Holding Up the Universe(57)
Monday morning, a tall girl with dark skin and a painted-on beauty mark finds me at my locker.
“Jack.”
Caroline.
“Yes?”
Just in case it isn’t her but some other tall girl with dark skin and a painted-on beauty mark by one eye.
“Did you have a good weekend?”
“Thanks for asking. Yes, I did.”
“You know what people are saying, don’t you?”
And here it comes.
“That I’m one badass dude?”
“About that girl. That Libby Strout. And you. They’re saying you’re dating her. That she’s your new girlfriend. I was like, I know that can’t be true, but they’re like, no, it’s true. He took her to Clara’s.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I can hear the hurt in her voice, buried underneath all the venom. I want to say It’s okay to be a person. We’re all afraid. We all get hurt. It’s okay to hurt. You’d be so much more likable if you just acted human.
“We’re not together anymore, Caroline, so, uh, not to be rude, but why do you care?”
“I think it’s sweet that you want to be nice to her after what you did, but I’m just concerned about her. Girls like that, you can’t mess around with them, Jack.” She shakes her head. “You could end up breaking her heart.”
“We haven’t defined anything yet, but if you’re asking me if I like hanging out with her? Absolutely. And do I think she’s one cool chick? Yes. Do I think she’s beautiful? Yeah, I do. I really do. I’m not messing around with her. I like her. Any other questions?”
She stands there, perfectly composed, perfectly Caroline, and says, “You know, you think you’re all that, you pretend to be all that, but you’re not.”
“I know I’m not. Which is all the more reason I’m grateful she likes me anyway.”
At home, I dig through the pile of clothes on my floor until I come up with the jeans I’m looking for. I pull the ball of wadded-up paper out of the back pocket. Top 10 Reasons to Date a Fat Girl.
I make myself reread it. It’s like I need to prove to myself once and for all that she’s fat and I don’t care.
Every word of the article makes me sick. How could I ever feel anything but lucky that this girl likes me?
I go downstairs to the kitchen, walk directly to the stove, turn on one of the burners, and wave the paper over the gas flame till it catches fire. I hold the paper up and away from the stove and watch as the words burn away. And then I drop what’s left of the paper into the sink, where it burns itself into a pile of ashes. I turn on the faucet and wash the remains down the drain, and for good measure, flick the switch to the garbage disposal and let it grind.
Back in my room, I call Libby. When she answers, I say, “I finished the book.”
“And?”
“One, it was pretty damn terrifying. Two, Mary Katherine Blackwood was mad as a fucking hatter. Three, I see why you love it. Four, it might have reminded me of us just a little, although I’d like to argue that we’re slightly more sane. And five, I think it would be pretty fucking awesome to live in a castle with you.”
In my nightstand, underneath my headphones, my lip balm, and an assortment of bookmarks, I pull out a letter written on Christmas stationery.
These are for dancing alone onstage
Or in your room
Or anywhere your heart desires.
They are for dancing in your dreams—
dancing toward your future—
dancing in love and creativity and joy—
dancing because that is what you do.
Because that’s who you are, no matter what,
inside and outside.
You just
keep
on
dancing.
The shoes that came with this letter are in my closet. They’re from the Christmas before my mom died. They will always be the last present I ever get from her, and I need to keep them safe forever, which is why I’ve never worn them.
But right now I’m sitting down and pulling apart the tissue paper and taking the shoes out of their box and tying them on my feet. They are pink ballet toe shoes, and they are the loveliest thing I own. Even though she bought them too big, they’re too small for me now and hard to walk in, but I shuffle over to my laptop and turn on some music. I’m going old-school with the Spice Girls, a band my mom secretly loved. The song is “Who Do You Think You Are,” and it makes me think of my mom, of me, of where I might go one day, of what I might be.
My Damsels audition is Saturday. I know my routine by heart. I could do it in my sleep. But right now I do my own made-up dance that’s kind of a ballet-hip-hop-electric-slide-shimmy-pop and I am amazing. I am the best dancer ever. I am a superstar. The shoes are magic. My feet are magic. I am magic.
SATURDAY
* * *
Marcus (tall, shaggy hair, pointy chin) stands over the kitchen sink, shoveling food into his face. I start to help myself to the coffee, and that’s when I hear, “I said no.”
A woman walks in followed by a man wearing an official Masselin’s store shirt. His mouth is open in midsentence, but he closes it when he sees Marcus and me. By process of elimination, these are my parents.