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  © 2016 Rena Rocford

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  ISBN 978-1-62007-161-8 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-165-6 (paperback)

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  he first day of school was like waxing your legs: pointless, painful, and everyone was relieved when it was over. I pushed into the hallway traffic and crushed a racquet ball between my thumb and my index finger. Winning was a matter of design, not luck.

  “Louis Vuitton is my favorite,” Sara Davies told her toadies. She saw me and stopped, eyes narrowing.

  In freshman year she called me a fat Captain Hook, complete with hook. I called her a vapid matchstick with an atrophied vocabulary. Three years later, and nothing had changed. I still had a hook, and she still had the vocabulary of an insipid earthworm.

  “Sara,” I said, hiding the ball behind my back. She made fun of my training techniques.

  Sara looked down her perfect nose at me. “Cyra,” she said, raising an eyebrow as if she’d just found a slug in her point shoes. Her toadies twittered. Half of them would be gone by Winter Ball. The freshman year was tough on ballerinas.

  I fenced in the salle above the ballet studio. Ballerinas had to have everything: form, discipline, and that all elusive perfect body—perfect for ballet that is. They wanted the women to have the bodies of twelve year-old boys.

  “My, that’s a low cut shirt.” I arched an eyebrow at her, inviting her to attack.

  Her eyes snapped to mine. “I can wear what I like, when I like, but some people should think of spandex as a privilege, not a right.” Her eyes flicked up and down my body with disgust. “Especially when said individuals can’t even remember that you don’t wear white after Labor Day.”

  Without consulting my brain, my legs crossed the space between us, and I towered over the ballerina. “You have a problem with my uniform?”

  Fencers wore white. That’s all there was to it. White jacket, white shoes, and white knickers.

  “Your socks are fine.” She blinked up at me without any hint of intimidation.

  Socks and a patch on the off shoulder were the only parts of the uniform where fencers could show some color and affiliation. The Petaluma Dairy Association—the PDA—sponsored the salle. They provided socks, black and white mottled socks designed to look like a heifer. The patch proudly proclaimed PDA with a braying cow peeking through the D.

  Fencing for salle PDA cost half as much as all the other salles in a forty mile radius. Even then, I swept the floors, prepped the dummies, and cleaned the mirrors—form was as important to fencers as to ballerinas.

  Vice Principal Laird strode up to us with the swagger of a sheriff. “Ladies, please tell me you’re rekindling old friendships, and not ready to start World War III in the hallways.” She ran the campus cops like her own personal deputies, and the only person more scared of Vice Principal Laird than the students was Principal Dr. Phil.

  She glowered at us, waiting for an excuse to break blood on the first day of school with a detention. She probably had a stack of detention slips sitting on the corner of her desk just waiting.

  “I was just telling Sara about how her studio is so close to the salle, that I feel like I can hear every word they say, even when her coach tells her how lovely she looks in her leotards of late.”

  Mrs. Laird searched my words in her mind, but unless she knew that Sara had gained two cup sizes over the summer, there was no way she could know what I meant.

  Sara glared at me, but her henchmen stood behind her with eyes wide. They knew what I was talking about. Then Sara smiled. “I was just telling Cyra how well suited she is to her after school activities. I mean, who wouldn’t want to know how to stuff three feet of steel down an attacker’s throat. It must surely cut down on unwanted advances.”

  My teeth creaked under the pressure of my jaw muscles. I had never even been on a date. Sara didn’t exactly have a string of boyfriends, but she’d been to every major dance with a guy. Sometimes a guy from her repertory company, but that didn’t matter. They were fine specimens, beautiful and athletic. Even if she thought of them as brothers, they were cut, with every muscle making a personal appearance.

  Mrs. Laird narrowed her eyes at us. “Ah, well then, I had no idea you knew each other so well.”

  “The salle is over the studio on Fourth Street. You know, across the street from the art gallery,” I said.

  “Oh look, there she is!” Sara waved someone over. Another ballerina trotted up, half floating, half Bambi as she slipped through the crowd. All ballerinas moved with a gliding grace, but for this one, gravity was merely an inconvenience. She wore a torn T-shirt as though she’d just stepped out of the studio, and the real world stood between her and another good rehearsal.

  Of course, I felt the same way about fencing, but I didn’t exactly wear my knickers outside the salle. I’d have to be paid large sums of money to traipse around in what amounted to over-glorified white spandex pants. She wore her warm up gear to classes. But, of course, all the truly gifted were enrolled in ballet schools, not public high school. Which meant this sweet ballerina was probably good, but not quite good enough to go pro.

  Talented, but destined for the local company.

  Mrs. Laird glowered at Sara and me, trying to figure out if we were going at it under her nose or—despite all previous evidence—behaving civilly. She spotted the new girl. “Ah, Miss Neuve, I believe you’ve met Sara Davies, and this is Cyra Berque. Ladies, this is Christine Neuve.” Mrs. Laird held her hand palm open toward me. She never mispronounced my name, but I always got the feeling she scoffed when she spoke.

  I took the new girl’s hand to shake it. It had all the character of a half boiled noodle, and I gave it a good squeeze.

  “Sierra was it?” she asked.

  I froze in place.

  Sara smirked.

  Ice rushed through my blood. Maybe it was a mistake. No reason to go to the moon over a little mistake. Taking care with my enunciation, I said, “Close, it’s see-rrah.”

  “Sorah?” she tried again.

  How is Cyra even close to Sorah?

  “Cyra, Miss Neuve, it’s Cyra,” Mrs. Laird said, trying to put in a good word for me.

  Sara hid her mouth behind her hand, snickering. The ballet drones followed suit, and I burned with the need to punch Sara. She always made fun of my name. Everyone made fun of my name—a choice my parents made before I was born. Lucky for them, I sort of liked it.

  “Oh, so it’s Sienna?” she asked.

  “No, Miss Neuve, are you hard of hearing?” Mrs. Laird asked.

  “A little, in my left ear.” She let go of my hand to point at her ear. Mrs. Laird blinked, caught between apologizing and speaking up. As an educator—well, education administrator—that sort of information was considered private, and she could probably get into trouble for just asking. Mrs. Laird yelled at a freshman across the hall squirting water from the drinking fountain, retreating from battle like a true coward.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you, Sierra,” the ballerina said.
A chorus of laughter chased the ballerinas as they floated down the hall. She exchanged a wicked glance with Sara, and I knew. They’d planned this. It was some welcoming fun.

  Just what I needed, another person waiting to eat schadenfreude pie when I fell on my face. Well I didn’t have time for that crap. This was the year I was going to make Division I in nationals. If I was going to make it all the way through, I needed to focus. They were has-beens. There just weren’t enough years to catch up in ballet. I was a fencer, and if I was lucky, well, if I worked hard enough, there was a tiny, infinitesimal possibility that I could go to a college that had a real fencing program. Then, maybe something more. Maybe something with rings that came every four years.

  y the time seventh period ended, I was back to a solid dislike of the entire world, but particularly high school. Well maybe not all of it: Mr. Bartlionus’ class was shockingly interesting. Then there was American Institutions, which covered some interesting philosophical ideals such as tax preparation and signing up for the draft. Mr. Connor’s art class held promise, but I had taken art for the three years previous. It wasn’t the passion that burned inside me, but there was something very similar between fencing and painting.

  Before the bell finished chiming, I was out the door. Even though I liked PE, it wouldn’t do to be caught in the locker room alone with the ballet hags. Everyone who had a sporty extra-curricular activity got to have gym as the last period of the day. That way if we had to leave early for a competition or something, we at least were heading to do something active. It meant I had class with all the jocks. Not ideal, but there was a certain respect I got from the soccer players. Some of them had come to my salle and limped away. Fencing was hard.

  I dodged through the crash doors and jogged to the beat up MGB. The red paint made the car look like a real hot rod when the wax was fresh, but it was old. I was on a first name basis with my mechanic. Then again, it was an honest to English right-hand drive, so I could still drive a stick shift despite not having the requisite right hand to do so. I loved it. It was like it was designed for me.

  Eucalyptus trees sprayed the parking lot in beads. A mist from the ocean had rolled in, and puddles grew in the parking lot. Oil from the trees’ seed pods gave the puddles a rainbow film like gasoline, and the sharp scent whisked away the dreariness of class.

  “Cyra!” Rochan yelled as I unlocked the car.

  I turned to see Rochan running toward me. My heart flip-flopped. Rochan was one of those guys: smart, funny, artistic, gorgeous, and definitely headed somewhere in life. He had the black hair and slightly darker skin of someone of Indian—the continent, not the Native Americans—descent, but his family had been in the U.S. too long to have an accent. His father ran an orchid rental business out of a shop near where I lived, so I’d known him since we moved to Petaluma.

  “Oh, hi, Rochan.”

  Slightly out of breath, he gasped at the air before saying anything. I could stare into his liquid gold eyes for all eternity. It didn’t hurt that he was also brilliant. And the best photographer in town as far as anyone could tell.

  He leaned over his knees, sucking air. “Man, why do you run to get off campus? Whooo.”

  “It’s called practice, and some of us have to get to it in time to train. You know, living the dream—asymmetrical legs and a mariachi band that practices across the street?” I joked, but my left leg being bigger than my right was the absolute bane of my jeans wearing existence. If I could just lose enough weight, it wouldn’t matter, but my one thigh meant I had to wear pants a size up. The waist sagged, and everything was rumpled. I hated clothes.

  Maybe I should switch to skirts.

  “They start practice whether I’m there, dressed or not.” I blinked innocence at him, pretending my heart didn’t suddenly take a shot of helium every time he got near. His wavy black hair made my knees weak. I hoped he was going to be in the school play again this year. Maybe they’d do something really ambitious, but we never knew with the choir director. It might be Guys and Dolls, or it might be some art play, small cast, small opportunity.

  “I know. I just need a ride.”

  I tried not to sound too enthusiastic about taking him anywhere he wanted to go. “Umm, where you headed?”

  “My exhibit is opening at the Fourth Street Gallery. Your mom said you practice near there.”

  “True. Well, I guess you’ll just have to climb inside.”

  I suddenly hated the vintage car seats complete with vintage ripped vinyl. Dirty practice clothes sat in a wad in the passenger seat. Couldn’t I have cleaned out my car? Rochan was going to think I was a slob, and that wasn’t the case. I wasn’t a slob; I just didn’t have much time to clean my car. Summer had been practice, practice, practice because this was the first year I would be old enough to participate in the adult nationals for fencing. If I could score high enough in qualifications, I could finally go to Div I. It was an A tournament, but I could hold my own against the two A’s who came through every now and then. All I needed was to make B by May. I already had my C, and I’d been just shy of the B three times already. It was just a matter of time. And money. Lesson fees only went up.

  “Give me a second.” I surreptitiously cleaned out the passenger seat into my book bag and threw the offending detritus behind the front seat.

  “You’re a saint, Cyra, a saint.”

  “Oh, go on, I could hear more.”

  He laughed. “What, you don’t have a whole tribe of devoted palm frond bearers in there?”

  “It has excellent trunk space, but I got it used. The frond bearers went with the first owner—you know, first love and all.” I widened my eyes, and he laughed. Pure heaven.

  We slipped into our seats, and I turned the music down before the radio powered up. He didn’t need to be blasted by my a capella remixes. As the first doh-whop came over the speakers, he arched an eyebrow at me.

  “Don’t judge.”

  He held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “Me, never. Just so long as you don’t listen to that pop drivel.”

  Yeah, I totally had a rash of top pop 40s hidden in my iPod where no one would ever hear them. “Who’s your favorite band?”

  “It depends. If I’m having a day, then it’s Violent Femmes. You probably haven’t heard of them. They’re old.”

  I knew who they were because my mom listened to them, so they must have had some solid play back in the day. “No, I’ve heard of them. I like Kiss Off.”

  “Yes, exactly! That’s exactly what I mean. Having a day.”

  “And when you’re not having a day?” I eased the clutch and managed to coax the car out of the parking lot and into the drizzle.

  “When I’m not having a day, I really like Dan and Leland. They’re real musicians.”

  I nodded for a second, but no matter how much I wracked my brain, I couldn’t place the band. My eyebrows pinched. “Okay, you’ve got me. I have no idea who they are.”

  “I can send you a link on YouTube.”

  Yes, I would like, and knowing me, I’d obsessively become a giant Dan and Leland nerd so I might be able to hold a conversation about them in the future. It’d be perfectly casual, a “Hey, I heard that new Dan and Leland song. Not as good as their last album, but still good.”

  Yeah, that would sound about right. Not totally desperate, but interested—subtly letting him know that I liked the music, had listened to the last album, the whole nine yards. But not seeming like a crazy person. Hard balance between eager and desperate.

  “And you?”

  “Oh, my favorite, that’s hard to pick. I like so much music.” I pretended to think for a minute. “I think I’ll have to go with Imagine Dragons. I know they’re pop tops, but I love their music. It’s like syncopated poetry.”

  He considered for a moment. “Yeah, they’re okay.”

  And the conversation dropped into awkward land. Okay? I loved them. I’d been to their concert and it changed my life. It was right after a big co
mpetition, and I’d won medals in both the co-ed and the ladies only in foil. Someone at the tournament had some extra tickets. It was basically one of the best days of my life.

  It was then that I knew I wanted to try for the Olympics. It was the longest shot, but those medals were like a fire, lighting my way.

  I hoped his lukewarm response to my favorite band wasn’t some sign that we could never be more than friends.

  Focus, Cyra, do you have enough room in your heart for more than one dream?

  “Here it is.” He pointed at a store front converted to a gallery. I pulled around the corner. “Thanks for the lift, Cyra. You’re a life saver. You should come by later.”

  “I teach the shorties until five, then it’s practice till eight, so unless it’s open that late, I don’t think I can make it.”

  His face fell, and my heart rushed. “Oh,” he said, “I was just hoping to have at least one person I know come to my opening.”

  A train rushed through my chest and stopped at the disappointment station. He didn’t want me: he wanted a warm body for his exhibit.

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I’ve got a lot of work, you know?”

  “Yeah, I get that.” Downcast, he got out of the car, leaning back in through the half opened door. “Oh, and thanks for the ride.”

  “Any time!”

  His lips came to a thin line, and I knew I’d just made a fool of myself. I sounded too eager. I tried too hard. He knew I had a crush on him.

  I’m such an idiot.

  He nodded, and that cute little half smile caught on the side of his face. “We’ll see. I might have more openings. It depends on how well this one goes.”

  “Ah, I see. Attendance necessary to get your pictures shown again.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How late does it go? Or maybe I can sneak in between classes and practice.”

  “There’s more to life than fencing.”

  I snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  He looked at his phone. “I’m scheduled until seven-thirty. They have a second opening at eight. A real party, but it’s black tie.”