How They Met, and Other Stories
Page 18

I wanted to be the one to find out the truth. I wanted to become a part of the truth, part of the story.
Mostly, I hung out with the girls. They weren’t competition. As for the other boys—only one or two were a real threat. Connor had the inside track with the teachers, since he’d been at MDW for two semesters now. Philippe was much stronger than he was graceful, but he was also named Philippe, which I had to imagine gave him an advantage. As for the others—everyone trusted that Thomas had been accepted because of his trust fund; Miles seemed intimidated by the sound of his own footsteps; George leaped like a gazelle but landed like a lumberjack. Modern dance is forgiving of many things, but it still discriminates against the balance-impaired.
From the minute I got on the train, I felt I was already in the city, already a part of that rush. But when I got into the studio, the city ceased to be anything but a traffic buzz in the background. That room contained a world.
On the train ride back, I would try to stay within it. I would replay Graham’s single nod to me a hundred times over, watching it from every angle. If he said anything to me, I would gather the sentences like a shell seeker. Sitting on the orange reversible seats, jutted back and forth by the rhythm of the rails, I would try to remember all of my movements. Inevitably, the ones that came back to me the most were the errors—the slight wobble of the ankle, the unfortunate and unintended dip of the arms. My memory became slave to the corrections I would need to make. More so if Graham had noticed.
I could have called one of my parents to pick me up when I got into the station, but I was never ready to see them, never ready to concede that I was home so soon. So I walked the mile home. My body, having just been sitting for a half hour, reawakened to a new kind of fatigue—not the adrenaline exhaustion of having just finished, but the unoiled hinges of afterward, when everything catches up with you and your body lets you know how it truly feels. Sometimes I loved that ache, because it felt like an accomplishment. Other times I was tired of everything.
I always stayed until the last possible moment of class, and then sometimes a few of the girls and I would run to Dojo for a yogurt shake or a cheeseburger. By the time I got to my street, suburbia was empty of cars, of noise, of movement. Even the reading light in Jeremy’s room was off, the new chapter dog-eared for the night. My parents’ room emanated a blue television glow; if I went close to the window, I could hear the sound of law-and-order suspects being caught, or the roll call of the news. By the time I passed their doorway, my parents were usually asleep, even if the television wasn’t.
I was seventeen, halfway toward eighteen, and I had learned something nobody had ever taught me: Once you get to a certain age, especially if a driver’s license is involved, you can go a whole day—a whole week, even—without ever seeing your family. You can maybe say good morning and maybe say good night, but everything in the middle can be left blank.
I saw Jeremy a few minutes every morning at breakfast. He was starting to really grow, almost thirteen. His awkward voice didn’t faze me, but the way his body was beanstalking, beginning to fit into itself, was strange. I knew there were probably things I should be telling him—but then I figured that I’d figured it all out without the help of an older brother. I wanted him to be independent. So I left him alone.
Did I know him at all? Yes. He was class-president material, in a town where that was more a measure of affability than popularity. He would grow up to be the boy every girl’s parents wanted her to bring home. He was ingratiating without being grating. He was, I imagined, an okay guy.
And did he know me at all? He knew me as the brother who was always leaving. So maybe the answer was yes.
One of the reasons I was so happy to avoid my house was that everyone else was deeply involved in the preparations for Jeremy’s Bar Mitzvah. My own Bar Mitzvah had been stressful enough—forget coming of age, it was more like a see-how-many-times-his-voice-can-crack contest. (The answer: roughly 412 times in one morning service.) The experience left me with a sheaf of savings bonds and little else. Jeremy’s, if anything, was going to be more elaborate. Jeremy seemed less bothered by this than I was. He deferred everything but the Torah portion to our parents, and appeared grateful and interested when such things as appetizers and candle color were discussed. After my recommendation for a bacon-flavored cake, I wasn’t consulted.
Two more weeks. I only had two more weeks to put up with the preparations. My mother had made me pick out my tie over a month ago. I was all set.
At class, we didn’t acknowledge our parents. No, that’s not true—we were willing to acknowledge their faults. I kept relatively quiet during these conversations, because I had less than the other kids to check off on the dishonor roll of slights and abuses. Carmela’s dad had left and her mom had given up. Eve’s stepmother nearly broke Eve’s leg. Miles’s parents were in a constant state of disowning him. Although he’d never say it, the girls knew he was working two jobs to pay for tuition. Every now and then Thomas, our trust funder, would strip a twenty from his parents’ billfold and we would all draw hearts on it before slipping it into Miles’s gym bag.
Graham never talked about his parents or where he’d come from. When he said “home,” he meant his basement apartment in the East Village. I imagined it so clearly, down to the rag rug on the floor and the incense holder on the bedside table. Sometimes I would play an infinite game of Twenty Questions with him, trying to use each question to narrow him down even further, to get to his one single answer. Did he live alone? Yes, if you didn’t count the uninvited mouse. Was he happy in New York? Yes, but in a different way than he’d been happy in Barcelona or Paris. What did he think of Center Stage? That God was cruel to make Ethan Stieffel straight.
From the way he criticized my dancing, I knew he thought I had a chance. You don’t need to go to too many classes to know the difference between a teacher who points our your errors because they are beyond help and need to be pointed out as an obligation to dance itself, and the instructors who tear you down because they think you can rebuild in the proper way. Graham didn’t hold back his corrections, but he didn’t hold back his praise, either.
We each had to perform in a piece, and Graham chose me to be in his. While Elaine dangled her dancers in Debussy, Markus knit together swaths of Schubert, and Federica fastened onto flamenco, Graham decided to make a suite out of recent Blur songs. “An aria of dislocated longing,” he called it. “A dance for the anonymously lovelorn,” I answered. He nodded, happy with me.
Practice was different now. He would touch me, guide me, manipulate me into the right contours, the shape of his vision. I was used to this, but not in this way. This was not the Nutcracker. This was personal. I was prince now of a kingdom that was still being defined.
There was a movement I couldn’t get. A turn with arms outstretched. I could not get my arms to match his direction—or maybe it was that he could not get his direction to match with words. My arms spread too much like wings, then too much like broken branches. They embraced too much of the air, then they did not hold the space tight enough. Graham came behind me and mapped my arms with his, held my hands and made every point align, wrist to shoulder. I closed my eyes, taking in the angles, the arcs, his breathing against my neck. When he let go, I stayed in the pose. David’s slingshot, he called it, and I knew I wouldn’t get it wrong again.
When we were done, he asked me to join him for a drink. I knew it wasn’t a date. I knew he wasn’t asking me out. But what my mind knew, my hope ignored. It was my hope that was disappointed when I came out of the changing room to find a whole entourage waiting for me. It was my hope that faltered when Carmela said, “Are you coming with us or not?”
But my hope was stubborn. When Graham held back so we’d be side by side on the sidewalk, my hope ignored everything else and held on to the single fact of his proximity, his choice. He led us from the back, calling out directions to George and Carmela until we made it to Beauty Bar, which used to be a beauty parlor but now served cocktails. The decor was still Retro Beautician, with half-dome hair dryers attached to the backs of many of the chairs. There were six of us, and Graham was the only one who was legal. We gave him money and he represented us at the bar, returning with Cosmopolitans stemmed through his fingers, perfectly balanced.
He chose to sit next to me and then he chose to talk to me for the next hour. We talked about Paris, and I tried to erase my family from as much of our family vacation as I could. He touched my arm for emphasis and left it there. Our legs came into perfect contact. He glinted at me.
Is this really happening? I thought. Then I saw Miles on the other side of Graham. Noticing. He smiled at me, as if to say, Yes, it is happening.
I didn’t feel that many steps younger than him. He wasn’t treating me that way. If I didn’t feel like his equal, then at least I felt like he was welcoming me into the range.
I wanted every word to last for hours, every gaze to last for days. I wanted to confiscate all our watches, banish all the clocks. But inevitably Graham looked down at his wrist and realized there was somewhere else he needed to be. There was no question, no discussion, that the rest of us would go when he did. Staying would be like trying to act out the trick after the magician had left the stage.
Graham hugged us all good-bye. My hug lasted a little longer, had a little tighter squeeze at the end.
I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to want to kiss me.
But not on the street corner, not with George and Miles and Carmela and Eve there. We all dispersed, me and Miles walking together to the subway. I was practically floating—and then I realized that Miles, in his quiet way, was floating, too.
“Wasn’t that amazing?” he asked. “I mean, that place. And that drink. And everything. I can’t wait for life to be like that, can you?”
No, I told him. I couldn’t wait.
I wasn’t planning on waiting.
When it was time for us to part, he opened his arms for an embrace. I figured this was now the way we would all say good-bye.
As he hugged me, Miles said, “You’re pretty cool, you know.”
“You’re drunk,” I told him.
He pulled back with a smile and said, “In a way.” Then he said good night again and disappeared with a wave.
On the train ride home, I wondered if I should have asked for Graham’s phone number, what it would be like to hear his voice at midnight, the last sound before going to sleep. It was late when I got home, but not too late. Still, my father was waiting for me when I came into the kitchen. He did not look happy.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“A few of us went out after. For dinner.”
“Was it better than the dinner you were supposed to be home for?”
And it wasn’t until then that I remembered—a Family Dinner. I had promised, and I had forgotten.
“Your mother is very upset,” my father added.
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound very sorry.”
There was no winning. None whatsoever.
“I’m going to bed,” I told him.
“You will be home for dinner tomorrow. Do you understand?”
“It’s not that difficult a concept.”
“What did you say?”
“I said fine. Fine.”
The next day at class, Federica had us doing exercises most of the time, so I didn’t get a chance to have Graham Time by myself. I did notice him watching me, though. Singling me out. At one point I winked at him and he laughed.
I was home in time for dinner, but not in time to set the table. Jeremy had done it dutifully in my place.
As soon as the food was served, conversation turned immediately to the Bar Mitzvah. Reply cards were in, and with less than two weeks to go until the big day, it looked like there were more attendees than my parents had been planning on.