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Afternoon the next day, Camille’s back, just as promised, and we dive right back into work.
For days, we rehearse. We break for a meal here and there. It’s especially entertaining on Wednesday when my mama has Jacky-Ann make us some lunch after a particularly exhausting morning of hard-hitting, leg-punishing rehearsal. The entire time that Camille and I eat, my mama is staring at us from across the table, her eyes jumping back and forth, like she’s trying to work out some kind of story between us without asking a single question.
Afterwards, when we’re back to dancing in the garage, right after completing a series of pirouettes that end in arabesque (which Camille added for flair), she holds the pose and peers at me over her shoulder to say, “I think your mom thinks we’re fucking.”
And then I let out the first laugh I’ve had in weeks.
That’s followed soon by Camille laughing herself, collapsing from her arabesque to join me in my laughter. We shed tears from laughing so hard.
Rehearsal continues well into the afternoon. We only take one more break to discuss a potential idea near the end which involves me dancing out into the thick of the audience, then letting her charge toward me and lifting her up Dirty Dancing style, which we quickly nix with a laugh.
We stop dancing when the music ends for the sixty-third time today. Then, we’re both left staring at each other, standing at opposite ends of the mirrors, ten feet of bare hardwood flooring stretching between us.
Both of us are out of breath.
The air in the garage is warm and humid from our efforts.
And then, amidst the gentle noise of either of us drawing slow breaths into our lungs, Camille lifts her chin my way and quietly asks, “Still haven’t heard from him, huh?”
My face slowly collapses.
“I can see it so clearly in your eyes. I think I could always see it, even before I moved to Europe, before graduation, before prom, before everything happened.” She tilts her head. “You and I both know the truth.”
Camille slowly begins to close the distance between us with one of her graceful, toe-pointed, ballerina saunters. She stops in front of me, her bright and beautiful eyes sparkling as she peers into mine. Then she cradles my face gently with her hands, and brings her lips right up to my ear.
And she whispers: “You know in your heart I’m not the partner you’re supposed to be dancing with, Jimmy Strong.”
23
BOBBY
“I don’t want to go.”
My ma, all dressed up in her pretty blue gown that matches my pa’s fancy blue suit, sighs outside of my closed bedroom door. “Bobby, sweetie …”
“My stomach’s still aching. I’m not up for seein’ everybody in all of Spruce.” I roll over on my bed, hugging my pillow. “C’mon, Ma, you’re literally inviting torture onto me by making me go.”
“Nonsense.” I hear her fussing with her dress. “If you don’t go, then I’ll end up not going, and then this pretty dress I got will go to waste, and—”
“You should go.” I bury my face. “Just go,” I moan, my words muffled underneath my pillow.
I hear my door open.
My bed shudders and squeaks when she sits on its edge.
“Ma …” I groan.
“Sweetheart.”
“I thought I locked the door.”
“Is this about you seein’ Jimmy?” she asks softly and sweetly.
I throw my pillow off my face. It lands halfway across the room on my beanbag chair. “This has nothin’ to do with Jimmy.”
“What else could it be? That silly Anthony boy? Mr. Lemon? He doesn’t hold anything against you, sweetheart. He just had to follow company protocol. He could lose his job otherwise.”
“Yet Anthony is still happily scooping popcorn there. Yeah, sure, policy this and policy that, but we both know certain people are immune to all that.” I fold my arms over my chest with a huff.
My ma leans over me, putting her face above mine. “I might be softhearted sometimes, but I’m not dense. I know what’s going on has everything to do with Jimmy Strong.”
“Ma, don’t.”
“You love him. And he loves you.”
“Ma …”
“Didn’t I teach you forgiveness? He’s sorry. He’s said so about a zillion times.” She starts gently running her hand through my hair. “I hate to see you so unhappy, sweetheart. Why can’t you just forgive the poor boy and let it all just be in the past?”
“Because he isn’t any good for me, Ma!”
She sputters in disbelief. “Jimmy’s all kinds of good for you! You’re so happy when you’re around him! What in the heck are you talkin’ about, sweetheart??”
“Me and Jimmy are a fantasy.” I sit up and turn my harsh eyes onto my ma’s aching, slowly-crumbling face. “He wants to keep the two of us a secret, and I have a good idea it’s exactly what I’ve feared all along: He isn’t really gay. He isn’t really bi. He’s simply … entertaining some kind of bro-obsession with me. A straight-boy, buddy-buddy infatuation with his best friend. It turned into kisses and …” My face flushes. “… more. But it isn’t love. Not real love.”
