Before You Go

NINETEEN

The next day I’m the first person to arrive at English Lit, so I decide to get started on the next book: That Was Then, This Is Now. It was one of the few books Noah and I both read, so it was an easy choice.

Professor Sands’ class is the only time I’m fully present during the school day—my body is always on high alert, my insides flipping until the moment I see Noah walk in. I usually make it to class first so he has to walk past me to get to his desk every afternoon. Once he does, I warm instantly. Where Jenna is a disruption, Noah is a distraction.

He makes me forget about everything. When I’m around him, I feel normal. Better than normal.

Every day, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention with his every sound, shift of his feet, and movement in his desk. Once in a while, he lightly taps a rhythm on his desk with his pencil. I don’t think he realizes he does it. Other times, he softly hums a tune and I completely melt. On those days, it’s like we’re the only two people in class, until Jenna interrupts with a giggle, or whisper, or theatrical sigh. Then I can feel Noah watching her. He says they’re only friends, but I still have my doubts. Thankfully, I don’t have to face any of this today. I couldn’t ask for a better gift than her absence from school.

I watch the door and wait for Noah, wondering what he’s wearing today, hoping he’ll flash his dimple before he sits down. I even find myself looking forward to our project, just to spend more time with him. Still, I know I have to be careful.

My mind is on overdrive, until Sands starts the class. Then it comes to a crashing halt. I turn around in case I somehow missed him. His desk is empty. There’s no Noah in class today.

My brain betrays me as I begin to imagine that Noah and Jenna ditched class. They’re together at his apartment. I can see it in my head. Though I have never been in Noah’s home, I can picture it. His futon is pulled out and they’re lying down looking into each other’s eyes, his arm is wrapped around her tiny waist. Her cute boots are neatly tucked by the side of the bed. Noah probably slipped them off to give her a foot rub. He’d have floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and interesting mementos. Inspirational posters, like the one of the guy climbing Mount Everest with the caption: Nothing is Out of Reach, decorate his walls. A green drum set sits in the corner. A picture of Jenna adorns his desk.

“Tabby.” A quiet voice snaps me back to reality. “Tabby, are you in there?” the voice asks. It’s Professor Sands.

“I’m sorry.” I try to recover and shake off the disturbing scene I created for Noah and Jenna.

“No problem.” He smiles. “I just wanted to let you know that Noah is out today for Sukkot.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about and apparently it shows.

“It’s a Jewish holiday,” he says.

It takes me a minute. I didn’t know Noah was Jewish. How strange. I wonder if that’s his excuse for skipping with Jenna. I mean, the first night I met him he was wearing a cross for crying out loud.

“I’ll let you guys be the last group for the presentation,” Professor Sands says. “That way you’ll have some extra time to prepare. Have you selected your novel yet?”

I nod and hold up the thin S.E. Hinton paperback.

“Ah yes.” Professor Sands reaches over and picks up the book.

“You know it?” I ask. “I was afraid you wouldn’t think it was appropriate.”

“Are you kidding? S.E. Hinton is great. With books, it’s not a matter of being appropriate,” he continues. “It’s a matter of what speaks to you and if you can learn something, be entertained, lose yourself for a while, find comfort, get mad—”

He cuts himself off and laughs, knowing he was getting carried away. “Well, you get the idea, Tabitha.”

I think he’s right and spend the rest of class reading about Bryon and Mark’s wild ways, thoroughly enjoying myself.

On the way home, I try not to think about Noah even though I feel the weight of his fleece in my bag. I brought it to class to return it to him after he let me wear it the other day, although I want nothing more than to keep it.

When I reach his street, I can’t help but stare down the winding road hoping to catch a glimpse of him going to temple or whatever it is you do to celebrate Sukkot. I don’t see a thing.

My apartment is too quiet when I get home, but this time I’m not happy to be alone or in a rush to bury myself in my nest. I am…restless. I’m caught up with all my studies, as well as the paper, so I put my messenger bag in the closet, next to the bag of ballet slippers Michael brought me. I take them out and grab my favorite pair.

With nothing better to do, I put them on.

They feel good. Perfect, actually. Like they’re meant to be there.

I lift my full-length mirror off my closet door and lean it against the wall and then pull up Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons on my iPod.

In front of the mirror, I find first position. It looks natural and feels even better.

I’m home and finally decide it’s time to try.

In first position, my toes pointed out and arms taut yet graceful, I bend into demi-plié. Down four counts and up four counts, I do the same progression through all five positions.

Back in first, I demi, further the bend into grand plié, and then roll up on my toes into relevé. After four counts of eight, I point the toes on my right foot and extend my leg, sliding into the wide stance of second position to do the sequence again.

I move through the positions for several counts before it’s time for the fancy footwork, as Michael used to call it. I start with battement tendus—drawing a line with my toes as I extend my right foot forward, and then erase the line as I bring it back in.

Soon, everything clicks and I’m tethered in a web of music and movement.

I feel tall and lithe.

I love the beauty of it. The slow, graceful pace. It takes so much concentration, I think of nothing else. I’m in a trance. All dance can feel that way at times, but with ballet it’s even stronger. Maybe because each movement is slow and deliberate—each movement is really its own work of art.

I extend my right leg to the front four times, to the side, to the back, and side again, before switching to the left leg. After a good thirty minutes of fancy footwork, adding in frappes and ronde jambes, my legs burn.

I’m in heaven.