Various Positions (23 page)

*   *   *

My mom and I ordered pizza that night. She opened a bottle of wine she admitted was much too nice for a weeknight and told me not to tell my dad. I drank a little to make her happy even though the wine didn’t taste like much more than apple juice that’s been sitting in the fridge too long. She went out into the backyard without her jacket. I watched her light a cigarette but my mind wasn’t really on her. I thought of what Sixty had said, that something bad had happened. What kind of bad had she meant? The sky was a sheet of gray, pinned without a seam, and the smoke from my mom’s cigarette drifted in white ribbons underneath it. Pilar hadn’t been how I’d imagined her, not half as noble or nice, and what she’d said at the end unnerved me. Was it really so unusual to meet your dad’s first wife, the mother of your sister? I knew of families that were ten times as complicated, with strings of wives and stepmoms younger than the kids. But Pilar’s voice had quavered as though it perched over something terrible. I watched my mom, the smoke, and wondered.

“How’s that boy you like?” my mom asked once she’d stepped back inside.

“Okay.”

“Have you had a chance to get to know him a bit better?”

“Not really.”

“No?”

“He’s really busy.”

She tapped me under the kitchen island with a flexed toe. “Busier than you?”

“He’s kinda had some problems lately.” I wondered where Roderick was right now, whether he was eating dinner too. “He’s going through a rough time.”

“Oh.” My mom bit into her pizza. “Have you thought of doing something nice for him?”

“Like what?”

“Ooh. I don’t know.” She rubbed her chin. “What nice things can you do for a boy … Does he live in residence?”

“No.”

“He’s from Toronto?”

“No.”

She laughed a single laugh. “So where does he live?”

“Um.” I looked down at my socks. “In a residence. It’s just a different residence. It’s not a part of the academy.”

I thought I saw a look of doubt on her face, but in a second it was gone.

“Well, hmm. He’s probably a little homesick. Probably misses some of the comforts of home. Why don’t we bake him something.” She stood up, smoothed a hand down the front of her skirt. “Cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes?”

“Sure.”

“Aren’t cupcakes kinda babyish, Mom?”

“Oh no no no. Cupcakes are girlie definitely. But that’s not babyish, no. It’s very sexy.”

“Oh.”

“And we’ll do them just the right way, make them extra feminine. A vanilla base with a thin layer of pink icing. Edible reminders of your sweet little self.” She smiled.

We ended up only having chocolate cake mix and no red food coloring to turn the icing pink. My mom poured the sack of flour too quickly so that it overflowed the measuring cup and ended up all over the floor. Then, after waiting twenty minutes for the smell of baking chocolate, I realized the oven had been preheated to only fifty degrees. My mom leaned against the counter, propped a powdery hand on her hip, laughed.

“You know, in theory I would say yes, I absolutely made cupcakes before, made them dozens of times when you were a kid. But when I actually think about it … I can’t remember a single time.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Now, when you give them to him, hold the plate out like this.” She widened her eyes and held out an invisible plate at an exaggerated height. She had a peaceful expression, as if the cupcakes were an offering of tranquillity. “And say: ‘Would you like a cupcake?’”

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Does Pilar hate you?”

I could tell she was surprised. She let the imaginary plate drop, rubbed her hands together like they were cold.

“You can imagine how complicated it was when your dad’s marriage ended. That was very difficult for Pilar, and I … well, I can understand that she might blame me a little.”

“You were
there
when their marriage ended?”

She turned her chin an inch, eyes fixed on me. “Yes, Georgia. You knew that.”

Her tone was flat, bare. I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“It’s not something I’m particularly proud of,” she continued. “But it happened.”

I stared at her dark eyes, tried to make sense of what she was saying. “But I thought you didn’t meet Dad until after his divorce?”

“No, Georgia.” She looked like she was about to say more, but after a second she seemed to change her mind and just shook her head instead.

“How did you know him?” I asked.

“I audited a seminar of his at the university.”

“You mean he was your teacher?”

“Well—” She hesitated and I thought I saw new color in her cheeks. “In a way.”

We left the cupcakes out to cool on a plate my mom had gotten as a wedding gift. It had a fat border of gold grapes, the vines crossing like train tracks. I worried that it would be too nice to take to school with me, but my mom assured me it was hideous junk. I sat on the floor of my room and made shapes with my fingertips in the carpet fibers. I imagined a classroom, my dad standing in front of a blackboard. He was younger, thinner, and his hair had pigment I had seen only in pictures. His students were talking, girl students, raising their hands and asking questions. One of them was my mom. I reached for a pillow and squeezed it between my legs. Something
bad
had happened. Did this have something to do with it? The idea made me feel gross and it didn’t make any sense because my dad wasn’t like that. He wasn’t the kind of man who thought about girls that way.

I got into pajamas and wondered if I should call Chantal. I wanted to make sure she was okay, but the thought of actually talking to her, her breathy desperation on the other end of the line, freaked me out. She’d been so weird that day in the hall. I turned on my computer and sent her a quick e-mail instead.
How are you feeling? Hope you’re okay.
Then I crawled into bed and thought about Roderick. He’d be touched by the cupcakes and I’d be back at the forefront of his mind, his favorite student in the whole grade-nine class.
And
, I whispered to the ceiling,
the one he wants to put his hands all over and have sex with
. I stuffed my face into my pillow to muffle my laughter.

FOURTEEN

I walked down the hall toward Roderick’s office, the plate of cupcakes between two clammy hands. It was 8:45 in the morning and I’d already drunk a Diet Coke. I could hear my heartbeat, light and irregular, like the pitter-patter of mice inside a wall. I knocked on his door. There was a pause. Then the doorknob turned and he was standing in front of me. He didn’t look good. His face was pale and there were sluglike shadows under his eyes.

I held the plate up a little higher. “Would you like a cupcake?”

“Oh. Wow.” He looked down at the mounds of stiff white icing.

“Vanilla on chocolate. They should be good,” I added.

He smiled with some difficulty. “Thank you. A little early for so much sugar but—” He took one from the top. “I’ll save it for my lunch.”

I lifted the plate some more. “I made them for you. They’re all for you.”

“Oh?”

“To cheer you up. I know you’re under pressure.”

I passed him the plate. For a second I thought he might not accept it. But he did, with two uncertain hands, supporting the ceramic as though he didn’t quite trust it.

“Sorry, Georgia. This is … it’s really nice.”

“I thought something sweet to, you know, sweeten—”

“Yes, this is really … really thoughtful of you. I’m not quite thinking straight this morning, I’m afraid. I just have a million things—”

“Oh, I understand. Totally. Can I do anything to help you?”

“No, that’s—” He closed his eyes for a second. “It’s nice of you to offer.” He looked down at the cupcakes. “These are very sweet. And I’ve really appreciated your patience with
Manon
.”

“That’s nothing,” I said. “No problem.”

“Listen, I have another meeting about all this business at five this afternoon, lawyers and the whole circus. But with any luck I should be through by six. Let’s plan on mapping through the first half.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“I’ll tell Nathaniel and we’ll meet in Studio C at, say, six thirty?”

“Great.”

I looked at his wide hands holding the plate. I reached up and touched one. I couldn’t believe I’d done it, but there was my hand on top of his. I let it sit there for a second. It was just long enough to feel his skin, process the reality of it. Then I pulled my hand away. I looked up at his face and saw the vastness of what had happened. Was there embarrassment in his eyes?

“Feel better.” I spoke shyly, turned away.

The rush of it hit me as I walked down the hallway. I had touched him! I had touched him without provocation, reached out and done it on my own. The feeling blasted through my body.

*   *   *

Pilar was sitting in Studio A again when we came in for our ballet class, but this time there was another woman sitting in a chair beside her. This woman looked younger than Pilar yet older than my mom. She had frizzy hair that had been smoothed into a ponytail. She held a ringed notebook in the crook of her elbow and pressed the end of her pen into her cheek.

Roderick introduced this new woman as a professor from Manitoba and said her name so quickly that I didn’t catch it. He seemed quietly enraged as he talked us through the exercises. I tried to dance with an extra serenity, hoping my calm mood might improve his. I was careful to avoid his eye. Acknowledging what had transpired between us would be a mistake just yet; it was better to let it alone. Pilar and the other woman whispered to each other and wrote things down. I saw them point at Veronica and Sonya. When their whispering got particularly loud, Roderick stopped his demonstration and turned to them.

“Oh, sorry.” Pilar covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers.

*   *   *

I was meticulous getting ready for our rehearsal that evening. The pressure was physical, like a weight strapped to my back. I had given Roderick a gigantic green light, done something that could seriously alter our relationship. His behavior would change accordingly and I had to be prepared for it. Who knew what he might do? He would be making all kinds of assumptions, thinking he could touch me just as I had touched him, out of nowhere and for no reason. I pulled open my locker door and quivered at the possibilities. Maybe he was in his office now, plotting the things he might do to me. I would have to act like I wanted it. It was crucial that I show no resistance until the second before it went too far.

I looked through my locker for the right leotard. There was no fooling around now. If I wore a normal one, it would look suspicious, clashing with what I had done. I took out the sexiest one, a shiny Lycra, cut high on the thigh. I pulled it up over my body and went to the mirrors. I looked at myself from behind, at my bum, and thought of Mandi. I arched my back and tried to re-create those two enticing curves. I made my eyes Roderick’s eyes and felt a tremor of excitement. This was how he would feel when he looked at me.

In Studio C, I tied my pointe shoes on carefully, taking time to wrap the ribbons at identical levels on both ankles. I stood at the barre in fifth position. Nathaniel wasn’t there yet. Maybe Roderick would get there before him and the two of us would be alone. What would Roderick do? The
pas de deux
involved a deep back bend onto a
tendu à l’arrière.
It was a beautiful piece of choreography, buttery, loose, capturing Manon’s unquenchable thirst for experience. But the thing about back bends was they made it difficult to breathe. If Roderick wanted zero chance of resistance, it would be just the position to wait for. He would come very close to me, place a hand on my chest. At first this would be under the pretense of getting me to release tension in my upper rib cage, but then he’d get braver. He’d inch his fingers down the front of my bodysuit, maybe even slip the straps off my shoulders. I would be paralyzed, gasping for air. If the studio door was closed, he’d pull down the top of my bodysuit, bring his lips to my chest. There’d be no way of resisting him.

I worked on my back bend over and over again, tried to pinpoint the exact spot of helplessness. It was tough on my stomach muscles, but my stomach muscles were strong. After doing this at least fifteen times, I caught a glimpse of the clock above the doorway. Roderick was thirty minutes late and Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen. I sat on the floor. I decided to watch the clock for five minutes straight, hoping I could exhaust myself of stares the way a baby might exhaust itself of tears. When five minutes had gone by, I looked away. The motion reminded me of something—a solar eclipse when I was a kid, my mom drawing all the curtains in the living room, walking me to school in the early morning with our heads down. It had been torture then, every second a test of self-control. But now I had real discipline, and when I finally looked back up at the clock, it was a half hour later.

I dragged my body off the floor. It had become dark outside, was getting dark inside too, the light in the studio straining against the blackness of the universe. The windows were dank, oily, the room a fluorescent bubble. I went to the change room, threw on my clothes, and left. I walked up Church Street to the subway, a clear feeling inside me, one I didn’t have to struggle to name. Anger. It was indisputable now: something had changed between Roderick and me. It wasn’t right or fair. How could he have failed to show up for our rehearsal? How could he stop all his perviness after pursuing me for so long?

I heard my mom humming when I got home, a nearby hum like she was right in the hallway. She wasn’t in the hallway, though, or even up the staircase. I dropped my stuff on the landing and turned around. She lay on the floor in the living room, her body bent like a broken hanger, an unlit cigarette in her hand. Her hair was spread over the carpet like the tassels on a jester’s hat.

“What’s wrong?” I moaned.

Her body stiffened. I had startled her. She sat up slowly and I was relieved when she shook her head and rolled her eyes at herself, like she was perfectly aware of how strange she looked. I stepped through the alcove, pointed at the cigarette.