Very Wicked Things (3 page)

“Katerina—”

“My name is Dovey. Like the bird.” Only my father used the Russian name.

She nodded. “I’ve already let you and your mother live here rent free for the past two months. Look around,” she said, waving her arms at the peeling paint on the walls. “This place is falling down around me because I don’t have the money to repair it. I can barely afford to fix the plumbing in my own apartment.”

I stared at her.

“And I don’t have time to teach a beginner,” she added.

“The stairwell’s a mess. There’s trash everywhere. Maybe I could pick it up for you?”

Silence from her.

Didn’t she know that once I set my mind to something, it was a done deal? Mama said it was the Russian in me. I think it was just me. Failure was not an option.

I would dance.
I would, I would.

“I will die here.” Truth. “I want out. I want something better than what I have.”

She gazed at me with a pained expression, knowing my circumstances.

“Don’t want your pity,” I said, thrusting my chest out. Pity is for losers and weaklings. “I want somebody to believe in me.” I backed up, bumping into one of the other girls, who quickly gave me room.

My body was cold, but I forced my limbs to work. “Look at this,” I said, attempting a simple
plié
. Giving my best, I did the duck-feet thing and bent my knees, keeping my heels on the floor, but in the end, my jeans were too thick to get a proper position, and I weaved. I powered on and tried again, this time keeling over and busting my butt.

The little girls snickered.

Red-faced, I stood, refusing to give up so easily.

To their astonishment—if their open mouths were anything to go by—I unsnapped my pants and jerked them off, throwing them across the room. Standing in my old underwear and sleep shirt, I put my feet in the proper position and did the
plié
again, this time without stumbling. This time summoning every scrap of control I had to stay put.

Sarah didn’t look impressed.

Fear of winding up like my mama spurred me on. “First position,” I said, executing the movement. “Second position, third, fourth.” I moved my arms and legs how I thought they should go, yet it felt awkward, my limbs not cooperating like the videos.

I needed lessons.

“And here’s my favorite, fifth position,” I said, lifting my arms up and rounding them out over my head. I tried to align my feet, praying I resembled a ballerina inside a music box.

Silence for at least a minute as she stared at me, her eyes lingering on my limbs. Taking advantage, I did a pirouette and stumbled, probably resembling a drunken Tasmanian devil.

She gave me a quizzical look. “Your form is off. But you’ve had lessons?”

I shook my head.

“Then how do you know ballet?” she said, waving her arms at me.

I tapped my noggin. “I’m quite gifted.”

She assessed me. “I’m not surprised.”

“My mama says I’m different.”

“It’s good to be different,” she added.

I nodded. Sure.

“Do you love ballet?” she asked me.

“More than anything.”

She sighed, her eyes wary. I’m no mind reader, but I recognized hesitation when I saw it. Being near me—teaching me—was dangerous because of
who
I was. No one wanted to associate with the little girl who belonged to the hooker and the rich man.

Her face softened. “Don’t make me regret this, Dovey. Extra ballet slippers are in the basket by the door. Oh, and put your pants back on, please.” She smiled.

I practically skipped over and grabbed a pair, elation erupting inside me. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

She knelt down to face me. “Today, we’ve been working on embracing our roles when we do ballet. Dance lets you be
anything
you want to be, Dovey. A snowflake, a toy mouse, a witch, a forest fairy. Who do you want to be today?”

“I don’t know.” It was all so much to choose from, and it was my first day.

Squeezing my shoulder, she said, “Whoever you become is entirely up to you. Remember that.”

I blinked up at her. “
Someday
, I will be a dancer.”

“Will you remember me?”

–
Dovey

Eight Years Later

THE DELICIOUS SMELL of bacon tantalized me, drawing me into the kitchen.

“
Dovey, Dovey, my lovey
,” Sarah sang out, smiling at me from her spot in front of the white stove. She appeared fit and alert, dressed in gray yoga pants and a loose tunic, obviously ready for her eleven o’clock toddler class. At sixty-one, she had an air about her of someone much younger, sparkling with energy, luminous like the sun.

I opened my arms wide. “
Sarah, Sarah, I love you
,” I sang back in a theatrical kind of way, loud and off-key. Typical morning at our house.

She showed me the burnt bacon. “Once you get a load of this, you may not love me.”

I peered over her shoulder at the black pork lying on the plate. “Love you still,” I said in between munches on a stolen piece. She smacked my hand and I grinned.

“What if I said we were out of strawberry jam?”

“Still love ya,” I quipped, propping my hip against the sink to watch her scramble eggs. Her movements were brisk and efficient, which was a good sign. And although I’d woken up with a premonition of a sucky day, perhaps today would be fine. I needed a good day.

She presented me with the overdone biscuits, their tops a few shades too dark. “Still?”

I grunted, picked one up and took a bite, the rich flavor of heavy cream coating my tongue. I closed my eyes and moaned. “Holy best biscuit ever,” I declared, talking around my chews. “It’s like eating a piece of heaven. Maybe even better than the buttermilk ones.”

Her mouth twitched. “Now, I know you’re lying or starving. They didn’t rise and they’re too brown. I swear, you’ll eat anything.” She pointed to my chair. “Sit. You have fifteen minutes before you have to get on the road for BA.”

I touched her shoulder. “Tell me what day it is first,” I said.

Her faded green eyes clouded for a moment but then slid over my shoulder to the calendar on the fridge. “February 7,” she replied. “Monday. I have three classes of ballet to teach; you have math homework to turn in. And you have a three hour session with Mr. Keller at BA to work on your audition piece.”

“Where do you live?”

“201 Channing Street inside Beckham House. With a crazy girl.” She gave me a pointed look.

I grinned, anticipating the next answer. “Who am I?”

“Katerina Dovey Beckham,” she said with a sassy look. “You’ve lived with me since your mama died. I’m your guardian and I adore you. There, satisfied?”

“No, I’m not,” drawled a throaty, Southern voice from the door. “I need a good man in a bad way, and I’m hungry.”

We both turned to see the vision in front of us. As if waiting for a camera to start rolling, Heather-Lynn posed against the doorframe, dressed outlandishly in a pair of fringed Daisy Dukes and a red shirt. I shivered from just looking at her. At least I wore thick tights with my skimpy clothes.

She breezed in carrying Ricky, her long-haired, cream Chihuahua. Her claim to fame was a tiny part in a movie in the seventies no one had seen. At sixty, she called herself a retired movie star even though she’d been a beautician for twenty something years. Sarah and I went with it. We’re all dreamers, I guess.

“Ever heard of knocking?” I said, giving her a quick hug.

“Honey, ain’t got no time to knock when fried food is calling my name.” She sat the squirming dog down and looked at the coffee with lustful eyes. “Come to mama.”

She poured a cup at the counter, stirring in cream and sugar. With a casual nonchalance, she peered at Sarah over the rim of her cup. “Okay, lady, you know the drill: tell me my name. I gotta be
speciaalll
, too.”

Sarah’s hand paused as she sat the eggs on the table, and my heart took a nose dive. It was too much, this exercise we did. What if…

“A pain in my ass,” Sarah said smartly. “Always barging in here unannounced with that dog and eating my food. And nearly naked too. You do know it’s cold out there, right? Now stop asking silly questions and eat. You’re both drooling anyway.”

Heather-Lynn glided over to Sarah and gave her the usual double-cheek peck, Hollywood style. “Don’t mind if I do, dahling.”

Sarah laughed and bent down to give the begging Ricky a piece of bacon.

After getting the plates out, we sat at the table, just like we had for the past eight years. I slathered butter on my biscuit, my thoughts split between my audition and on the 3:00 AM phone call I’d gotten last night from Spider. My best friend at BA, he needed to chill with the drunk dials. I needed my sleep. I had too much going on to be woken up by heavy breathing and loud music blaring in my ear.

Sarah fidgeted across from me, and because I felt wired to her every nuance, my eyes shot to her. Clutching her knife, she stared intently at the butter as if willing it to move closer. She opened her mouth to say something, but then slammed it shut.

Without a word, I nudged the butter dish closer to her. White with bright red poppies, she’d had the dish for years, given to her as a birthday present by her late husband David. I guess he’d known she loved to cook as much as she liked to dance.

I covered her hand with mine, the contrast of my younger skin against hers, slamming home the cold hard truth. We didn’t have much longer. And I didn’t know when. I didn’t know how. “It’s called
butter
.” I tried to smile. I think it worked.

She nodded, her shoulders shrinking as if she were disappearing within herself.

Wasn’t she?

Always the attention diverter, Heather-Lynn cleared her throat and pointed her fork at me. “Tonight I’ll have some of that orange blossom and ginseng tea you and Sarah love so much. Maybe I’ll run down to the bakery and get some goodies for dessert.”

“Get the chocolate fried pies,” I begged, and they both laughed.

Yeah, it was the simple pleasures that kept the darkness at bay.

After breakfast was finished, Heather-Lynn and I cleared the table while Sarah read the newspaper, part of her daily routine. Editorials and world events were her favorite sections, probably because she’d traveled all over Europe in her youth, dancing for various ballet companies.

All was well. Yet…

“Keep an eye out for her today,” I whispered to Heather-Lynn who nodded, her teased blonde hair not moving an inch.

“Don’t be talking about me like I’m not here.” Sarah snapped up, newspaper in hand, eyes flashing. “I’m not a child.” She turned her back, cleaning the stovetop.

Oh.

Heather-Lynn never missed a beat, running over to a shopping bag she’d brought in earlier and set by the door. With a flourish worthy of a magician, she pulled out a see-through, baby-doll nightie. She jiggled it. “What cha think of my new outfit, ladies. I bought it just for Maxie-poo.”

I stared at the lace and the garters and the snaps and I don’t know what all else. An image of her and Max, our fiftyish-year-old mail man, rolling around…

“Thanks for that picture. Now, I have to go bleach my eyes,” I joked.

She turned to Sarah and made the hanger dance. “Huh? Ya see it?”

“I certainly can’t
unsee
it, my dear,” Sarah said, her good mood restored.

Or perhaps she was just pretending for us. Lately it was hard to tell how much of what she said was real or if she held back, not wanting us to know the truth.

Wanting to ease her work load, I went with her to the studio to set up for the morning classes. Across the hall from our apartment, the studio took up the entire width of the right side of the building. Beckham House, a two-story construction, consisted of three apartments, one down—which was ours—one up which was Heather-Lynn’s, and one that sat empty because it needed renovating. The last tenants had moved out under the cover of night, leaving behind punched walls and carpet ruined by a German Sheppard. That empty apartment was the one I’d shared with my mama, and I never walked past it without remembering those hungry days. It needed a complete makeover. But our money was tight, especially since last summer, when we’d had to replace all the wood flooring in the dance studio because of a burst pipe. I’d never asked Sarah how much it set her back, but I knew it had been substantial. Which reminded me. We needed to see a lawyer, get the ball rolling on transferring power-of-attorney over to me. I’m eighteen, so it should work.

I flicked on the lights in the studio and watched them blink on one by one, the scent of freshly mopped wood and the sweat of hard work reminding me of every moment spent here training with Sarah. She’d devoted herself to teaching me everything she knew. And it hadn’t always been easy. We’d had lean years, like most people in Ratcliffe. But we’d hung in.

I turned on the heat, set out the sign-in sheet for the students while she popped in a solo piano music CD. And we were done. Now it was up to her.

Fifteen minutes later, Sarah walked me out to my brown Corolla. Without her noticing, I checked her wrist for the ID bracelet, needing reassurance.