“You switched to No Drama,” she said. “And got a C.”
A tremor went through me. For the first time in my life, I could feel the demerits in my ledger.
Veronica laughed. “Jessica, it’s Wolfie. The man’s a walking contradiction—the embodiment of drama.You, transformed into not-you.”
I felt myself smile. Her attempt at an Afrikaans accent was closer to when ordinaries talk like vampires.
She studied the metal staples in my scalp. “Do those hurt?”
“They itch sometimes.” And sometimes I see connections between people, or imagine ghosts in the Barrow Marsh.
“Give me good old-fashioned needle and thread.”
“My staples are fine, Veronica. I’m fine.”
I nocked and drew again—what I needed was to feel the arrow loose, to see it streak into the target. To imagine its razor point slicing arteries and skin, fulfilling its purpose. My purpose.
Veronica put her gloved hand over mine. “You’ll pull a muscle. We should loosen you up first.”
I let the bow go slack. “Climbing?”
She frowned at this.
“Running?” I suggested. “Muay Thai?”
“When’s the last time you had a proper dance lesson?”
The Great Hallwas set up for ballet, two portable barres, a rosin box on the floor between them. Uncle Edwin’s phonograph player waited on its small table.
Some little cousins had been here last, leaving a smattering of rabbit shit in the corner.
“Mary,” Veronica said, looking down at the scat. “Never cleans up. And she misspells her own rabbit’s name.”
“Any idea what she has planned for Trotsky’s big day? She asked me to mentor.”
“Whatever it is, you won’t forget it. She heard the story of Mister Fluffernutter at the funeral.”
“Goggles, then.”
“Hah.” She was leafing through the vinyl records in the wooden milk crate by the phonograph. She lifted one out, turned it over to read the back cover. “A waltz, perhaps.”
I looked down at my feet—my worn tennis shoes were fine for archery, but a bit slippery for dancing. I went to the rosin box.
The needle dropped, and the hiss and crackle of old vinyl filled the room.
The music began. A waltz from a Mozart sampler, something we’d warmed up to a hundred times as kids. Beginner stuff.
Veronica held out her hands to lead, and I took my position.
It had been years since we’d danced together. I was a head taller now—it felt as though I should lead. But as we began to move, I became a kid again, waiting for the signals in Veronica’s hands, hips, eyes.
We box stepped in place at first, letting the three-count settle into us. In the simple pattern, I could feel her decades of practice, the way I saw years of bartending in her stir, even her pour.
Veronica lifted onto her toes, easing us into a turn, a series of change steps across the floor.
“You’ve been practicing?” she asked.
“No. There was a definite lack of waltzing in that hospital.”
