The Storm Before the Calm (2 page)

“I guess I should get to school,” I said, turning back from the counter. Mom was still sitting at the table, looking at me with a sad smile on her face. “What?” I asked, suddenly feeling like I was missing something crucial.

“Nothing. I just like having breakfast with you. I’m sorry I haven’t been around more,” she said.

I walked purposefully over to her and pulled her into my arms. She still called me baby boy, but I had almost a foot on her. “No regrets, Mom. I know you’ve done the best you can, and as much as I’d love to see you more, we’ve got nothing but time for that. Once I’ve graduated, I’m going to get a job and take over some of the responsibility around here. Things will be easier for both of us.”

She nodded against my chest before her arms loosened around me. “You should get to school before you’re late.”

I sighed. She was right, but I was reluctant to leave. Not just because I dreaded going to school, and not because I knew as soon as I stepped through the double doors at the front of the building the torture would start, but because my mom seemed sad. The dark circles beneath her eyes were more pronounced than usual. But I didn’t know how to help, and even if I did, I knew she wouldn’t let me. All I could do was suck it up and go to school.

I ran back upstairs, checking myself out in the mirror before I left. I looked okay, nothing too special. And I wanted it that way. The more likely I was to blend in, to be completely unnoticeable, the better it was for me. Not that it mattered much if every hair was in place or I wore the right kind of clothes. I would be made fun of, prodded, and belittled, no matter what, but I didn’t want to give the guys at school any extra ammunition. They already had more than enough material to make the hours between eight in the morning and three in the afternoon a virtual hell.

I tucked my homework into my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and flicked the lights in my room out. I pasted a smile on my face before bounding down the stairs. I knew my mom would be waiting to kiss me good-bye before I left, and until now I’d managed to hide from her how much I hated going to school. She had enough on her mind without worrying about me.

“I won’t be here when you get home, baby,” she said once I reached the foyer. “But I’ll leave some dinner for you in the fridge. You can heat it up before your rehearsal.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, bending down to kiss her cheek.

“You’re going to knock ’em dead tonight, Charlie. I know you will.”

I shrugged. “It’s a rehearsal.”

“As though you wouldn’t still give it your all, even though no one is watching.”

Her voice was knowing. Of course she was right. When it came to dancing, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do. I never felt so light as when I was moving, surrounded by the music.

“Bye, Mom,” I said, before pressing another kiss to her cheek.

“Bye, Charlie. Have a good day.”

I pulled the front door open and walked down the path to the driveway, where my beat-up Honda Civic sat next to my mom’s equally dilapidated Camry.

I
FOUND
a parking spot on one of the quiet side streets close to the school. It was the spot I usually parked in, a little farther back than the places most students chose. The houses were close together and the street was narrow, but fewer people made me feel safer. I glanced at my cell phone, clicking the screen on to illuminate the time.

Fifteen minutes before my first class.

I already had my books for first period in my bag. It saved a trip to my locker and lessened the possibility of running into Dylan or any of his friends.

I plugged my headphones into my iPod, cueing up the song I was set to dance my solo to that evening. I let the steps run through my head as my muscles tightened and contracted through muscle memory. Every movement was automatic, every turn memorized as the music dipped and swelled. I was lost in the sound, giving myself over to the freedom that came with it.

When the song ended, I kept my eyes closed, wanting to hold on to that feeling. It was one of the only things that would get me through, the bright spot in my otherwise depressing day.

I tucked my iPod back into my bag and climbed out of the car, locking the door before slamming it behind me. With measured steps, I walked the short distance to the school, tucking myself in behind a group of freshman girls, trying hard not to be seen as I walked through the front door.

“Morning, faggot,” Dylan said as he spotted me from where he stood, the king of his cronies. “Suck any big dicks lately?”

Just another Monday morning in Beacon, South Dakota.

Chapter Two

I
WALKED
through the door, dragging my feet as I went. Climbing the stairs to my bedroom felt like a task of epic proportions. I shrugged my backpack off and let it fall to the floor. My body was heavy, weighed down with the bullshit from my day. I felt dirty and impure, like the words that had been flung at me had stuck, coating my whole body in their filth.

When I reached my bathroom, I closed the door, locking it behind me. My mom wasn’t home, but shutting out the world made me feel better somehow. I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower, turned on the water and stood under the spray. It was so hot I almost couldn’t stand it, but I needed as much heat as possible to melt away the muck that clung to me.

I scrubbed at my skin until it was red and raw, then stepped forward, bracing my hand against the wall as I let my head fall under the water. My tears mixed with the spray from the shower, and I could almost pretend they weren’t there at all. I let them fall freely, sobs shaking my body. All the frustration and anger and hurt I’d bottled up during the day spilled out of me. Dylan would never see me cry. Never. In this place, locked away, it was safe to let go.

I stepped out of the shower, shivering against the cool air. It hadn’t been enough. I could still hear the echoes of the taunting words. I could still feel Dylan’s hands on me as he shoved me against my locker. I could still see the cold look of hatred in his eyes as he spat in my face and then laughed. That laugh. The sound haunting me long after he’d left me a trembling mess in the middle of the hallway. A victim in plain sight, and yet no one stopped to help.

I wrapped the towel around my waist, tucking the corner over as I walked to my desk. I opened the drawer and pulled the razor blade from underneath my notebook where I kept it hidden. The silver surface glinted under the light. I held it up in front of my face, studying it, weighing the choice judiciously. In the end, there was no decision to make. I held the razor to the skin between my ribs, slipping it carefully across. I didn’t want to cut too deeply, just enough to feel it, enough to bleed the ache from my body.

The blood seeped in tiny droplets from the small incision I had made, and the sight of it set my heart fluttering. The pain I felt in the initial moments gave way to a wave of fullness. I felt the empty parts of me become replete. I knew it wasn’t healthy, and I knew my mom would be devastated if she ever found out. But this was one of my secrets, my convoluted way of healing the scars given to me by the people who seemed to hate me for no reason at all. Those tiny cuts that marred my skin were, at times, a saving grace when nothing else worked.

T
HE
HALLWAY
outside the dressing rooms was already a blur of activity by the time I drove the thirty minutes to the theater. I was lucky. Being a guy, I only had to share my dressing room with two other people. The girls were crammed into theirs so tightly they barely had enough room to walk past one another in their tutus.

I stashed my bag in one of the lockers and pulled out my shoes before heading to the open room at the back used for stretching and warm-ups. As I was one of the older dancers, my piece wouldn’t be on until much later in the evening. I still had a couple of hours before I needed to be on stage, so I took the opportunity to do a thorough stretch.

I could hear the thumps of the dancers leaping and landing on the stage upstairs, the less experienced ones landing a bit harder than the others. I smiled to myself, thinking back to when I had first started, a gangly little kid who was more interested in shaking his booty to the music than actually performing the choreography.

I’d had quite the attitude back then—much to the dismay of my teacher—and had strutted around the classroom like a model on a runway. That probably should have been my mom’s first clue that I wasn’t like the other boys, but I was in my element and loving every minute of it.

I took my place at the barre, standing in first position, and began my warm-up, reaching up with one arm and stretching gently from side to side. As I bent my body to the left, I could feel the sharp tug of the lacerations on my ribs, the raw skin complaining as it pulled with the movement. The familiar endorphins played at the edges of my nerves, and I closed my eyes, remembering the sense of relief I’d had that afternoon as I slid the razor across my skin.

I turned, working my feet through the floor, stretching my arches, and concentrating on my turnout. I ran through the entire routine—the pliés and tendus, the dégagés, fondus, and grands battements. I focused on each muscle group, making sure my body was primed and ready to perform. There was a fastidiousness to my routine—a function. Each movement was measured, purposeful.

When I was finished and my muscles were warmed, I took the side stairs up to the stage level, ducking in backstage to watch those ahead of me. I always loved dress rehearsals. They held the same excitement and enjoyment as performance night without so much of the pressure. I knew most of the other dancers hated it. It was a time for our instructors to be picky about each step, how well we hit our marks, as well as ironing out the lighting and music issues. Dress rehearsals were long, and they could be tedious, but for me, anytime I was dancing was the best part of my day.

I stood in the wings as one of the younger groups tapped their way through “When I’m Gone,” not quite getting the syncopation right, but their little faces were beaming, and so who could possibly nitpick?

I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned to see Emily, my best friend. She jumped into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist, hugging me tight before letting go and dropping back down.

“Hi, Ems,” I said, happy to see her. “I didn’t think you were coming this early.”

“I wanted to spend time with you before….” Her words trailed off.

“Before?”

“Before I leave for San Francisco,” she said, but her voice faltered.

“Oh. Yeah,” I said. I hadn’t forgotten she was leaving. I didn’t want to think about it. She was the only person I’d ever considered a friend, and we didn’t see one another as much as I’d have liked as it was. I’d known her since we were little, having taken the same classes all the way through our dancing career. If she hadn’t lived one town over, we’d have spent every waking moment together.

“We still have one more week before you jet off and leave me here,” I joked, trying to hide the sadness behind my words.

“You won’t even notice I’m gone,” Emily replied.

Like that would be possible. I’d be selling plungers to the dickwads I went to high school with while she was learning technique from some of the top dance instructors in the country. It was hard not to be jealous of her, but I knew what an important opportunity this was for her. Doing well at a summer intensive almost always meant at least first priority in the auditions to join a company. I had no doubts Emily would be one of the top dancers in her class. I’d never seen someone with quite as much natural grace as she seemed to possess.

“Have you already warmed up?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah, a few minutes ago,” I said.

“Of course you have.” She reached up and mussed my hair. I smoothed it back down.

“Help me stretch?”

“Sure,” I said, following her over to the back wall. Emily was obsessed with improving her flexibility. She was already the lithest dancer in our studio, but she was constantly working on her range. She backed up against the wall, then kicked her leg up, resting it on my shoulder. I knew this drill. We went through it almost every time we saw each other. She said my height gave her an advantage.

I lifted her foot above her head, flexing my arms, and she pushed down as hard as she could, then relaxed so I could stretch her farther.

“Oh, Charlie and Emily are at it again. Maybe you two should get a room,” a voice taunted from behind me. I didn’t need to turn to know it was Stacy. I ignored her. I got enough shit from people at school. I didn’t need it infringing on this too.

“What the hell is her problem?” I asked Emily.

“Come on, Charlie. You can’t see it?”

“See what?” I asked, dropping her leg back down.

Emily rolled her eyes and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “She has a thing for you. And she thinks there’s something going on with you and me.”

I laughed. Emily looked indignant.

“What?” I asked.

“You don’t have to laugh like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world. I’ll have you know some guys find me somewhat attractive,” she said, placing her hands firmly on her hips. Even when she was fake mad she still stood like a dancer, feet turned out in first position.

“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it. You’re beautiful. Stunning even. Of course you’d have guys interested in you. It’s just that….”

“It’s okay, Charlie. I know. You’re like a brother to me. And I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I was bugging you.”

She threw her arms around me again and hugged me. I pulled her in, holding her head against my chest.

I was going to miss her so much I could barely breathe.

N
EARLY
TWO
hours later, it was our turn to run through our group number. The girls were all in their leotards and skirts, pink shoes with satin ribbons crisscrossed in all the right places. I stepped out onto the stage, the lights shining in my eyes, blinding me from being able to see anything past the front edge. It didn’t matter anyway. What was past that line was of no consequence. All that mattered was the few feet of space where I could lay it all on the floor.