Hooked 2 (Hooked #2)(17)

After a few days, I knew I had to get back out into the world to try to make it again. I knew that if I didn’t get moving soon, I would lose the last drabs of money I still had in my account. I knew I would have to retreat back to Indianapolis, to my nagging mother, and probably work at some dumb bar, pouring drinks for other sad losers who didn’t make it either.

I wrapped myself in warmer layers, because October swept over Chicago like a cloud. Everyone around me was shivering, wrapping their scarves around their faces. I walked semi-confidently down the street, writing down addresses and wondering—wondering—if I should just get a random job in Chicago and keep trying, keep working. I could do anything, as long as it was in Chicago. I rushed into a random restaurant and filled out a resume; I filled out another to be a bartender at a brewery. I smiled at everyone, acting ever-chipper, ever confident. The entire time, however, I had a shadow over my eyes; I was certain of failure.

I walked back to my apartment and decided to send Drew a text message. Maybe he was too busy to remember to text, but certainly he would text back. I toyed with the wording for a long time before sending a final, edited message;

“Hey, Drew. What’s up?”

Clearly, it had taken a good deal of work to come up with this.

But perhaps the message lacked personality; perhaps it was no good. I waited by my phone for hours, casually watching television with my cat, and I received nothing but a silly picture from Mel about what Jackson had done after dinner that evening. I rolled my eyes, tossing my phone to the end of the couch. I had been stupid, I knew, to ever think a guy like Drew would be into me.

I sighed and decided to call my mother. After all, she was always on my mind; I was constantly afraid of her, certainly. And plus I hadn’t seen her since before summer. She hardly drove out of Indiana, despite the fact that Chicago was only three hours away.

I listened to the phone as it rang and rang over the many miles between us.

“Darling, how are you?” This was how my mother always answered the phone, no matter where she was, no matter who it was on the other end of the line.

I swallowed, already hating the drab way my mother spoke. “Hi, mom. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Molly. It’s been a long time. I was just talking about you with my hairdresser. She thinks it’s fascinating that you’re a dance instructor now. She wondered if it was upsetting, not performing anymore?”

My heart sank. I already understood the type of conversation this would be. So much more like dick measuring than the conversation I had heard between Marty and Drew. My mother simply wanted to show me off to the world. This had been why she had signed me up for dance. She wanted to hold that little ballerina’s hand; she wanted to tell people her daughter was a dancer. And now all she could tell them was that I was a dance instructor. And even that wasn’t true.

“Sure. Anyway, mom. I just wanted to know how you were doing?”

“Oh, wonderful. I’ve joined a bridge club. Debbie Marshal is my partner, at least when she isn’t taking that horrid teenager of hers into therapy. Dennis is his name. He might have schizophrenia.”


This was how she spoke all the time about other people. I sighed, noting that I could not go rushing back to this woman, to this life. But my mother kept going, telling me about everyone at the church I had grown up in; who was pregnant, who was gay. It didn’t matter who it was, I learned about them.

Finally, after thirty minutes, my mother told me she had to go. American Idol was on and her favorite singer was in the top four.

I told her that it had been lovely speaking with her. I hung up the phone and swore to myself, beyond anything else, that I would never return to Indianapolis, even if that meant I would have to sleep in the hallway of this apartment building, bow down and became Jackson’s daytime nanny, or do anything else in the world.

I could not return.



CHAPTER NINE

The next morning, I knew the demolition crew was coming to destroy my precious brick dance studio. I woke up early, feeling the complete devastation of the day. I couldn’t believe that the place in which I had truly felt like myself—at least in the days after I had learned that becoming a real dancer would never happen for me—was going to be gone forever. I wondered what that meant for my identity. I wondered what would be left of me when the place was knocked to the ground.

I walked to the studio slowly, trying not to allow tears to glimmer from my eyes. I wanted to stay fresh, vibrant. Perhaps after I watched the destruction of the building, I could rush up and down Le Moyne Avenue and apply for jobs, tell them my sob story. Perhaps someone would take pity on me.

I approached the building, noting that a great bulldozer was parked out front. It was off; the great ball of steel was hanging still and stoic in the air. A bunch of men stood on the outside of the building, holding clipboards and pointing at things. They wore hard hats, and they looked very serious, very important. I decided to stand on the other side of the street, leaning up against a stop sign and watching the way the light gleamed off the glass of the studio for the last time. I remembered how well the light had entered that place, how beautiful it had felt on the inside—especially during the previous winter. It had been my only happy place, especially in the sheer cold. The snow had piled up outside, and us dancers had been inside, creating a world that was all our own.

I stared at the men outside the building again, wanting to rip them apart with words. “Don’t you know what you’re doing?” I wanted to scream at them. “You’re destroying dreams of young children and hopes for older women! You’re destroying my dream of continuing my passion! You’re destroying so much! Can’t you understand?”