. All I want to do is shout that thereis a point to this hate, and that maybe if she’d let herself feel a bit more of it...
Breathe. Just breathe. You’re here. You’re not there anymore. You’re here.
“Really,” I repeat, sounding a little more believable this time, “I’m happy.”
* * *
Mamanand I find a fragile kind of peace during the rest of my visit. I leave after we’ve had lunch and looked for a plumber together online. When I fish my bus pass out of my purse, I find she’s stuffed three of the protein bars I bought her inside. I don’t know whether to laugh or shake my head as I sink onto a seat near the front of the bus.
I arrive at the studio almost half an hour before my class starts. The room I’m teaching in is empty, so I hook my phone up to the sound system and stretch for awhile before I try a run-through of the routine.
The song isn’t the style I usually pick for choreography. My students always beg for people like Shawn Mendes or Katy Perry, and I often give in for the sake of maintaining their enthusiasm, but I set this routine to a dreamy, piano-powered track by Jenn Grant, a Canadian artist I only started listening to a few weeks ago.
I strip down to just my sports bra and yoga shorts before pressing play on the stereo.
Then for three minutes and fifty-seven seconds, I just let go.
I melt into the music, like it’s a fire and I’m feeding it with my body and my breath and my mind. I throw everything into the flames, offering up the beads of sweat collecting on my shoulders, the ache in my muscles as I leap into an over-split and stretch my legs as far as they’ll go. I let the fire claim my memories, my emotions—everything that’s happened in the past few days propelling me faster as I dance up and down the length of the room.
The tears in my mom’s eyes, Guita’s humming, the laughter of my girls in beginner ballet: I give it all up, the good and the bad, and twist through a series of roll combos I’ve never nailed all in one go before, barely registering the accomplishment as the music swells. I get ready for a set of pirouettes I hadn’t worked into the choreography, but now realize are perfect for this part of the song.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, the ponytail I started the routine off with long gone, my hair whipping around my shoulders as I prepare myself for the spins.
I close my eyes, and another flash of a memory slips into the fire. This one sparks and spits and sends tendrils of heat shooting through all of my tendons. I spin and I spin until the room is a revolving blur of glass and white brick walls.
When I finally land the move, I’m dizzy enough to have to reach for the bar, but it’s not from all of the pirouettes. I could turn twice as many and not feel lightheaded like this.
No, the reason I’m dizzy is because all I could think about while my body spun itself around like a top were Ace Turner’s eyes locked on mine and the dark lines of those black feathers etched on his perfect chest. All I could think about was how much I wanted to rip his shirt off and see the whole tattoo for myself, trace my fingertips over the raven’s wings and watch Ace shiver under my touch.
I knew I was attracted to him—no matter how much it annoyed me—but this is something stronger. Something darker. This is the part of me I save for dance and dance alone. This is a line I only cross when I have the fixed boundaries of a stage to do it on, a line where attraction turns into fixation, where the whining itch of a want becomes the desperate, demanding ache of a need.
I pull my t-shirt over my sweaty torso and press pause on my phone just as the doorknob turns and three giggling fifteen year-olds trot inside. I smile and wave to my students before turning back to the stereo and scrolling to my warm-up playlist.
My head’s still spinning like a beginner who doesn’t know how to spot her turns. I shake my neck out and press play on a Shawn Mendes song.
You’re here, I tell myself, as I move to the front of the studio.You’re not there anymore. You’re here.
