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“Personal space, Selfish.”
“Says the orgy king,” she shoots back. “Walk faster, or I’ll make sure you’re fucking ugly crones for the next week.”
I pick up my pace. Her threats are valid; she’s done that to me before.
The lottery drawing always happens on stage where everyone can see the generosity of the Society in giving the poor folk babies. Personally, I think it’s an asshole move. The lifestyle of the rich and famous is built on the backs of the lower end. If they run out of people, they’ll have to do all the dirty work themselves. I’m halfway to the stage when someone grabs my arm. I glance over thinking it’s just someone who wants a second of my attention. My face is ready; I smile. My gaze lands on a man’s face. He’s not wearing a mask.
“For you,” he says, forcing something into my hand.
I look down and see dirty fingernails drop something hard and round into my palm. The sleeve of his jacket is covered in dog hair. My eyes drag from his arm back up to his face, confused, but he’s already turning away. Before I can respond, he’s gone.
Selfish shoves me from behind, oblivious to what just happened. I clutch the object in my hand, sharp edges digging into the fat of my palm. Wiser not to look now with all of these eyes around me. The stage is in front of me. I jog up the stairs, waving around the room. The governor is waiting for me, applauding along with the room. He’s wearing a bear mask, though the guy couldn’t be further from a bear.
“Sean.”
I slap him on the back and he gives me a thumbs up. None of that stiff, professional bullshit. Half the time, he walks around with a lollipop in his mouth, his teeth stained pink. The Blue Region has more trans men than any other Region in the new America. With the Black Region condemning them, most get reassigned for work and flock here. I almost forget about the object in my hand when I’m handed the microphone and nearly drop it.
A few words of greeting, praise for the Blue…I end my speech and the room erupts into applause. The Blue Region especially likes the grandeur. Other Regions have declined far more than this one. There is still elegance and culture here, albeit in only a small portion of the Region, but they’re holding onto the drama with everything they’ve got. Every time I do this little performance, I have a vision of Maximus inGladiatorholding out his hands and screaming, “Are you not entertained!”
While the governor draws numbers for the lottery, I glance down at my hand, opening my palm just enough to see what I’ve been clutching for the last ten minutes. It’s red, the size of a large coin, with scalloped edges and a small white dot in its center. A bottle cap to a beer I haven’t had a sip of in years. I keep my face neutral, but my mind is swimming. When the governor announces the first number, I nod and smile without hearing anything. A memory is creeping up on me, the blurry edges taking shape. And just like that, I know.
Folsom.
TWO
PHOENIX
Female octopuses strangle their mates once the deed is done.
And then eat them.
Javi hands me a towel as I walk backstage and I wipe my face and neck, still winded from the performance.
“It was perfect,” he says.
Liar.We both know I could’ve done better in the last act, my triple tours not as clean as I would have liked. I’ll work on that sequence later tonight so it’ll be better for tomorrow’s show.
“Brava,” Mistress Sinclair cheers, clapping briskly. “Well done, Phoenix, Lex, Sami.” She nods to the rest of the dancers. “I will see you all tomorrow at one.”
A “well done” from Mistress Sinclair is what we strive for, so once she says those words, we nod and disperse.
I round the corner of the narrow hallway toward the dressing rooms. The New York City Ballet and the Lincoln Center are iconic; one of the few remaining companies and theaters still standing. I’m fortunate to do what I love.
“She won’t last long if she keeps that up,” Bellange says to her little cluster of parasites as I walk by.
Eyes straight ahead, I ignore them and keep walking, but it strips me of some of the optimism I was feeling. I’ll be better next time. There is always a next time and I try to remember that whenthis timehaunts me. I hear the peals of their laughter behind me, and I know I’m the butt of their joke. Bellange is good, all legs. It is the passion she has trouble with: she dances; she is notthedance. She makes no secret of the fact that she is working to replace me, and as four years my junior, it is entirely possible.
“Armor up,”my mother would say.“Hurt is something you allow.”
I wonder how many noticed the slight pause before my final grand jeté. Lex was especially sweaty tonight, his golden skin so slick I’d slipped. Tonight I’ll dance until this pair of shoes softens, possibly on a slick floor. I’ll see how tired I am.
As soon as I enter my dressing room, the replay of tonight’s performance begins. I fill my cheeks with air and blow out slowly. This is what they do to dancers: play your failures over and over until you almost go mad. Chin up, I walk right through the recap, the image blurring around me, but as soon as I do, I see that my mothers have left me a stream of messages—a different kind of assault. Their faces follow me into the bathroom. I pick up a bottle of mouthwash and take two long pulls of vodka from it before tapping on play. When it opens, they’re sitting side by side on the couch.
“Phoenix!” They speak in unison.
I take a third swig because I know what’s coming. My mothers have perfected the art of verbal harmony. Not only do they say the same thing at the same time, they sometimes sing their most stinging words: a three syllable “terrr-iii-billlll,”or my personal favorite—”you can do bet-terrr…”
“Hi, peanut! We watched you live!” Mama B, who carried me, starts.
