I nod and continue chewing. This is what I love about Dash. He acts like the hunger doesn’t define us, like it doesn’t have to take up every single inch of space in our worlds. He puts food in his mouth and forgets the ache. I take it everywhere with me. I am the ache. The fucking ache is me.
“Everybody warned me, but I liked the Vauganova class. She’s a hardass, but you get a great workout,” he tells me between bites.
“Same,’ I say as I unwrap another sandwich. “She was easy on you but still gave you corrections. That’s because she can tell you’re talented. If she thought you sucked, she’d completely ignore you.” I decide to eat the crust all the way around and save the thick peanut-buttery middle for my last bite.
“I’m sure as hell no ballerina,” Dash says. He’s unwrapping his number two. Even when I’m sated, my eyes are still like a bird of prey around any and all food. “What about you? Do you do any contemporary stuff?”
“I’m not allowed to.” I cover my mouth again, which is nearly glued shut with cheap peanut butter.
“What do you mean, allowed? Your parents choose your extra-curriculars?”
“Mother is on the board. Mother is the head of the board. I’m not allowed to bicycle, ice-skate, or run. It would develop my quads and that’s counterproductive to classical ballet training, according to Mother. I’m not raising a reality dance show dancer. I’m training a prima ballerina!” I tell him, imitating her voice.
“That’s harsh.” Dash has stopped eating while he inspects my face. I wonder if he thinks I’m going to cry or look for some kind of sympathy.
“It’s my life. I’m used to it. Are you going to eat your last sandwich?” I ask him.
“If you eat that much before class, you’re gonna puke. Why don’t you put it in your dance bag for later?”
What is he, a food expert? An eating disorder physician? A lot of people, including doctors, take one look at me and assume I’m purging. I’ve never been allowed to eat enough to purge. My body clings to each nutrient. I would never take food out of my body voluntarily.
“I’ll take my chances,” I say as I unwrap and scarf the final sandwich.
“What’s your favorite thing to eat?”
I think about the question long and hard, taking it seriously. “Dumplings and Dim Sum. Until you can’t fit another bite.”
“Someday, we’ll go to Chinatown and eat ourselves silly,” he tells me with a grin. “Okay, how’s this? Dim Sum, Pizza, Tacos. Kill, fuck, Marry?”
I groan, lick jelly from my fingertip, and smile at him. “Kill pizza, fuck Dim Sum, and marry tacos. But don’t tell pizza I feel that way because I do love pizza.”
“Same!” he says, a huge smile overtaking his face.
“So your mom lets you make a whole loaf of bread into lunch and bring it to school?” I ask him.
“Oh, I didn’t make these. They were giving them out down at the Bradbury Street shelter.”
I nearly choke. I can’t swallow my last bite and grab a napkin to spit it inside.
“Don’t worry, they’re clean. A nice church lady made them,” he tells me reassuringly.
But he’s misunderstood me. I’m not concerned about the food. I want to know what he was doing at a homeless shelter. Doesn’t Dash have a home?
“Oh, I get it. What am I doing at Haverton if I’m homeless? Simple. When I auditioned, we had an address. Then my dad went ballistic and hit my mom one too many times. He was a piece of shit for years, but he was in a downward spiral and the violence was escalating. He punched her in the face and then smashed her head into a mirror.” His voice is bright and earnest, like we’re talking about normal things.
“So you live at the shelter?” I ask him timidly. I’ve put the food away. I can’t look at it anymore.
“For the time being. My mom’s trying to find a job. What about you?”
“I’m not anorexic. Contrary to popular belief.” This is the first time I’ve ever told anyone my truth. “Mother counts my calories and I can only have twelve hundred a day. She docks it every time I gain weight.” I blurt it out, unable to contain myself.
It’s the first time I’ve ever opened up to anyone. I mean, Shareen knows, but other than that, it’s a family secret. He was probably asking where I lived, and now I’ve purged my ugly reality all over him.
“I had a feeling. Shit, twelve hundred’s not enough for a dancer. I got your back, Sam. I’ma bring you whatever extra I can.”
He seems so proud to be able to suggest it that I feel incapable of shooting him down. If he steals food for me, if he can even manage to pull it off, Mother will see the gain and she’ll be down my throat with a magnifying glass. If she figures it out, she’ll make sure he loses his scholarship.