Chapter 10

When I heard the knock on my door that morning, I didn‘t think anything of it. I’d just finished pulling on my tights and leotard, and was looking for something to cover up with when three sharp raps echoed through my apartment.

I glanced over at the clock. 7:15am.

Without giving it a second thought, I called out, “Come in!”

Continuing to rush around my room, I grabbed my things for class, while simultaneously twisting my hair up into a bun and pushing pins forcefully into my scalp. It didn’t even hurt anymore. Not after so many years of wearing my hair this way. By this point, I was pretty sure my head was desensitized to the torture. Either that, or I was a glutton for punishment.

Several minutes went by before I realized the door hadn’t opened or closed. And nobody had announced their presence. Had they not heard me? Were they waiting in the living room? The only sounds in the apartment seemed to be coming from me, which was at first comforting and then unnerving.

“Zhara, you there?” I yelled, snatching up my bag and leaving my room. As I made my way down the shadowed hallway, it dawned on me that Zhara didn’t usually stop by this early. I loved the guy, but promptness wasn’t exactly his strong suit, and he was always running late. Which meant it was unlikely that he was the one visiting me forty-five minutes before we were expected at the studio.

I slowed my step and tried to be quieter as I moved down the hall. As I approached the entrance of the living room, I peeked in, searching for anyone who might be waiting inside.

But it was empty.

“Weird,” I muttered, and marched over to the front door.

When I yanked it open, I was again met with nothing. Even the courtyard was quiet at this time of the day. The early birds had already left to get in some extra studio time and the night owls wouldn’t be dragging themselves out the door for another fifteen minutes or so. All was quiet.

A soft breeze made its way through the air and I closed my eyes, allowing myself to take in the scent of flowers that it brought along with it. I tried to enjoy the moment, since I knew it might be the only relaxing one I got for the day.

Then, with a sigh, I opened my eyes again and began to close the door, but stopped short when I heard a noise. Surprised by the sudden sound, my head flitted around nervously as I took a step back into the safety of my apartment.

“Ahhh!” a guy yelled, jumping out from where he’d been hiding just out of my view.

I screamed, and tried frantically to shut the door on my attacker before he could get to me. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been prepared for the ambush and he managed to get an arm inside before I could close it completely.

“Whoa, whoa, hold up! It’s me, Emmy. Don’t take my arm off!”

That’s when I noticed that the hand on my side of the door was holding a stack of papers, and not a weapon. And unless he was trying to threaten me with papercuts, I most likely wasn’t in danger.

After a few more pleads, I was finally able to place the voice—and the realization only made me angry. I contemplated the consequences of giving the door another good shove, but decided that doing so had the potential of hurting me more than him. And what would be the point of that? So instead, I stepped back and let the door swing open, watching as Zhara fell into my entryway.

“What. The. Hell!” I said, crossing my arms over my chest as I stared him down. My body was still tingling with fear and I was thoroughly pissed.

Zhara gave me the kind of guilty look a little kid gave his parents when he knew he’d done something wrong but thought he was too cute to be punished. Luckily, I was immune to his cuteness, and only glared back at him.

“It was just a joke!” Zhara said, laughing. When I didn’t answer, he added, “Come on, Emmy, don’t be mad. I brought you your mail…”

He extended his hand, holding my letters up to me like they were the equivalent of a white flag.

“That wasn’t funny, Zhara,” I said, my anger turning to annoyance. “You can play pranks on anyone else around here—hell, I’ll even help you—but I’m off-limits. Kapeesh?”

I stepped forward and snatched my mail from his hands before retreating into the living room.

“What are you doing here so early, anyway?” I muttered, folding my legs underneath me as I sat down on the couch. I tossed the mail on the coffee table in front of me. “Don’t tell me that hell has finally frozen over and you’ve decided to be on time for once?”

“You’re funny in the morning,” Zhara said sarcastically, as he joined me in the living room. “Nah, that’s the other reason I came over. I wanted to let you know that I’m not gonna be in class today, ’cause I have an appointment with the doc.”

“Everything okay?” I asked, worry quickly taking the place of anger.

Zhara waved off the concern. “Just my annual,” he said. “Anyways, I know you’ll miss me, but try not to cry.”

“Somehow I’ll survive,” I said flatly. “Not to nag, but couldn’t you have maybe scheduled your visit after auditions were over? I mean, these next few weeks are really important. How am I supposed to practice our scene without you there?”

“I’m starting to feel like you only want me for my partnering skills,” he said, acting hurt.

“Mostly,” I agreed, nodding seriously. Then I gave him a smile to show him I was kidding. “Okay, I’ll dance alone today, but you owe me an extra practice sesh. No complaining.”

Zhara stood up. “Ugh, fiiiine,” he said, making it seem like this was the worst thing in the world. He turned his back to me and walked to the door to leave. “But you’re bringing snacks.”

I snorted. He was always eating my food anyway, so this wouldn’t be much different. The unspoken deal was, Zhara supplied the fun and I supplied the nourishment.

I sat on the couch quietly for a few seconds after he left, until my eyes settled on the pile of letters Zhara had left behind. Reaching forward to scoop them up, I looked through them one by one, and separated them into three piles: bills, trash and open now. The bulk of the mail I got were bills—the price you pay for legally being an adult. And then there were those pesky coupons, advertisement postcards and credit card promos that nobody ever really looked at before throwing out. But every once in awhile I got actual mail. A card, gift certificates, even a letter. Those, I always looked forward to opening.

So, when I saw the hand-written envelope addressed to me, I got excited. Smiling, I turned it over quickly and shoved my finger into the tiny opening at the corner of the rectangle and drew it across its length, exposing the paper inside. As I pulled it out, the faint smell of cigarettes emanated from the pages. I’d heard of girls spritzing love letters with perfume, but I’d never gotten something that smelled like smoke before.

There was only a single page inside. The letters were big and scraggly, all points and edges, and were completely unfamiliar to me. Whoever had written the note had pressed the dark pencil so hard to the paper that I could feel the outline of the words from the other side of the page.

My Dearest Emmy,

By now you probably know where I am, and for that, I’m truly sorry. Please know that I never wanted you to be brought into any of this. I asked the cops to leave you alone, but I have a feeling they’re going to visit you whether I like it or not. Pigs.

I’m sure it was a shock to find out I was in here. Sadly, I’m not all that surprised. Cops are always getting things wrong. They’ll arrest anyone—evidence be damned—if it means they can close up a case. But they don’t know me.

Not like you know me.

Please don’t worry about me. My lawyer says we’ll get all of this straightened out soon, but it could still be several weeks before I’ll be released. That seems like an impossibly long time to be away from you. I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you consider coming to visit me? It would really help to know you’re out there, supporting me and waiting for me to be vindicated. I’ve already put you on my list of visitors, so all you have to do is figure out which day you can come.

The cops think they can keep us apart, but they can’t. They don’t realize that we’re meant to be together and I’ll do anything to keep it that way.

Until we meet again,

Kyle

I sat there, stock-still, barely comprehending what I was reading. Picking up the envelope again, I looked at the return address. I hadn’t noticed it before, but after Kyle Grafton’s name, there was a series of letters and numbers. And to the right of that was a stamp that read:

MAILED FROM A STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

Suddenly I felt ice-cold, like someone had turned the air conditioning on in my apartment. But I knew they hadn’t, since I always kept it warmer than usual. Shivering, I dropped the letter on the couch like it was contagious and hurried into the kitchen to wash my hands. The cigarette smell had transferred to my fingertips and I didn’t want a reminder of what I’d just read following me through my day.

As I ran my hands under the warm water in the kitchen sink, my thoughts went to what Kyle had written. I’d known from the agents that Kyle had made stuff up about me before. But sending me a letter that made it seem like we cared about each other? Like we had a relationship? Was he delusional or had he just severely confused every interaction we’d had? It was all so bizarre. And I wanted nothing to do with it.

I won’t write him back, and he’ll get the hint and leave me alone.

In a few weeks, my life would go back to normal. And years later, the story of one disturbed man’s interest in me would become something of an urban legend, a story you faintly recalled, but wondered if you’d mostly made up.

For today though, I’d push it out of my mind.

Forget about it.

Forget it.

Forget.

And by the time I’d washed my hands clean, the memory of the letter had been washed away, too.

*          *          *          *

The moment my feet hit the wood floor fifteen minutes later, I felt right again. This—being at the studio, moving my limbs to the classical music, leaping and turning round and round and round—this was normal for me. It made sense. I was no longer fighting the uncertainty of the world outside these walls.

As I danced, it was as if my body was sighing in relief. There was no room for anything else in here. At RBC, there was purpose and order and control. And for this reason alone, it was my haven.

Only, today I didn’t feel quite whole.

Long ago, I’d developed a mantra that I didn’t need anyone else in my life to survive. Depending on others meant opening yourself up to disappointment. This way of thinking wasn’t pessimistic on my part; it was pragmatic. Because people were fallible. It wasn’t their fault, it was simply the price of being human. No matter how amazing and nice and “perfect” a person was, eventually they would make a mistake. At least if I was only counting on myself, I’d always have my goals and desires at the forefront of all my decisions.

Despite this way of thinking, I had let a select few inside my protective barrier over the years. My parents—though I was technically on my own now—had never given me any reason to doubt their support. And although I wouldn’t describe Miss Diane and I as being close, there was a kind of truth in her that I found reassuring. She was like an older version of me: Strong, serious, honest, and she pushed me harder than anyone else I’d ever known. She was completely transparent in what was important to her: perfection. And on this point, we were in agreement. So I followed her direction when it came to my career.

But the person I’d grown to rely on most, was Zhara.

Not that this was unusual. It was typical for a ballerina to become close to her partner since it took a lot of trust to do what we did. But our friendship was more than that. He was the only person I’d ever met that I could truly be myself around. No judgments and no strings attached. I could show him all my craziness and he’d counter with his own. We carried on like we were related, and loved each other just as much. In a lot of ways, he was the yin to my yang. And though I wouldn’t exactly say I needed Zhara in my life to survive, I knew I was a happier person because he was around.

That’s why it was weird being in class without him. I felt vulnerable and less confident. Off. Unfortunately, if I wanted to be the best, I wasn’t allowed to have an off-day.

So, I took my place on the floor, poised and assured, as if it were any other day at the studio and nothing was amiss. But the others noticed. It was hard not to, when I was standing there alone. They shot me sideways looks and I did my best to ignore them.

Once class finally started, I found I was able to breathe again, glad to lose myself in the steps Miss Diane called out every few minutes. The first half of class was always dedicated to the practice and repetition of basic movements, things that would help us fully warm up and encourage perfection of even the littlest things. The second half focused on putting the steps together, running through sequences. We’d take turns, in groups of two to four, dancing across the floor from one corner to the other, while Miss Diane evaluated our every move.

We’d been working on leaps and turns for a half hour when Miss Diane changed the music to a slightly slower piece and then stood at the front to face us.

“Take a moment to partner up and make your way to the back,” Miss Diane commanded. Her eyes were alert and her upper body erect, the traditional posture for any classically trained dancer. Then, she fixed her gaze on me. “Emmalynne, since Zhara is away for the day, why don’t you choose someone to partner with?”

I resisted the urge to frown at the request, and instead, searched the group around me like it wasn’t the worst thing I’d have to do that day. Not surprisingly, every guy’s head seemed to immediately fix on the ground, making it clear with that one small gesture that they wouldn’t be dancing with me.

It wasn’t because I was a bad person to partner with. In fact, under normal circumstances, I could’ve taught most of them a thing or two. No, their hesitance came from the fear of betraying their female counterparts. To dance with another girl’s partner was akin to cheating in our world. And even though the request had come from Miss Diane herself, none of the guys would willingly volunteer if it meant they’d catch heat for it later. It wasn’t worth the drama.

And for this reason, I’d be forced to choose someone myself. This simple act would result in one guy being annoyed at me for making his life more difficult, and a girl giving me nasty looks for weeks because she thought I was trying to steal her partner.

Zhara, you are so gonna pay for this!

Before I could choose my victim, someone’s voice called out over the music.

“I’ll do it.”

My head swept around to see who’d been brave enough to take me on, and then I groaned inwardly. Outwardly, I kept my mouth clamped shut as my cheeks heated up.

“Preston,” Miss Diane said, sounding as surprised as I was to hear him make the offer. She raised an eyebrow for a sliver of a second and then her face went blank again. “Very well. You’ll dance with both Scarlett and Emmalynne for the day. Line up in the back, now.”

Grudgingly, I walked back to where Preston was waiting, looking pleased with himself. Scarlett stood next to him, a scowl on her face and her hands on her hips. She was not happy. I considered telling her that neither was I. That in fact, I would’ve rather partnered with anyone other than Preston. But I could tell it wouldn’t help at this point. Preston would have two ticked-off ballerinas on his hands now.

“Hey,” Preston said as I joined the two of them.

I just smiled in response. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, something would come out that I’d regret later. Either that, or I would succeed in making Scarlett even angrier than she already was. And knowing her, it would just add fuel to the fire. So I stood there silently as we waited for our turn to dance, telling myself that if we didn’t talk, maybe it would make things go by faster.

As we got to the front of the line, Scarlett stepped out in front of us and posed as she waited for Preston to join her. But instead of moving to his spot behind her, he took my hand and led me out in front of her. My eyes went wide as I realized what was happening and I glanced back at Scarlett in confusion. Her face was empty, but her eyes shot daggers my way. I didn’t blame her. I may not have liked Scarlett, but as her partner, Preston should have danced with her first. It was like, rule number one of the ballerina code: Thou shalt honor thy partner.

And this was not honoring Scarlett.

I started to pull back to let her take the lead, but Preston just gripped my hand tighter and guided me into place. A glance at Miss Diane showed that she was waiting for us to begin, so instead of risking pissing her off, I stopped fighting Preston and prepared to dance. I poised my hands gracefully by my side and then in unison, Preston and I performed the sequence Miss Diane was calling out.

“Sauté arabesque, chasse, step, saut de chat,” she said to the beat of the music.

With Preston at my back, I bounded into the air, one leg fully extended behind me, before moving fluidly into a leap, my front leg bent at the knee until I pulled it straight at the last minute. When Preston’s hands made contact with my waist to lift me into the air, I suppressed a shiver. Even though I’d known it was coming, it was still a shock. Like biting into fresh lemons.

I moved through the air weightlessly, and for a moment, time felt like it slowed down. Preston was surprisingly strong, despite the fact that he was smaller than most of the guys at RBC. His grip was comfortable. Like his fingers belonged there, on my stomach and my side, just inches away from my chest.

My head swam with confusion as Preston deposited me carefully back onto the floor, and it was all I could do to repeat the sequence two more times without tripping.

“Not bad, you two!” Miss Diane called out. “Emmalynne, your saut de chat seems a little stiff. Try to loosen up a bit next time.”

I nodded as she motioned for the next pair of dancers to go.

“You can relax around me, you know,” Preston said quietly as we made our way back to join the others.

No, I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to keep my head clear. Not if I wanted to be prima. He’d only touched me on the waist and it had caused me to be corrected by our mistress. Further proof that I needed to stay far away from Preston.

But he wasn’t making it easy.

“What are you doing?” I hissed at him.

He blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” he said.

“Volunteering to dance with me? Pissing off Scarlett by dancing with me first,” I said, shaking my head. “That isn’t the way things work here.”

It was true, Preston had only been with the company for a few months, having transferred from another studio in San Francisco. But company etiquette couldn’t be all that different studio to studio. Most of this stuff was common sense. He ought to know that by now.

“I was just trying to help you out,” he said, raising an eyebrow but not seeming mad. Not like I was, anyway.

“Who said I needed you to come to my rescue?” I asked, sharply.

Now he looked confused. “I wasn’t trying to rescue you…”

“Good, because I didn’t ask you to,” I said.

He placed his hand on my arm to slow me down as we neared the others. Before I could pull away, a tingling sensation started in my arm and erupted into goosebumps. I hated that he had this effect on me.

“You needed someone to dance with, Em, and I figured: Hey, I have legs, why not me?” Preston explained. Then he softened his voice and drew a little closer. “Besides, I figured it would give us a chance to do something together since you keep rejecting my other offers.”

So that was what this was about. His fragile ego had been bruised, and if I wouldn’t give him the time of day, he’d take it. Well, guess what? Nobody controlled me like that. Nobody. I decided what to let in my life or not.

“You’d think that would tell you something,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest combatively. “What do you want from me anyway, Preston? I mean, really? There are plenty of other girls who would love to spend time with you. Why don’t you go distract them?”

I didn’t want to be mean to Preston, because in reality, he wasn’t a bad guy. But I’d tried being nice and he just didn’t seem to get it. Zhara had always told me that guys were clueless. That you practically had to beat them over the head with something before they’d understand what you were trying to say. And now I could see he was right. I had to be as blunt as I could and hope he’d catch on.

He ran around me, blocking my path as I stalked to the back of the line. Then, with a playful smile, he cocked his head to the side and stared at me. “Are you saying that I distract you?” he asked happily, completely missing the point.

I wanted to scream in frustration, but I felt myself growing embarrassed instead.

This had to stop.

“Look, Preston, I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but I don’t have time to date. The truth is: I’m currently in a relationship. With ballet. I have no room or patience for anyone or anything that might derail that,” I said, hoping this would be clear enough for him. “I hope you’ll respect that. And if you don’t…well, it’s your time that you’ll be wasting.”

Preston’s smile never wavered, even as he began to walk toward where Scarlett was waiting for him to escort her across the floor. The other dancers were acting like they hadn’t been listening, but I knew they had. This just added to my existing embarrassment.

“See, that’s the thing,” he said, not finished yet. “Nothing about you would be a waste of my time.”

My mouth dropped open and the dancers around us began to whisper. I couldn’t believe he was being this forward. Didn’t he worry at all about what the other dancers would think? What Miss Diane thought? Didn’t he care about his career at all?

“And FYI, I have no desire to get in the way of your goals,” he said. Everyone watched as he gave a little hop and then winked at me. “But I have a few goals of my own. And I usually get what I want.”

*          *          *          *

As soon as class was over, I fled the studio as fast as I could to avoid Preston and the others who’d been witness to what had happened in class. I felt humiliated and shaky from his declaration and all I wanted to do was hide until I could convince myself it hadn’t been as bad as I thought.

“Freaking Zhara…” I muttered as I pulled my cell out of my bag, intending to make him feel bad for leaving me alone in the lion’s den. I stomped down the pathway to the dancer’s complex as I waited impatiently for my phone to power up. We were all aware of the no cell rule during practice. Sometimes I even left mine at home while I danced, but for some reason I’d brought it with me today.

When the screen finally lit up, I pressed my fingers to the glass and furiously started typing. I was mid text-rant to Zhara when I heard the tiny “ding, ding” that signaled I had a voicemail. Finishing up my message and hitting send, I finally lifted my phone and pressed it to my ear.

“This call is coming from the San Quentin Correctional Facility,” an automated female voice said blandly. “Inmate number C30231, Kyle Grafton, would like to leave the following message—”

And then his voice was there, whispering into my ear. Infiltrating my mind. Like he was standing outside the station where we’d chatted carelessly whenever he’d stop by for gas. His voice was just as I’d remembered; easy, conversational, with a bit of laughter at the tips of each word. It was not the voice of someone who was stuck in prison for murder. It was also not a voice I’d ever intended to hear again.

“Emmy,” he said lightly, like this was a typical message he might leave me. Only I’d never given him my number and he’d never called me before now. “Just wanted to call and say hi. See how you’re doing and whether you got my letter. They read everything in here, and you can’t really trust the people in charge, so I wasn’t sure if they actually sent it. If not, we can just catch up when you visit. You will come, right? I’d love to see you, maybe hear about how your dancing’s going? Anyway, I only get phone calls once a week, so I’ll try you again soon. And I’ll write in the meantime. They can’t keep us apart, baby. They can try, but they won’t.”

As he hung up, I shuddered. Looking down at my phone in disbelief, my eyes followed the lines that made up the words “New Voicemail.” I didn’t want this message. I hit the delete button and watched it disappear into the void of my phone. But I knew the message wasn’t gone. Not completely. And neither was Kyle.

I’d thought I could ignore him and everything he’d done. That I could avoid all the pain and fear and stress that letting him remain in my life would mean. I’d been wrong. Because he could still get to me. Even behind bars.

How was I supposed to forget if he kept inserting himself into my life? No. This had to end. Only, I had a feeling the only way that would happen would be if I let him in. I had to know more about what he’d done, what he’d said about me in his letters, why he was the way he was. I had to talk to him. Then maybe, just maybe, if he saw that I wasn’t the right girl for him, and we had no future, he’d leave me alone.

So I’d have to let him in.

Just enough to get rid of him forever.