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Mr. Lozano calls the class back together, and when he asks us what we thought of the poem, I get brave and raise my hand, explaining the analysis Chase and I came up with.
“Fantastic insight, Peter who likes pizza,” Mr. Lozano says.
Someone pumps their fist. “Yeah! Pizza!”
Public school is weird.
Mr. Lozano continues: “This might shock you, but this poem was once used romantically. A man might have sung this to a woman to seduce her.”
“Because what’s hotter than worms?” a girl in the back row says.
I find myself laughing along with everyone else. Relaxing, even. I think I’m going to like this class.
“Thanks for helping me, sort-of-new Peter,” Chase says when the bell rings. “Partners next time?”
Something springs to life in my chest. “Sure,” I say. First period of my first day and I already have a potential new friend. Someone who knows nothing about who I am or who I used to be, and that feels even better—the idea that though I’m not a complete stranger here, in a way I’m starting fresh.
Sort-of-new Peter. It fits.
CHAPTER 7
SOPHIE
AFTER THE LAST BELL, I change for dance team in the privacy of a bathroom stall, which I’ve never done before. Most dancers I’ve met don’t get easily embarrassed about their bodies. But today when I put on my black spandex shorts and swap my striped shirt for a sports bra and tank top, I want to keep my scar secret. I’m not embarrassed by it; I just want it to remain solely mine.
The first few weeks after the surgery, I stared at it for a long time in the bathroom mirror after I showered. Now it’s as much a part of me as my freckles.
When my feelings for Peter changed, I began looking at myself in a different way, wondering which parts of my face, my body, he might possibly like. Wondering if he thought I had too many freckles, or if my eyes were too far apart, or if my hair wasn’t soft enough. I craved compliments he wasn’t in the habit of giving out. “I’m not sure about this shirt,” I’d say, waiting for him to tell me I looked amazing in it.
But my dancing—he praised that all the time, told me he couldn’t believe I could do a switch leap, though mine were far from flawless. Those compliments I held close to my heart.
I shove my hair into a stubby ponytail and peer at my reflection. This is the time in our lives we’re supposed to have complicated relationships with our bodies, but I’ve never had a reason to dislike mine. I’m small, pear-shaped, muscular. My body does what I ask it to. I respect it, push it far enough but never too far, and it rewards me with art.
“Sophie, hey,” says sophomore Neeti Chadha as her face appears in the mirror next to mine. I scoot out of the way as she winds black curls into a cute bun. “You weren’t here this summer, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t.” I stare down at the bracelet on my wrist. “I had . . . some health stuff.” Since I was going to be missing practice, I only told Montana.
“Oh no, are you okay?” Neeti asks. I can’t tell if it’s genuine. Neeti and I have never spoken much. I nod. “That’s good. How’s Tabby? I keep seeing her baby pics on Instagram. So adorable.”
“She’s good.”
“Cool. See you out there.” With sparkly teeth, she grins one last time at her reflection and then bounces out of the locker room. Not once does she say she is happy to see me or she’s glad I’m back.
“Welcome back, Tigers!” Montana Huang says when we’re all in the gym. Her black hair’s up in its usual ballet bun. She has a dance background like a lot of our teammates do, though others have experience with gymnastics and cheer. Our school’s cheer squad was cut a couple years back after the team got wasted and trashed the gym, so now we’re the ones who dance at football games in the fall and basketball games in the winter. Coach Carson basically lets Montana do what she wants. She spends the beginning of practice on the bleachers, half watching us, before retreating to her office.
We start a routine Montana taught over the summer, and I’m slow to catch up at first. I also don’t want to bend my torso too much, so I keep my movements as soft and fluid as possible.
Dance is a language to me, one that sometimes feels easier than English and relies on my entire body to communicate. I can string together axels and leaps and pirouettes, make them mean something. Dance may not always be beautiful, and in my opinion it shouldn’t have to be. It has the power to make people feel, and I crave being completely in control of that. As a kid I loved watching the older dancers at my studio, the way they played and pushed and sometimes even fought onstage grabbed on to my heart and never let go. I’ve never known how to do that with words.
By the end of practice I’m sweaty but refreshed, and I linger in the gym for a while, doing a few extra stretches. Sure, I could have marked the steps, but Tabby was wrong. I didn’t overdo it, and I feel fine.
“My parents are cool with me having a party after our game against Lincoln next Friday,” Montana’s saying to her girlfriend, Liz Hollenbeck, another senior. They met on dance team and have been dating since early last year.
“I love your parents. Can we trade?”
“No, because I love them too.” Montana’s eyes dart to me. She must realize I can hear her because that can only explain what she says next. “Sophie! You’re invited too, of course. The whole team is.”
I wrap my fingers around my outstretched foot and stare at the floor. Montana has always intimidated me: the severity of her bun, how completely natural and even drill-sergeant-esque she is in front of the team. She gives off this air of effortlessness, confidence in all aspects of her life. I am only like that onstage.
