“You didn’t,” he assures me, even though he’s yawning. “I’ve been editing. Lost track of time.”
He yawns again, as if to accentuate the point, then rubs his palms over his face before raking his fingers through his hair. For just a moment, the thick strands are pulled back, revealing what had been partially hidden before. But of course it’s never truly hidden, not even when his hair hangs down. Because how could something as simple as a fall of hair hide the massive scarring that mars the right side of his face and his decimated outer ear?
It’s been twelve years, and the guilt still plagues me. And even though I’m used to the scars now, I don’t think there’s ever been a time when he’s taken off his shirt or pulled his hair back when I don’t silently beg the universe to make it all have been a very bad dream.
“I thought you were coming tomorrow after your Zumba class.”
I shake myself, literally shaking off this damn melancholy mood as he studies my face.
“Yo. Sis. You going to tell me why you’re here? Or do I have to start guessing?”
I hold up the evidence. “Cupcakes and wine. Why else?”
“You didn’t get the job?”
I frown. I’d forgotten that I’d told him I was at an audition.
Our conversation before I danced at X-tasy seems a million years ago.
“Oh, hell,” he says. He comes to me, and though I expect a hug, instead he reaches for the cupcake box. “Grab your wine,” he orders. “I think we’re going to need more than just cupcakes.”
I laugh and do as he orders. Then we sit at the wobbly Formica table we found one Saturday at the Rose Bowl Flea Market. I get paper towels to use instead of plates, but I pull out a real wine glass for me and a highball glass for him. Nothing fancy—we both live in homes furnished and stocked by Ikea—but I draw the line at drinking wine from a paper cup.
“I’m really sorry,” he says, once we’re settled and he’s scooped up a chunk of frosting with his finger. “I know you were the best dancer in that room.”
“I was,” I agree. I’m modest about a lot of things, but not about dancing.
“Then why didn’t you get the job?”
I shrug. “Technically, I did. And then I lost it again.”
He leans back in his chair, a clump of chocolate frosting in the corner of his mouth. “You wanna explain how that works?”
“Sometimes, it’s not really about the dancing.”
“So, what? The producers have some sort of agenda?”
“You could say that.”
He licks off the chocolate, then leans forward. “Okay, spill. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Probably a lot,” I admit. “I haven’t told you about the rash I got last week—it’s all cleared up now, by the way. And I never told you that Mr. Kingman had an affair with that woman who’s always volunteering in the library.”
“The assistant principal at your school?”
“Yup.” It’s summer now, so this gossip really is old. I have over two months before I have to think about being a kindergarten teacher again.
“That’s all nice and juicy, but not really what I meant.”
“I know.” I smile brightly. “Do you want to record that part you called me about, or is it too late?”
“You’re not going to tell me any more about the job, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t you teach a dance class at eight? Can you leap around a room on less than five hours of sleep?”
“One, I don’t need to leap around the room. It was a class of three-year-olds. And two, they cancelled the class. So my Friday mornings are now free and clear.”
“They canceled it? Just like that?”
I grimace. “Welcome to my exciting, yet unstable world. Yeah, just like that. But it’s okay. I’ve applied at a few other dance studios. There are plenty of kids out there. And even more moms who want them to dance.”
“You need to audition for a show.”
I sigh and push back from the table. We’ve had this talk a billion times, and I’m tired of it. “The scene. Come on. Let’s go.”
“Fine.” He pushes back his chair, too, and stands. “But you know I’m right. You should be spending your summers dancing professionally, not teaching kids. For that matter, you should be dancing professionally all the time.”
“I know, Griff. And when the nice talent scout plucks me out of obscurity, I’ll do that. In the meantime, I figure steady work is a good thing. So let’s go do this, okay? Because I still have lunch with Nia and then my second and third grade tap class after lunch, and then the Zumba class after that. I thought it might be fun to sleep a little, too.”
“You’ll sleep here,” he says. “I’ll take the couch.”
“I’ll sleep here,” I agree. “But I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”
“Okay.”
“Really?” He never gives in that easily.
“We’ll argue about it after we fix the scene. Come on.”
The spare bedroom is packed to the gills with a variety of computers and sound equipment. There is, however, no bed. I sit at the makeshift table, an old door placed over two triangular frames. It works, though, providing enough room for us to sit close enough to play off each other, and yet far enough apart that our microphones can be adjusted so as to not get interference from the other person’s dialogue.
Griff does all the adjustments and a sound check, and I fight the familiar swarm of butterflies that have suddenly taken up residence in my belly.
It’s weird that I get so nervous. I’m never shy about dancing—not unless my dad is watching. But he and Tessa, my stepmother, have lived in the Atlanta area for almost ten years now, so I don’t have to worry about that too much anymore.
But recording these podcasts? It gets me every time.
“You look green,” Griffin says, passing me a bottle of water. “But not as green as last time. Another decade or so, and you’ll be as comfortable in the studio as you are on stage.”
“Jerk,” I say affectionately. “There’s something about acting with my voice that ties me up in knots. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”
As soon as I’ve said those words, I cringe inside. He does it because he feels like he has to. It’s hard to be out in the world with his scars, especially the ones on his face. Of course, he swears he loves the work, but sometimes I wonder if he wouldn’t love something else better. If he got herded into this career because of my bad choices.
“When are you going to launch?” I ask, rushing to change the subject.
“I’m hoping for sometime in the next two months.”
“That long? You already have at least a dozen episodes recorded.”
“I want to do this right. That means I need to have the whole first season recorded, edited and ready to air. If it’s a flop, I don’t want to leave my four fans floundering just because I’ve lost enthusiasm for a show that only four people listen to.”
I roll my eyes. “It won’t be a flop. It’s going to a runaway success.”