Page 12 of Xavier

She leapt from the ground as if lifted by an invisible harness, performing a grand jeté that appeared frozen in time. In that split second of holding my breath as I waited for her to land, I knew I wanted to be a dancer.

There’s little that is more persistent than a four-year-old who’s got it in her mind what she wants to do for the rest of her life. Even more so, if she is blessed with the knowledge that her parents will do anything to help her fulfill that dream.

I still remember that first time I donned a leotard and slid my hand along that smooth curve of the barre. Probably the single most perfect moment of my life.

That’s what I find myself thinking of as I lay here, my damp legs tangled in the sheets, my t-shirt riding up my midriff as I try to cool off in the already too warm nights.

Dreams are funny things.

It seems there is an infinite source of them, but a finite time in which to achieve them all.

As I’ve grown, so has my desire to do so much.

One month from graduation, and I still don’t know what the future beyond the summer break holds for me. There have been acceptances to a few colleges, but not the one I want. And second best is just not something I’m accustomed to. Something I don’t want to become accustomed to.

“Fuck this,” I whisper and swing my legs off my bed, grabbing my ballet slippers sitting on the chair by the bedroom door as I tiptoe past my parents’ bedroom and down into the basement.

My space.

The dance studio my parents decked out for me for my 10th birthday when they finally realized, I was serious about dancing. Nothing special, a wooden floor, a menagerie of collected mirrors propped up against the walls, and a sturdy barre.

That’s all I need.

I tuck the wireless earphones into my ears, the music already blaring.

I take a deep breath.

And I dance.

Dance until my feet rub raw in my slippers, my muscles ache from elongation, and my mind tires of running in circles.

And yet, still I dance.

Until the tiny stream of light filtering through the tiny basement window doesn’t remind me of strangers’ green eyes anymore and I crumple into an exhausted ball on the floor and fall into a dreamless sleep.

***

“So, do you know where I can find him?”

This conversation is going nowhere.

I’ve spent the last five minutes trying to describe Green Eyes to the ice cream parlor owner, but he either has no idea who I’m talking about, or has even less care.

“I told you, girl. I don’t know who you mean. Now are you going to order something? I have to get busy for the after-school rush,” he says, annoyed.

“Please. I need to talk to him,” I beg.

“Then I suggest you stop bugging me and go find him.” He waves a wrinkled dish rag in my face and pushes past me, arranging chairs around the tables, mumbling to himself. I can just make out the words “bloody teenagers.”

I sigh and push the door open and step outside.

Coming face to face with him.

He skids to a stop in front of me, an ice cream bucket in each hand. So much for not knowing who he is, I think about the owner.

His right eye and the circle around it is tinged purple and his lip is split. My chest twinges a bit at the thought that I was the cause. I push it away to process at a later time, because right now, he’s here.

Say something, you idiot, a voice taunts inside my head.