I lifted my chin a little. “Thanks for your concern,” I told her. “It’s touching.”
“Oh, gimme a bre—”
“You can go now.”
“What are you—”
“Jesus, you’re still here?” I blurted out, cutting her off. “Well, make yourself useful then and open this.”
I reached for the bottle of O.J. on the edge of the table where I’d left it, found it, and handed it to her over my shoulder.
Juice splashed out from where the cap wasn’t tightened properly, and I heard her gasp.
“Ugh, Winter!” she yelled.
I winced. “Oh, it was already open? Sorry. I’m so blind.”
Laughter broke out around the table, and she let out a growl, her mumbled curses fading away as she stomped off. Or I pictured her stomping off. Not sure if she actually did.
“Oh, shit, girl,” Noah said, knocking me lightly in the arm. “You are my hero.”
I gave a half-smile, a little pleased with myself. Also a little aggravated that Arion and I were at war at all, but like Damon, I kind of appreciated the normalcy of it. Arion didn’t put on airs to protect my feelings. She just treated me like I was stupid, as if learning how to live all over again six years ago didn’t make me tough and quickly adaptable to change and new challenges with a hard heart ready to fight for all the things they told me I couldn’t have and couldn’t do.
Maybe that’s why Damon treated me like I wasn’t made of glass. Maybe he knew.
I thought back to the boy in the fountain, bloody with a silent tear streaming down his face, because something—or many things—happened to him that he didn’t want to talk about, and now he was nearly a man who would never cry again and only made other people bleed.
I hated him, and I would never forgive him, but maybe we had that one thing in common. We had to change to survive.
Winter
Present
“Arms up!” Tara called out.
I reached up, leaping across the floor, the muscles in my back and shoulders stretching tight as I tilted my head back and my face toward the sky.
“There’s the energy!” she shouted. “Let me see it again! Good!”
I exhaled as I hit the ground again, my right foot landing on the border of sandpaper lining the perimeter of the “stage” to signal when I was within two feet of the edge. Beyond that, there was another six-inch-wide border to alert me I had no more room and to stop.
Sweat trickled down my back, and I swung around, veering right again as I stepped, glided, and then arched my back before coming up on one toe and stretching high for a moment’s pose and coming down again to continue the dance.
The music filled the room, my unconventional number of Nostalghia’s “Plastic Heart” choreographed by me and soon-to-be performed at nowhere for no one.
No one would hire me. I tried to stay positive, especially since I needed out of here more than ever, but it was getting harder and harder to not feel stupid for leaving college.
Tara was one of my instructors growing up, and I continued to rehearse at home, but I also came to the studio from time to time, since my father had paid for five hours a week for room rental until the end of the year. I didn’t want to use anything he left for me, but I sucked it up as an excuse to get out of the house. Damon hadn’t been back since the wedding days ago, but it was only a matter of time.
And I loved it here. I only thought about dancing here and nothing else.
This was where my earliest memories of dancing were, and I guessed I was luckier than some. There was a time I could see, and I’d had four years of ballet training before I lost my sight. I knew how pliés and arabesques felt and looked. I knew movements and steps, and I knew a little technique. I’d continued with a private trainer when I went to Montreal, even though I knew my prospects weren’t good for a career later on. I’d always known the reality.
I’d have a hard time in a chorus with other dancers and especially with a partner. It wasn’t impossible, but everything took longer to learn and not many would accept that challenge.
And I certainly wasn’t the first ballet dancer with a visual impairment, but I was the first in a five-hundred-mile radius. I held out hope. Someone had to start the phenomenon in other parts of the world. Why couldn’t we have it here, too? The only major problem was finding a company and a coach to take on the work.
I slowed with the music as the song ended and finished, bringing my arms down, wrists crossed in front of me, and fingers displayed gracefully. At least I hoped they looked graceful.