“I shouldn’t play games withpeople’semotions, Henri? Or I shouldn’t play games withyouremotions?”
Your candor disarmed me. That I might be so transparent and that you would be so bold as to confront me about it. Teenage invincibility.
“I don’t have emotions,” I said coldly.
“No?” you said smugly. You leaned your head to one side, baring your neck like an offering. Nothing delighted you more than getting a rise out of me. “Cravings, then? Desires?”
If I’d been inhabiting a body in that moment, I’d have trailed my tongue up and down your neck so sweetly and bitten you so gently you’d have hardly felt it. I fantasized about the slow trickle of blood seeping from your dermis. I’d lap at it slowly, taking my time and savoring every drop until I was bloated as a mosquito. Oh, the noises you’d make while I bled you. Not a lot of blood—not enough to impair your health—just a sampling. You wouldn’t even miss it. It might make you a little lightheaded, enough that you’d need to lie down and be tended to. A gentle massage to keep your blood circulating, a few languid kisses to know you were appreciated. I could show you devotion. I could worship you, Orlando, from the lustrous curls atop your head to the hard-won calluses on the bottoms of your feet…
My thoughts about you grew quite indecent, and I had to remind myself of your age and naivety and that you were asking for things you did not understand. When I spoke to you again, it was with a stern and critical tone.
“What are you doing with your life? Fraternizing with a drug dealer, smoking marijuana, offering up sex. You’re sixteen years old. You say you want to be a dancer, but I don’t believe you have the dedication to follow through.”
“I’m seventeen now,” you corrected, as if the passage of one birthday had suddenly wizened you up. “And I do want to be a dancer. You know that.”
“Then why aren’t you at the studio right now? Why aren’t you asking Madame what you need to do to get into the Miami City Ballet? You should be eating like an athlete and treating your body like a temple.”
“My body is no temple,” you said darkly.
“Yes, it is. And it’s the only one you’ve got.” You didn’t understand how lucky you were. None of you did. Humans took their bodies for granted, assumed all kinds of unnecessary risks—drugs and alcohol, fast cars, guns... I’d dealt with so much death in having to witness the aftermath of their recklessness and stupidity. It was wearing on me. I didn’t want that for you.
“You’ve been blessed with a body that is beautiful in both form and utility. You can do things with it that very few can. It’s a rare gift, Orlando, and you’re squandering it.”
“I just want you, Henri,” you said passionately and threw your arms wide. It was a dramatic display that touched on something I craved. To be needed, desired, even—yes, I’ll admit it—worshipped. “I want you to be here with me and prove I’m not crazy.”
“You’re not crazy. And we have time.” I didn’t know what I was promising, but I knew you needed to hear it. Humans had such short-term thinking. They wanted their desires to be satiated immediately. They lived for the day like the grasshopper in that fable, not planning for when winter came. At your tender age, you had so many fates laid out before you. I wanted you to work toward one where you achieved your dreams, not one where you ended up dead in a ditch.
I was afraid too that you might tempt me, and I wouldn’t have the strength to resist.
“How much time?” you asked impatiently. “How long do I have to wait for you, Henri?”
I didn’t answer the question you were asking. I couldn’t.
“You need to focus right now on reaching your potential. You said it yourself. Dancing careers are short. You’re good enough to make it—Madame Lavoie thinks so—but you’ve got to commit to it.”
“I want that,” you said forlornly. “But I need your help.”
“I can’t give you talent,” I reminded you.
“I don’t need talent. I need someone… I need you to believe in me.”
“Of course I believe in you.”
“Don’t leave me again,” you said severely.
“Don’t play games.”
“Fine,” you said stubbornly.
“Fine.”
“Friends?” you asked with a look of contrition. You held out your hand out as if offering a truce.
“Friends.” I sent a blast of energy over you to seal the promise.
Our first fight, the first of many.
8
