My attention snags onTempest. Is that some weird thing he is calling me? I think back to the last few nights out on the porch. I had my sweatshirt from our production ofThe Tempeston then. It’s confirmation that he has been here. He’s some invisible presence. That both affirms my sanity and deeply unsettles me.
My gaze lingers over each huddle of words. They’re answers to my questions, and I can’t take my eyes off them. Reaching behind myself, I fumble around my desk until the familiar texture of paper is beneath the pads of my fingers. Hands trembling, I clutch my journal tight, alternating between my questions and starting at the top of the pane where the wordsYes, my name is Jax FrostandNo, I’m not a ghostare etched into existence. My legs shake, nearly giving out from under me.
I’m not crazy.
He’s not a ghost.
He’s Jax Frost.
Staggering back a few steps, I plop into the swivel chair at my desk and tuck my feet under my knees. I should be getting readyto get to the studio extra early and warm up before rehearsal, but beams of sunlight shoot through his words and the idea that I could come back to all of them erased pins me to the spot. I grab a pen and, with a shaky hand, jot down the answers next to each corresponding question, despite having photographic evidence.
Pausing, I double check that the image is still there, breathing a sigh of relief when it is. Part of me is worried that, like some vampire lore, his handiwork will magically disappear. Regardless, I want the words on the page, every affirming answer to account for the strange things that have been happening.
Jax is a harbinger, an immortal charged with bringing winter. I continue to log each answer, my pulse fluttering with every line I scrawl, especially when I come to the doodle of a wolf with the wordearthside. Next to it is a stick figure andtrue form. Beneath it, in big block letters:
WISH YOU COULD SEE ME.
My hands press over his frosty admissions, as if touching them will somehow summon him here. The cold blazes through my palms, but I don’t retreat. I lean into its chill. I wish I could see him too.
This should scare me. Some otherworldly creature-being has been creeping in my room, following me, and hanging around town as a giant wolf with glowing eyes. Every answer should be a signal torun. Instead, I’m rooted in place, hungry for more.
What the heck is wrong with me?
I step back, reading the final scribbled cloud, and glance at my journal.
The last question, where I asked if we’ve met, has been left unanswered. Disappointment sinks into my gut. If he admittedto being the wolf I’d seen, the one with the eyes that have been carved into my subconscious ever since the accident, then there has to be some connection. There’s no way that’s simply a coincidence.
I check my phone for the time. 5:15 a.m. I’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready and make the metro with enough time to do a very abridged warm-up before class and rehearsals forGiselle’s second act, The White Act. I rush into the bathroom, running my hands under the warm water, shaking off this morning.
Nothing can send me tilting off center right now. Not even this.
Every rehearsal, every step, needs to be flawless. We are weeks away from opening night, and the director, my instructors, Ballet Potomac’s benefactors, all their eyes will be on us. Judging each ballerina and determining our fate. They are the ones who hold my career in the palms of their hands. In order to make a comeback, I can’t have distractions. No matter how intriguing they are.
I have the photo. The answers— Well, most of them. That will have to be enough for now.
Rummaging through my drawers, I grab my leotard, tights, a shrug, and fitted warm-up pants. Throwing an extra set of clothes in my bag, I quickly brush my teeth, apply some light makeup, pin up my bun, and head for the door.
“Hey,” Lark shouts from behind me, bringing me to a halt.
“Hey! I figured you left without me so you could get to rehearsals early.”
“I didn’t need to get therethatearly.”
Of course she didn’t. She’s not the one trying to prove herself at a new company. It hits me that she’s only been leaving early so I don’t have to walk to the metro alone. The sharpness in my tone softens, along with the tension pulled through my shoulders. “Thanks, Lark.”
“Anytime, Jojo.” She gets up from the couch, picking up the dance bag set in front of her, and tosses me a chocolate coconut bar. “Let’s get going. You have rehearsals to rock and instructors to woo,” she croons, reaching to redo one of the bobby pins in her hair.
Peeling back the foil on my breakfast, I take a bite, leaving the bar in my mouth while I use my free hand to open the door and hold it for Lark. I follow her down the stairs, ignoring the dripping icicles strewn across the railings. The whole descent, I wonder if Jax was the one to leave them there, where he is, and when and if he’ll return.
As much as I need to keep my head on straight for rehearsals today, a very large part of me is counting down to his next visit and getting more answers.
13
JAX
Iglide with singular purpose toward the drop to Fate’s den, combing through how I will approach asking her what I need to.
“Jax?”
