Dark Turns (17 page)

A
subtle march crept from the auditorium speakers. The drummer played with a brush rather than a stick, suggesting the steady shuffle of footsteps rather than the pounding boots of war. Above the sound, bells shimmered, accenting the singer’s sustained falsetto.

The class tiptoed from the wings in time with the recording. Cotton skirts swept calves as the girls swirled to center stage. The flowing fabric mimicked the ombré chiffon costumes that the female students would wear during the performance. Nia had unpacked the gown order, taking extra time as she placed the dresses on hangers to admire how the brilliant gold bodices melted into dusky pink hems. The
program spared no expense with costumes. Once dressed, the women would resemble sunbeams in a Maxwell Parrish painting. Nia’s job was to get the group dancing that way, light and graceful like sunshine sparkling atop water.

After taking over the rehearsal Tuesday and Wednesday and then sitting in on Thursday, Ms. V had finally allowed her to fully take over instruction. Nia felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. It was freeing to teach without someone judging every comment.

“Alexei, Joseph. Stag leaps, in time with the girls,” Nia shouted. “As their heads turn, you should hit the ground.”

The boys tried to follow the command. Joseph jumped higher, but off the beat. Alexei hit the mark, though his height was less impressive.

“Fifth position,” Nia shouted.

Heels descended in unison. Front legs raised into passé. Toes pointed just above standing knees.

“And onto devant.” Legs extended in front of waists. “Plié,” Nia commanded. Standing legs dipped. Nia scanned knees for desired angles. “Tati, more turn out. That ankle should point to the ceiling.”

Tati’s face tightened as she rotated her raised leg.

“Good. And close.” Nia stood parallel to the line of students. She performed each movement as she named it on the beat, a staccato rap of broken French. “Pointe, lower onto devant, arms up, relevé. Hands down. Sweep the floor.”

She stood and watched the line. The ghosts of teachers past criticized the group in her mind. She vocalized their more constructive comments. “As your arm lifts, so does your leg, as though they’re connected by the same puppet string.”

Legs rose. As expected, Aubrey and Lydia translated the instruction immediately into the desired movement.
June tried too hard. Concentration stiffened her body. Her leg rose to an oblique angle, a robot hitting a mark on a protractor.

“June, relax. Open your shoulders. Hear the music. Think graceful.”

Tati’s and Talia’s long legs didn’t achieve the angle she’d hoped for in time with the count. Nia clapped her hands beside them. “One, two, three, four. Five, six, seven, eight. Talia, Tati, to the beat. Step out, arabesque. As high as you can, everyone—except for Aubrey and Lydia. You two keep the legs in line with the class.” The two starlets raised their legs 135 degrees, higher than their classmates but not enough to completely show them up.

“Good. And port de bras. Switch arms. And sweep arm, open and plié.”

Nia clapped. “Okay. Very good. The opening is coming together. On Sunday, we’ll work more on the second half and perfecting those turns. Thank you all. Massage those feet. See you then.”

Nia sat and dug her knuckles into her arch as she watched the group split into their usual circles for warm-downs.

“Hey, Lydia, you’re coming tonight, right?”

Lydia raised her head from her calves. Her big brown eyes scanned for the source of the question.

Aubrey batted her doll lashes. One of her arms draped over Marta’s increasingly frail shoulders. The other arm was extended in welcome.

Nia wanted to step in front of the open limb, block the path to whatever door Aubrey held open. It couldn’t lead somewhere good.

“She has to come, right, Mar?” Aubrey asked. “It’s practically Wallace’s official Halloween party.”

“Um . . . yeah.” Marta seemed uncomfortable with the invitation.

Nia’s ears perked up. What were they talking about? Halloween wasn’t for more than a month.

Lydia rolled up to standing position. Her left foot scratched her right calf. “Isn’t it just for seniors? Senior Samhain, right?”

“What’s Samhain?” Nia asked. She didn’t like the fact that the party had “senior” in its title, or that Aubrey invited Lydia. That girl was not a good influence.

“It’s the Gaelic shindig Halloween is based off of,” Alexei piped up from somewhere behind Nia. No wonder that guy was the source of so much gossip. He heard every conversation, even those he wasn’t involved in.

“Samhain marks the end of the harvest season,” Alexei continued. “It’s typically mid-October, but whoever started the party here picked September because it’s still warm enough to wear cute costumes.”

“We’re not allowed to celebrate Halloween because it glorifies violence, so we have Senior Samhain,” June said.

Alexei cleared his throat. He looked straight at Lydia. “And, yes, it is just for seniors.”

Aubrey rolled her eyes. “It’s only billed as just for seniors so the pretty juniors and sophomores will want to crash it.”

“Well, I don’t want to offend anyone by crashing.” Lydia cast a sheepish look at Alexei. “I’m still new and—”

Aubrey’s hand hit her hip. Her elbow stuck out in a perfect triangle. “I will be personally offended if you don’t come. If you need a costume, I have one for you. I was deciding between two.”

“Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson.” Alexei muttered. Joseph scowled at him.

Aubrey kept her attention on Lydia. “You can walk in with me.”

“I don’t know. Are you sure I should go?”

“Yes. Joey’s friend Alistair is one of the seniors throwing the party, and he wants to meet you. He has a British accent. Very James Bond.” Aubrey giggled.

Lydia smiled shyly. “Well, if he wants me to come.”

“He absolutely does. Right, Joey?”

Joseph stretched his legs in the corner of the stage. He walked his hands back from the floor to his toes. “The more, the merrier.”

Lydia brightened. “Okay. Sure.”

Aubrey bounced on the pads of her toes. Nia didn’t remember ever seeing her show such excitement. Bouncing was Lydia’s thing.

“We’ll all walk over together. I’ll get you on our way, around eight. Cool?”

Nia wanted to answer for her.
No. Not a good idea
. But how could she? Lydia looked so relieved to be included.

“Sounds great,” Lydia said.

The class began to disperse. Lydia walked toward her new friends, but Nia couldn’t let her go skipping to a senior class party with Aubrey without some warning.

“Hey, Lydia. Would you stay for a moment? I need to go over something.”

Aubrey hung back, waiting for her former rival.

“It’s about the solo and could take a bit. You all should go on.”

Lydia looked confused. “I’ll catch up,” she said.

“Don’t be too long.”

The door shut. Lydia nearly leapt into the center of the room, both excited and concerned. “Did Mr. Battle add something to the choreography?”

Nia lowered her voice, unsure whether or not Aubrey was listening outside the door. “Look, I’m not quite sure how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. Please be careful around Aubrey.”

Lydia’s brow knitted. She stroked her clavicle. “She’s the first person to invite me to a party.”

“I know, and I’m sure that seemed nice. But as her RA, I’ve seen some things and heard some things.”

“Drinking?” Lydia asked.

And sneaking into clubs. And flirting with much older men
. “She’s a little wild.”

Lydia shifted her weight from leg to leg. “I don’t drink.”

“So you won’t go?”

Lydia’s hand cupped her neck. She looked at her shoes. “I haven’t been to any parties on campus. It’s a chance to make friends, you know?”

Nia sighed. There was no way she would convince Lydia not to go to that party.

“Okay. But will you do me a favor? Please don’t drink around her. It’s easy to convince someone when they’re a little buzzed that bad ideas are good ones.”

“Don’t worry. My father would kill me if I got caught with alcohol. I’ll just go, say hi to Alistair, maybe dance a little. If it turns into a booze fest, I’m outta there. Promise.”

Lydia executed a fouetté turn. “So passé, relevé, plié, en devant, and then keep my hip down to a la seconde.”

“Um?”

“In case anyone’s waiting for me,” she whispered.

“Be careful.”

“I will.” Lydia strode toward the door. “Thanks for the tips.” She said loudly. “I’ll keep that hip down. See you Sunday.”

The door swung open. Aubrey stood in the corridor, arms folded across her chest. She stared into the room, eyes like flames around a gas burner. They burned into Nia as if aware that she’d kept Lydia late to share Aubrey’s bad behavior.

“Come on, Lydia,” Aubrey said. “Let’s go play dress-up.”

T
he weather woman’s palms undulated from her waist to her shoulders, a green-screen hula showing the path of a cold front from the midwest to the northeast. The theatrical body movements seemed a bit excessive, even for a temperature drop of ten degrees. Nia guessed ratings increased when an attractive twentysomething gyrated in front of the Great Plains.

She snuggled into Peter’s side. A woodsy, citrus scent saturated his neck. He smelled like a
GQ
lumberjack.

Music beat from the floorboards above: a poppy rhythm that drowned out all but the high notes in the singer’s voice. Peter grabbed the remote and turned up the television volume. The weather woman shouted about a polar vortex.

Nia inhaled beneath Peter’s ear. “Weren’t we going to watch a movie?”

“Yeah. Just wanted to see the news. They said they had an update on Lauren’s case.”

The mention of the murder changed her mood. Nia sat up straighter. “How is Theo doing? Did you talk to him today?”

“He’s a little better since people began buzzing about text spoofing. But he won’t feel vindicated until the news reports that the text message was fraudulent.”

The kettle whistled on Peter’s stove. Nia rose to get it. “I feel so bad for him. I wish there was more we could do.”

“I know. It’s frustrating to wait for some Internet company to relinquish data.”

Nia opened one of the kitchen cabinets. She grabbed two tea bags from a canister marked “Wild Orange Oolong.” Peter’s favorite. She slipped a bag into each of the two waiting mugs and poured the hot water inside. Delicious steam bathed her face.

“Is Theo eating? He looked so thin.”

“I didn’t want to bring it up with him. But I think he’s still avoiding the dining halls.”

Nia opened Peter’s fridge and grabbed the soymilk she’d purchased earlier that day. A splash went into the plain white ceramic cup. She liked tea the British way. It tasted more like coffee.

Peter took his oolong straight. She returned the milk to the fridge and then carted over the cups to the couch. The outside of Peter’s mug featured the words “Stay Drunk on Writing So Reality Cannot Destroy You.”
The Ray Bradbury quote mug
, as he called it, was also one of Peter’s favorite things. She’d learned a lot about his likes and dislikes after spending every day with him for nearly three weeks.

She settled in beside him again. The camera panned to the anchors. The male reporter had a youthful face that belied the thick, silver mane atop his head. He sat beside an attractive black woman with overtweezed eyebrows. The woman lowered her barely there brow in an exaggerated expression of seriousness while the man spoke.

“An update on the gruesome killing of Wallace Preparatory student Lauren Turek, after the break.”

The screen faded to momentary black before a car zoomed onto the screen. Peter cursed under his breath and hit the mute button. The news always made viewers wait through the whole program before getting to the top story.

Without the television, the sounds of the party again became audible: a din of voices pierced by occasional laughter. Nia recognized the top-forty tune blasting in the background. She handed Peter the mug.

“Thanks.” He took a long sip. “So what do you want to do this weekend?”

“I don’t know. I have rehearsal Sunday pretty much all day. But tomorrow is free. It’s supposed to rain, though.”

“There’s an outdoor sculpture garden about an hour north of here. It’s a beautiful place to see all the changing leaves, and there’s a nice bed and breakfast in the town. It’s too late to book this weekend, but maybe we could go up next Friday after classes. We could spend the night, take in the scenery the next morning.”

Guilt pulled at the corners of her smile. Nia lifted her mug and took a long swallow. “I actually have plans next Saturday. That friend of mine at the New York City Ballet landed a soloist part in
Agon
and asked that I come see the opening.”

“Oh.” Peter set his cup on the coffee table. He brushed his hair back. “So, how are you getting to Manhattan?”

“I was thinking I’d grab a bus to Claremont and then take the train.”

“The buses don’t run that late.”

Nia had considered that problem. The last bus from Claremont back to Wallace ran at 10:00 p.m. Dimitri’s show didn’t even start until 8:00, and there was no way she’d make it to Claremont in time. But if she stayed in the city until the following morning, she could get a 5:00 a.m. train into Claremont and then grab an 8:00 a.m. bus to the school.

“My mom’s in Queens, not too far from a station. I was thinking I could crash there and then get the first train out in the morning. I’d be back in time for rehearsal.”

“You’ll be exhausted.” Peter relaxed into the couch. He put one leg on top of the other.

Nia tried to interpret his body language. She wouldn’t have been happy if Peter had made Saturday night plans with an ex-girlfriend. But he seemed fine. Then again, he didn’t know that Dimitri was anything other than a fellow dancer.

Nia kept her movements casual. She didn’t want to alarm Peter by making it clear how much she wanted to see Dimitri dance. “I feel like I have to go. Landing a part in
Agon
is a kind of a big deal.”

“Well, if it’s helpful, I’ll pick you up from the train Saturday night.” Peter reclaimed his tea mug. “That way you don’t have to wake up crazy early the next morning.”

The last train from New York City to Claremont left at 10:00 p.m.
Agon
was only a half hour. But Dimitri wouldn’t make it from backstage right away. She wanted to have a little time with him.

Peter sipped his tea. He stared at her, trying to read her expression, or waiting for an answer.

“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

He brushed her hair behind her shoulder. His palm cupped her neck. “You could never put me out.”

They kissed. When they broke apart, Nia saw a sad smile on his face.

“I love you,” he said.

The three words stuck in her throat. She hadn’t felt this strongly for anyone since Dimitri. But did she love Peter? She enjoyed being with him, she missed him when they were apart—which wasn’t often. She found him funny and handsome. Her feelings for Peter didn’t consume her the way her feelings had for Dimitri, but the lesser intensity didn’t mean she wasn’t in love. She’d fallen for Dimitri as a teenager. She was older now. She’d been hurt. And she knew that
I love you
didn’t mean forever.

She kissed him, covering her pause with passion. Peter was a handsome, educated, kind, thoughtful man. He loved her. And part of her did love him—the part that wasn’t reeling from Dimitri’s latest change of heart.

Peter brushed her hair from her face. His steel-blue eyes demanded a reply.

“I love you, too,” she whispered.

They fell onto the couch, intertwined. His mouth devoured her neck, her shoulders, her stomach. He pulled at her jeans. She lifted her butt up, pressing her pelvis against him. He yanked the pants past her behind.

A scream shot through the room like a stray bullet. Footsteps thundered above them, all in the same direction. Peter sprang backward.

“Damn it.”

Nia grabbed his discarded shirt from the foot of the bed. She pulled it over her head.

The scream sounded again. “Oh, God!”

Marta’s voice? No. Teenage girls just sounded alike. She shimmied the jeans over her butt as she followed her shirtless boyfriend out the door. Shouts ricocheted around the corner. They ran toward them. Several girls, each wearing a slutty version of some occupational uniform, peppered the stairwell. Their eyes pointed toward the floor.

A petite girl lay on her back at the base of the steps. Dark hair tumbled around her delicate shoulders. Lean, defined legs extended from a short, black minidress. A peep-toe pump dangled from one foot. The other appendage lay naked and twisted on the ground, as if in fifth position.

Nia pushed past Peter. She fell on the floor beside the body.

“Lydia. Lydia. Wake up.”

Nia pressed her fingers into the girl’s neck. Something sticky coated them. A red smear ran down the girl’s face. Blood? No. Too bright and shimmery for blood. Paint. Lydia’s tan face was powdered white. She’d dressed as a zombie.

A pulse beat against the pads of Nia’s index and pointer fingers. Lydia was alive. She was breathing. Why wasn’t she waking up?

A large red bump swelled above Lydia’s eye. Nia tapped her cheek. “Lydia. It’s Nia.”

Lydia moaned.

“You’re going to be okay. You fell.”

Peter knelt beside her. “Is she all right?”

Nia examined the length of the girl’s legs. They appeared straight, unbroken—until the ankle. A red welt carved the leg, just above an askew foot. The joint was fractured, if not worse.

“I need ice. And an ambulance.”

Nia slipped her palm behind Lydia’s head, supporting it like a pillow.

“Is she going to be okay?” The slurred words fell from the steps above her. Marta leaned on the railing like a crutch.
A white tunic with buckles flopping from the sides hung around her body. A sexy straightjacket?

“What happened?”

“She had, like, a couple drinks, totally not much at all. The upstairs bathroom was occupied, so I went downstairs and I saw her lying there. Is she going to be okay?”

Tears welled in Nia’s eyes. Dancers recovered from broken ankles, often with surgery, months of rest, and a lot of rehab. But damaged joints were never really the same.

Nia’s fists flexed against her side. “Where is Aubrey?”