Swing Out of the Blue, page 34
This would make her father sad, but Sophia needed to tell him. God, if he was listening, would have to forgive her. “You wouldn’t like how we fight. She’s ... well, I guess everybody thinks it’s the other person’s fault, and I can’t get to the root of it. It’s her anxiety, and it’s complicated, and she won’t get help ... but until a few months ago, I wouldn’t have gotten help either. Now I’m seeing a counsellor, and ... would you have respected that? You learned about psychiatry in medical school, so you know it’s not all bullshit, but ... do you respect me? Or not?”
The warmth had faded, and Sophia was dressed for biking, not sitting outside. She rose and paced to stave off the chill. “Sometimes I think that when parents first decide to have a baby, they picture this blank slate they get to draw on. All the hopes and dreams they didn’t realize, they can pour into this child instead, and it’ll be perfect. They’ll make it perfect. But there is no blank slate. The kid already has a personality from the day she’s born. You can teach her a lot, but you can’t control what she becomes, no matter how hard you try.
“But you!” Sophia continued. The insight came to her suddenly. “You’re a white canvas. I can project anything onto you, and you’ll never prove me wrong. So, stay behind that fucking mask. I’ll make you whatever I want, in here.” She jabbed a finger toward her head and almost felt the depression parting around it. “I believe you were kind. I believe you loved my mother, and you loved me, too. I believe she was less anxious with you around, and you comforted her, but you didn’t smother us. That’s a fine line, and you walked it.” The next words escaped her in a rush. “I hate people taking care of me. I want to be independent, and I want someone to love me for that. She loves me despite that. Maybe I should let her take care of me just to stop the fighting, but I can’t. It’s too painful.”
It was getting late, but she didn’t want to leave. She could almost grasp the connection to her past, and to him. “She still sings,” Sophia said. “I don’t—I got your genes—but she sings. You liked that, didn’t you? Hearing her? Can you hear her now?”
Her father didn’t respond. It felt like time was running out, which was stupid, since he was dead. Still, she felt compelled to tell him, “She’s a good mom. She works hard. She cares. She cares so much it hurts, I think, and that’s why she hides, and I can’t blame her. I hide, too, and you most of all. The difference is, Mom and I choose to hide. We could learn to take off our masks. You never will.”
A sudden idea jolted Sophia. At first, she paled considering it, but it felt right, and she knew what she had to do. She even thought—at least, she wanted to think—that Iftin might forgive her.
Sophia returned to her bicycle, found her backpack and retrieved the mask. She studied it as she approached the tombstone. Her stones were grey and sterile and nearly subsumed by the contrasting light and darkness of the mask. They were only symbols, after all.
“I’ll never truly know you,” Sophia whispered to her father, “but at least I can drop my own barriers. Then you and Mom will have to do your part.” She gathered her courage. “I’ll never know you,” she repeated, embracing the melancholy that tinged her voice and making no effort to hide it, “but you won’t be totally hidden, either. You’ll meet me halfway.”
Sophia braced as the wood splintered. Seconds later, it was done. Half of Iftin’s shattered mask lay amid the stones, marking his place. Sophia regarded the other half carefully. She nodded and slipped it into her coat pocket. Riding away on her bicycle, Sophia could feel it there, nestled just beneath her heart.
*
Zachary
Music blared from next door, but Zack barely heard it. He was muttering to himself while miming the steps. Swing-out. Half swing-out with a stomp. Into the solo section. The choreography blurred together. Low-downs. Suzy in place. Switches. Then ...
“Can you stop that?” Dani demanded. “You’re making me nervous.”
Reluctantly, Zack forced himself to stop miming, but his brain still raced through the choreography. Spin, mini-slide, back together. He hated performing. Ninety people waited in Wallace Hall, many of whom had seen his Festival disaster. Charleston. Skip-ups. Kick-turns. He should never have agreed to this.
“Zack,” Dani snapped, “stop worrying,” but he sounded pretty anxious himself.
On a couch nearby were two people who actually had something to worry about. “I want to go get her,” Fatima said softly.
“She hasn’t missed a check-in yet,” Ahmed said.
“I know. I’m still scared.”
Iftin was at her school dance, planning to sneak out to Quest. Fatima, Zack gathered, had insisted Iftin text her every half hour as a precaution.
“We’re about to perform,” Ahmed said. “We’ll be done in a few minutes. Then you can go.”
“I wish she would—”
“You guys are all making me nervous,” Dani complained.
Promenade. Promenade variation. Tuck turn with double spin. At least their third couple, Ilya and Kirsten, were relaxed. They were inventing and showing off new dance steps, which they demonstrated with exaggerated sweeping motions, laughing as they went. This is lindy hop, Zack reminded himself. That’s how it’s supposed to feel. Quest was going well so far. The dance was frenzied, but in a way that exhilarated rather than frightened him. The band was swinging, the dancers were excited and the music embraced them. If not for this stupid performance ...
“Can you at least pretend to be confident?” Dani said. “It’ll help my nerves.”
“I’m trying,” Zack said. Swing-out: 45 degrees. Swing-out: straight. Swing-out: over-rotated. He tried to focus on his dance partner. “How are you feeling with the whole making a statement thing?”
“I’m fine.” Dani feigned nonchalance. “It’s just ...”
Tima and Ahmed were cuddling. Ilya and Kirsten were talking animatedly. In Wallace, the band had taken their break, and teams from other universities were performing. Dani shook his head and blurted, “I like KISS. I’ve had good times here. I’m just afraid that without Andy, I won’t feel like I belong anymore, and that’s sad.”
“Why assume you won’t belong? Why not give it a chance?”
“Have you ever asked someone out when you knew they’d say no, just to get closure?”
“I was always too shy to ask anyone out,” Zack admitted.
“My brilliant analogies are lost on you.”
“If you joined exec,” Zack said hopefully, “you could help make the club more welcoming.”
“Maybe,” Dani allowed, “but everything’s so different already. No Andy next year. No Sophia. No Iftin for a while. Kyle’s furious that nobody confronted the bullies on Monday, and that you and Rhea stopped the fight at Stooley’s. Now Rhea’s mad at me for taking Kyle’s side.”
“Where is Kyle?”
“At his high school dance.”
“Why?” Zack asked. Kyle had originally decided to attend the dance so he could walk to Wallace Hall with Iftin, but that was Tima’s responsibility now. Kyle could have come straight to Quest.
“I think he wants to prove that he’s not scared of Polchy,” Dani said. “I’m going to show them, he texted me.”
“Are you sure that’s what he meant?”
“What else would he mean?”
Before Zack could answer, Andy’s head poked in. The performance next door had finished, and in a raspy voice, Andy said, “You’re on.”
They stepped into the hallway. The performers lined up two-by-two, with Dani and Zack in the rear. Rhea’s voice carried through the microphone: “Please keep your applause going for our very own dance team, the Kingston Swing Syndicate!”
The lights were bright in Wallace Hall. The audience blurred together. The performers formed a horizontal line, Ilya and Kirsten in the centre, Zack and Dani to the right, Tima and Ahmed to the left. Dani surveyed the audience, and Zack followed his gaze. It was a shame Kyle wasn’t here to support Dani. I’m going to show them. Zack had internalized his own bullying, so he understood Kyle’s wish to prove himself worthy, but his desperation kept Kyle from real connection. If Kyle could learn to trust, he might find the belonging he craved.
There was Zack’s answer, too. He had nothing to prove. If he truly believed that anybody could belong at KISS, he needed to start with himself.
Zack’s first steps were shaky, but it hardly mattered. Dani knew the routine cold. Dani emphasized a hit in the music with a pop of his arm and hip, but he modified it subtly from how Sophia had done it, making the step his own. They broke apart into the solo sequence, which Zack didn’t flub too badly, and he caught Dani’s eye when they re-connected. As the song approached its finale, they were facing each other, eyes locked. Give up control. Follow him. They prepped apart and sprang together. Zack sensed where Dani needed to be, there, by his chest, and he knelt and lifted from the legs as Dani jumped ...
The crowd erupted in cheers. Landing on his feet, Dani soaked in the applause for a moment before dropping seamlessly into an improvised martial arts roll. It wasn’t choreographed, but Zack was following his partner and spun into place behind him. Ilya and Kirsten responded, too, sliding forward to frame Dani and Zack in a new formation. Instinctively, Zack waved the audience forward and suddenly the crowd was joining them, running, kneeling, sliding on the ground together, with Zack and Dani at their centre.
When Zack and Dani finally extricated themselves, Tima had gone to pick up Iftin. Andy high-fived both of them and kissed Dani. “Where did that come from?”
“An artist never reveals all his secrets,” Dani said sardonically. “I’ve always felt weird choreographing an improvised dance. I’d rather focus on connection than memorization. Teach dancers to stay in the moment and go where the music takes them.” He turned to Zack. “There’s still space on next year’s exec for a teaching coordinator, right?”
Zack smiled. “I’ll only take someone who dances both parts.” Dani extended his hand, and Zack shook it. You’re good enough. We’re all good enough.
Ahmed and Rhea joined them as the band returned to the stage. “Should I give out the gifts?” Rhea asked.
“Where are they?” Andy asked.
“I left them in my car,” Ahmed said. He and Tima had purchased token gifts for the out-of-town performers. “Do I have to get them now? I’d rather be here when Fatima and Iftin get back.”
“I’ll go,” Zack volunteered. The others looked at him, and he raised his hand sheepishly. “Decent performer, I guess, but still an introvert. I could use the alone time.”
“You know which car it is?” Ahmed tossed him the keys.
“Yeah, the one with all the rust.”
“No rush, Zack,” Rhea said. “I’ll introduce the band in the meantime.”
Zack shrugged on his jacket. It was finally warm enough for the leather, gold dyed purple. As he made his way down the steps of the student centre, the band’s rendition of “Mack the Knife” carried through the open windows, and Zack found himself singing along:
“Oh the shark has pretty teeth, dear
And he shows them pearly white,
Just a jackknife has Macheath, dear
And he keeps it out of sight.”
Ahmed’s car was parked in the small lot behind the library. The entrance to the lot was shrouded by trees. Zack hadn’t been here since he pushed Rhea into a snowbank that had long since melted. It felt so long ago, yet still painfully present.
“When the shark bites with his teeth, dear
Scarlet billows start to spread.
Fancy gloves, though, wears old Macheath, dear
So there’s never a trace of red.”
The pavement of the parking lot was cracked and the ground uneven. In the darkness, Zack squinted to identify Ahmed’s vehicle. He started toward it, still humming:
“On the sidewalk, Sunday morning
Lies a body oozing life.
Someone’s sneaking ’round the corner
Could that someone be—”
Abruptly, Zack stopped singing. A figure had emerged from behind a parked car. Zack started toward Ahmed’s car again. The figure stepped beneath a lamppost, and Zack recognized him.
Kyle moved awkwardly. He looked disoriented. His arms were behind his back, out of sight.
“What are you doing here?” Zack asked.
“I told you.” Kyle’s voice was eerily monotone. “School dance first. Quest after.”
“Great,” Zack replied. This was the shortcut between the school and Wallace Hall. “I have to get something from Ahmed’s car. Then we can walk to Wallace together.”
“I’m looking for people,” Kyle said.
“At Quest?”
“School dance first,” Kyle repeated. “Quest after. But someone I want is already here.”
Kyle removed his hands from behind his back. As he held his right hand beneath the lamppost, something metallic glinted in the light. It took Zack several moments to register what it was.
Oh the shark has pretty teeth, dear
And he shows them pearly white.
Kyle’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “I told you,” he repeated.
Zack froze. Dread overtook him. I’m going to show them, Kyle had texted his brother. What had Kyle done? What was he still doing?
When the shark bites with his teeth, dear
Scarlet billows start to spread.
Kyle raised the gun, aimed it at Zack and squeezed the trigger.
*
Sophia
Sophia heard her voice echoing through the hall. It was desperate, melancholy, haunting. “You are not alone.”
Beside her backstage, a woman in her sixties smiled reassuringly. Marjorie was tall and slim, and her closely cropped grey hair gave her a distinguished look. She was responsible for MHAC’s speaker education, and she and Sophia had spent two hours together yesterday working on Sophia’s speech. Marjorie’s frustration grew as Sophia insisted on prioritizing her art over her experiences, but eventually they reached an uneasy balance between video and vulnerability, and Marjorie pronounced herself satisfied. Backstage at the summit, Sophia silently repeated to herself the stupid joke that would open her speech: I was bored last summer, so I made that. If Sophia could deliver that first line, the rest would follow.
“We are not alone.” Sophia checked that the microphone was on and adjusted the mouthpiece. The screen was black. Her voice-over echoed through the speakers: “Now help us believe it.” The lights came up to enthusiastic applause that was not nearly loud enough to drown out the buzzing in her mind. Sophia stepped onto the stage.
She looked over the crowd. It’s not so bad. It’s like a dance routine. The lights were blinding, the heat suffocating. The line was on the tip of her tongue: I was bored last summer, so I made that. The words wouldn’t come.
The crowd was growing restless. Say the first line, Sophia instructed herself. If Sophia Peretz was good at one thing, it was performing, putting on a show.
Sophia forced a winning smile as she had so many times before. She glanced backstage, where Marjorie gave her an encouraging look, but Sophia felt frozen. The seconds dragged. I was bored last summer, she needed to say, but a different line repeated in her head: You know what fucking mask.
It wasn’t clarity. It was barely conscious at all. Sophia simply knew, all at once, that she hadn’t come here to put on a show. Not the one she had planned.
You know what fucking mask.
Sophia walked to the edge of the stage and said, “I went to a graveyard today.”
If the audience reacted, Sophia was too dazed to notice. She took another deep breath. “I woke up this morning to my worst depression in almost two months. It was so bad, I didn’t think I would make it here tonight.” Still no reaction. Sophia swallowed hard, and then she knew how to reach them. They had seen the video. Sophia and her audience had that much in common. “It was so bad,” Sophia said, “that visiting a dead man was better than being alone.”
Sophia paused, uncertain what to say next. She had compared her speech to a dance routine, but MHAC wasn’t the place for choreography. Sophia needed the improvisation of lindy hop. She needed to be grounded, present, attentive to leads and cues around her. She needed to carry forward the momentum she was given and perhaps throw in a playful variation, something her partners wouldn’t expect.
“I spent a lot of time alone, growing up,” Sophia said. “I’m an only child. My mom worked a lot, and my dad ...” It was hard to tell this to strangers, but Sophia was a dancer. Carry the momentum. “My dad died when I was five. That’s who I was visiting today.”
Vulnerability resonated. Sophia felt the energy of the room shift. They were listening now.
“In my video, I tried to describe what depression feels like. I talked about wasps, weights, blankets. But no analogy can describe how it feels to sit beside the gravestone of a stranger who shares my DNA, trying to guess who he was ... and trying to guess who I am, too.
“I don’t know myself,” Sophia continued, “and ever since I made the video, I’ve been terrified. Terrified that people would think my depression encompasses all of who I am.” You know what fucking mask. “Terrified they were right.
“Maybe that’s why I was scared to show anybody the video. People wouldn’t only be judging my art, they’d be judging my identity. I couldn’t deal with that. So, I pretended. I acted. I put on a mask.
“In November, I was struggling with depression and a sprained ankle. You can guess where I focused. I insisted that once I could dance again, everything would be fine. I couldn’t talk about the real problem, so I lied. I lied to my boyfriend. I lied to my roommate. I lied to my therapist. To be honest, I lied to myself.
“There was only one person I couldn’t lie to.” Sophia felt tears coming and choked them back. “A friend, younger than me, who also struggles. In January, I lost a bet to her. I had to post the video online for three weeks. Soon my fears were coming true. I taught a dance class at a local high school, and the kids mocked the video, a video I shared to help folks like them. That’s what my people—” She hesitated. Don’t tell anyone you’re Jewish. Sophia steeled her nerves. “That’s what my people call chutzpah.”
