Bittersweet (17 page)

Edy squinted at her mailbox one Saturday afternoon as if it were a puzzle she couldn’t hope to know. Friday there’d been a pep rally, then an away game that they barely managed to win. Hassan played marvelously, racking up runs and yards and whatnot, and even did some showboating that his dad loved. Afterward, there was an after party at this guy Kearns’ house, but they bailed on it when Gwyn said that TJ had something going at his place. Edy and Hassan had boilermakers for the first time and then ganged up on TJ about football. She went to ballet practice with a skull breaker of a headache. Now she stared at the mailbox, willing it to open for her. With a sigh she snatched it open and then cleared its contents. Edy rummaged through the usual assortment of bills and circulars—Jason Mann’s parents were having a furniture sale—and she stopped at a letter addressed to her from the Youth International Ballet Competition.

Impossible.

She let the rest of the mail drift to the pavement as she tore it open, questioning how they knew her, what they wanted, and what she’d say in response.

Dear Edith Phelps,

Congratulations! It is my pleasure to welcome you to the Youth International Ballet Competition. You will join a robust body of the most outstanding young dancers in the world; consider this a formal acknowledgment that you are among them. Please review the attached materials regarding rules and regulations, pertinent FAQs, where to report for the Boston Regional Competition, and information regarding each phase of the competition. Again, we welcome you and congratulations on your achievement.

Sincerely,

Anna Constable,

Executive Director

Edy crushed the letter to her chest and blinked as if dirt had found her eyes. She’d been accepted without applying, without dancing, without anything.

Rani.

Edy gathered up the mail and stormed the Pradhan house, determined to find out just what was happening.

She banged the door wild, still fisting the letter while she shouting for Rani. In Sci-Sci, curtains would shuffle and eyes would peek.
The Pradhans and Phelps were at it again.

Rani threw open the door as if the house were on fire and snatched Edy in. “What are you doing? What is the problem?”

Edy meant to flash the paper with some kind of great flare, but she’d balled it up so badly that she had to stand there and unravel it while Rani tapped her toes.

“This,” Edy said and flourished the suspicious letter. “How did you do it? Did Vi help you? Did you pay someone? And don’t tell me it wasn’t you. No one else would care to bother.”

Rani eyed the paper and shrugged. “It was me. For precisely the reason you said. But I did it properly. I submitted dance footage, the fees, and application. Vi wasn’t involved.”

“But it wasn’t your place to submit my name. Not without my permission,” Edy said.

Rani looked a little bored. “So don’t participate,” she said. “Don’t show up. Don’t respond. Ignore them.”

Edy went home and sat with the Youth International paperwork for awhile. They made grand promises for competing, grander ones for winning. Unequivocal prestige. Excitement. Touring the world while competing. Then there were the workshops on how to find college dance programs; scholarship prizes, bragging rights. Dancing in and of itself proved seductive, alluring, but adding all this to the pot, made it unfair, irresistible.

In Edy’s haste to go through the mail, she nearly missed one without a postage stamp. It had her name across the front. She tore open the bulky envelope, unfolded the letter, and her breath caught at once.

Dear Edy,

Do you want honesty? Good. I’m ready to give it. First, you should know that you’ve turned my heart into brick. Every moment I hear your name or see your face is a moment I feel raw and damaged. I want a chance to use you the way you used me. I want to make you feel second best. I want to push you down and humiliate you, so I can be your comfort when you cry.

I love you still.

I’ll tell you the truth.

Skip a game and I’ll tell you what happened with Lottie.

Wyatt

Edy set aside that sheet and picked up the next. He’d created a shopping list of confessions.

1.
     
Lied about going to the Jersey Shore

2.
     
Lied about liking ballet

3.
     
Stole money from dad to take you to Max Brenner

4.
     
I was born in Boston, not Chaterdee

5.
     
My grandfather’s a Brahmin

6.
     
I don’t understand your dad’s research

7.
     
I hate hearing about Hassan

8.
     
I hate Hassan

9.
     
I hate my parents

10.
 
I hate my life

11.
 
I hate you

12.
 
Please, I’m in love with you

Edy paused to turn the page.

13.
 
I don’t know how to roller skate

14.
 
I don’t know how to ice skate, either

15.
 
I really haven’t seen The Godfather

16.
 
I haven’t seen Coming to America, either

17.
 
Hassan’s mom has been to see me

18.
 
I don’t like her

19.
 
I don’t trust her

20.
 
I miss you, Edy

21.
 
I miss you so bad, it chokes me.

Edy stopped there. She couldn’t see through her tears anyway.

~~~

Hassan received the news that Edy would be competing in Youth International with an “oh.” When she stared at him expectantly, he added, “So, she convinced you to change your mind I see.”

She hadn’t; he didn’t believe it, and they argued about that. From there they went to school with no more talk of ballet.

Training for the competition turned into a life experience. When Edy wasn’t at school or studying, she was at her traditional ballet practices, which she kept up, or somewhere working on choreography for the competition, or executing it in her attic. Sleep only figured into her life when she penciled it in. Thank God she took SAT Prep as an elective.

With winter came cold weather and Election Day barreling in on them. Add to Edy’s to-do list sudden crisscrossing campaign stops, lots of Starbucks, and way too many camera flashes for her taste.

Two days before the election, it was announced that the leak about the opposing candidate’s affair may have come from her mom’s camp. Edy’s mother categorically denied any accusation and stressed instead the importance of giving the family privacy so that they may grieve in whatever way deemed most appropriate.

Her mom won in a landslide victory.

Even Hassan seemed to be having better than average luck lately. He now swore by his weekly, sometimes daily meetings with her dad at Harvard or at her house, or wherever they seemed to be. As a result, South End churned out win after win, knocking down foes, crushing opponents. Maybe, Edy thought, she’d one day talk to her dad about the endless hours he somehow found for Hassan. With every game, Edy thought about Wyatt’s outstanding offer. She could learn the truth about Lottie. And he’d tell her. He’d bared his soul on ten pages just for her.

Edy’s parents began to go in about Harvard. Little things at first, like ‘had she considered what she wanted to study’ or ‘did she want a formal tour of the facilities.’ Thankfully, she’d been rushing on to one place or another, and therefore, could always blame her schedule for the lack of interest. She was building up to ‘the talk’ and its fallout. A little more courage and she’d be there.

In the throes of wrestling with choreography for the upcoming competition, Edy had tracked down Hassan’s favorite cousin, Ronnie Bean. He’d introduced her to b-boying and krump dancing during a summer together in New York and was back now with his dad in Louisiana after an ‘episode’ at his aunt’s place. Edy, working with Bean, had come up with a hybrid routine, infused with the beauty of ballet and the panache of street dance. They did their best to coordinate by cell, with Edy recruiting Chloe, Kori, or Gwyn to hold the camera phone and apparently complain every day.

So, the girls were crowded in the attic making their usual gripes known, ready to forward Bean the next clip for feedback. Kori’s phone lit up like the lotto machines with instant winnings at the gas station and she gasped at whatever filled her screen.

“You see?” Kori announced. “I told you! I told you!” She thrust her phone into the air and showed Gwyn, then Chloe.

“Well, don’t be so proud of it,” Gwyn said. “It’s not like it’s good news. It’s terrible, in fact.”

“The truth is always good news,” Kori said. “Whether you like it or not.”

Edy looked on in exasperation and threw her hands on her hips. “Are you guys even filming me? Let’s see what you’ve got so far.” She marched over to thrust her hand out and Kori dropped the phone in it.

Pictures of Hassan. Hassan and Mala. Hassan and Mala in different clothes. In different weather. Walking. Sitting. Standing. Over again. Infinity.

Meltdown.

“Excuse me,” Edy said and rushed from the attic.

Downstairs. Into her room. Lock the door. Lock away the world.

“Edy—” Chloe said. “Tell me you’re all right. Please.”

‘All right.’ Yes, that was her. All right. All trusting. Believing Rani. Believing him. Seeing this.

Edy ripped open her bedroom window and the slap of forbidding winds reacquainted her with winter. She pulled on her sneakers, climbed out onto their tree, and scaled like a cat across the distance.

Hassan’s windows were drawn and shadowed in darkness. Edy took the chance of yanking, knowing that a lock could throw her off balance and send her plunging to the ground. But they had a rule about never locking the window between them, so it shot up straight, as it should.

She pulled back the curtains and peeked in; knowing she could encounter Ali, Rani, or God knows what after seeing those pictures.

She found an empty room. Edy slipped in and took a seat on the bed, figuring she’d have enough time to think.

What did she know? What did she believe? How important were either one? Clearly, Hassan knew about Mala being in Boston. Not only had he kept it from her, he’d spent time with her. Lots of time with her. In the craziness of football, ballet, and school, Edy could count the kisses they’d shared, the touches they’d shared, the minutes shoved between one destination and the next. He hadn’t complained and she hadn’t complained; this was simply their life. Their life together, right?

I hate Hassan. I hate my life. Hassan’s mom has been to visit me.

I don’t trust her.

Edy glanced at the door. “I don’t trust her either, Wyatt.”

She willed herself to be calm. Why should she question a few pictures of him and Mala? Hassan could talk to who he wanted when he wanted. But there had been so many pics and an obvious need for secrecy on top of that. She couldn’t fault him for a secret
per se.
She’d met Mala and kept it from him, too. She had the letter from Wyatt and thought about it daily. She wasn’t exactly broadcasting that. Maybe some sense would be made of him seeing Mala over and over again when they could hardly find time for their relationship.

Yeah. She’d like to hear him make sense of all this.

The bedroom door opened and Hassan stepped in with his dirty practice clothes and a helmet under his arm. He didn’t even pause at the sight of Edy before locking his bedroom door.

He tossed the clothes in a closet hamper and set the helmet up on the top shelf. He went for his backpack next; he pulled out a stack of textbooks and placed them neatly on his desk.

“Well?” Edy demanded.

“Giving mom time to clear the hall,” he said quietly. “She was going to bed in a bit.”

“Oh.”

She stared at her fingernails as if they were important and shivered at a draft that fluttered his curtains. He got up and shut the window, then pulled up his desk chair so that he faced her.

“How’s dance?” he said.

“How’s football?” she said.

He got up and strode to a corner, where he nibbled on his thumb, gaze distant. “Got any free time you could squeeze in? Maybe we could do something for a change.”