Dark Turns (19 page)

N
ia knocked on Marta’s door: three steady beats. Firm but not loud. She needed to start this conversation off in the least confrontational manner possible.

The door swung back. Marta held it open with a large smile that vanished as soon as she saw Nia.

“Oh, I thought you were Aubrey.”

“May I talk to you for a minute?”

“I need to get ready for practice. Aubrey’s meeting me here in a second.”

Marta started to shut the door. Nia stepped inside the doorjamb, blocking it from closing.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I had to tell.”

A student brushed behind her. Academic classes had ended for the day. Students walked the halls. Several doors were propped open, advertising to fellow classmates that the
occupants were happy to talk to passing friends. Nia lowered her voice, both to ward off eavesdroppers and to make it clear to Marta that she respected confidentiality, to a point.

“Theo’s freedom depended on it. I wouldn’t have gone to the police if I thought there was any other way for the truth about his alibi to come out. And I know you wouldn’t have wanted someone to spend their life in jail because of your secret.”

Marta’s eyes fell to her feet. She wore ballet flats with fuzzy gray legwarmers scrunched below her knee. The look reminded Nia of Aubrey. In fact, the whole outfit seemed Aubrey-inspired. Marta’s gray sweater hung askew over a tank leotard, revealing a bony right shoulder from the neck hole. The leggings she wore underneath reminded Nia of something she’d seen Aubrey wear around the halls.

“Okay. Fine,” Marta whispered. “I get why you told. I’m sorry I couldn’t. I was too afraid of my folks.”

“How is everything with your parents?”

“Okay, I guess.” Marta sighed. “They say my ex took advantage because he was older and I was so far away from family. They kind of realized that they hadn’t been spending much time with me, and they promise that’s going to change.”

“I’m really happy to hear that.”

Marta attempted a smile. It pushed up the corners of her mouth but failed to make her look close to happy. The meek expression wasn’t an invitation by any means, but Nia would have to take it.

“I also want to know what happened at that party Friday night.”

Marta looked over Nia’s shoulder down the hallway. “I don’t know. Why don’t you talk to Alistair and his friends? It was their party.”

“They’re all suspended indefinitely. An e-mail will go out later today.”

Marta bit her bottom lip. Her gaze returned to the wooden floor.

“Mr. Andersen helped Alistair clean out his room on Sunday evening. Alistair said he didn’t know anything about liquor or spiked sodas. They swore they only had some beers. But you said Friday that you saw Lydia have a few drinks.”

“I saw her drinking something and getting tipsy.”

“Was it lime soda?”

“Maybe.”

“Did the boys lie? Or did Aubrey spike Lydia’s drink?”

Marta’s jaw pulsed as she swallowed.

“Marta, I saw Lydia in the hospital. Her ankle is broken, and she will have to have months of recovery and physical therapy before she can dance again. I know you would never have wanted her to get hurt like that. You’re a good person. So who was it?”

Nia could see the struggle in Marta’s face: protect a so-called friend or do the right thing?

Marta lowered her voice to an almost inaudible level. “Whoever did it probably didn’t want Lydia to get hurt like that either. They probably just wanted to help her relax.”

“Aubrey said she wanted to help Lydia relax?”

Marta shrugged and nodded at the same time, a noncommittal yes.

“You need to tell the dean. Whatever Aubrey put in Lydia’s drink wasn’t just a little alcohol. It made Lydia forget everything. Aubrey didn’t want her to relax. She wanted her to hurt herself.”

Footsteps clacked down the hall. Marta looked up. Fear flashed in her eyes.

Nia turned to see Aubrey striding toward them. The girl broke into an easy jog.

Nia turned her attention back to Marta. She spoke quickly and beneath her breath. “Aubrey is not a nice person. What she did to Lydia is something you would never want to be a part of. You have to tell Dean Stirk.”

Marta stepped around Nia, as if she’d been trying to leave the whole time but her teacher had blocked the exit.

“Oh. Am I interrupting something?” Aubrey flashed a beauty queen smile at the two of them. “I can come back.”

“No,” Marta said quickly. “Nia just wanted to talk about my parents’ reaction to—”

“Careful, Marta. You know she’ll repeat whatever you say.”

“I won’t—”

“Don’t.” Aubrey held up a hand beside her face, a perfect imitation of Ms. V’s “stop” gesture. “We know you’re not our friend. It’s your job to blend in with the students and then report every violation you hear to the dean or our parents or, apparently, the police.” Aubrey turned back toward Marta. “She’s not allowed to keep secrets. The RAs are basically like undercover officers. That’s why they choose the youngest teachers, so we’ll trust them and lower our guard.”

“I wasn’t really talking.” Marta mumbled. She grabbed a duffle bag with the school’s crest on it and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Aubrey grabbed Marta’s hand and brushed past Nia.

“Those tights look good on you.” The compliment echoed in the hallway as Aubrey led Marta away from her would-be confessor. “I have another pair that might fit you too. We can go through my closet after rehearsal.”

“Cool. Thanks, Aubrey.”

“No problem.”

Aubrey draped her arm over Marta’s shoulder. The pair walked so close together that they could have run a three-legged race. Nia wouldn’t be able to break them up. Marta didn’t seem to have many friends and certainly none like Aubrey.

T
he curtain rose on four male dancers. Each wore black leggings and white short-sleeved shirts, practice gear in a modernist palette. They stood in a straight line, backs to the audience. Nia had read a review once arguing that Balanchine had intended for
Agon
’s dancers to be anonymous representations of piano keys—the men’s wide chests denoting the white notes, their legs forming the sharps and flats—and she could’ve seen that vision, if it hadn’t been for Dimitri. Even with his back turned, he would never be faceless to Nia. From her seat way back in the second ring, she could still recognize his wavy hair and bisque-colored arms.

The dancers turned toward the audience in unison, feet in a modified fourth position. They jerked to the music’s broken rhythm and then stepped to their right. Backs bent and feet flexed to Stravinsky’s offbeat march, as though the
men warmed up for the show rather than performed in it. They stood erect and circled. Suddenly, they jumped with legs back in arabesque. Then they aligned and kicked their toes to their noses, one after the other, a cascade of feet and flexibility. They strutted. They showed off.

Despite the theatrical Greek name,
Agon
lacked a storyline. It epitomized dance as an art form, a Frank Stella painting set to music, all line and emotion. Still, whenever Nia watched the all-male opening, she thought of bucks play-fighting for an unseen herd of does. The women appeared minutes later, driving the men off stage like a sudden rainstorm. Black leotards hugged their torsos. Nia studied the female principals, comparing her motions to their own. Was her grand battement that high? Did her split look that effortless?

It did when she was in top form. She wasn’t there yet, but she would get there. Wearing the cushioned brace every night was stretching and supporting her damaged arch. The orthotics slipped into her heels also helped.

The men sneaked back onto the stage behind a loose gathering of female dancers. The girls split into two lines and the men took over, pushing the women back with a flurry of leaps, kicks, and pelvic thrusts. The dancers performed together for a minute before breaking into gender-specific groups again like teenagers at a high school dance. Finally, the men each chose a partner. They danced and then struck a sudden pose as the song abruptly ended.

Most of the dancers hurried into the wings. Three remained on stage: Dimitri and two women. They leaped around together before settling in the center. Dimitri stood between the ballerinas, turning each like a jeweler examining diamonds, checking for flaws. Then he burst forth with bravura, demonstrating the strength of his Achilles and his
core, jumping, turning, falling backward only to pull himself up again with his abdominal muscles. The display was for the unseen ballerinas. He embodied everything a woman could want in a man: power, confidence, ability, and, above all, control.

He bowed after the solo. The audience clapped like they’d seen a particularly good golf shot. Her ex deserved better.

Dimitri hurried off stage. Another danseur performed with two women. Nia waited for Dimitri to return. When he did, it was in the company of one male and one female dancer. They performed together for a couple minutes, but three was a crowd. The ballerina left him to square off with the other rival for her attention. After a few minutes, she returned to dance with both men, as though still uncertain about which she wanted. The dance ended with her leaping into Dimitri’s arms.

Dimitri reappeared for the final act, along with the other men. Each claimed a female partner, but it didn’t stay that way. The other women returned. Again, the men battled a tyranny of choice. Again, Dimitri danced with two ballerinas. He reached for one, then the other, torn between partners.

The women flaunted long legs and fatless figures. Arms stretched outward to their male suitors, as if begging for approval. After a few agonizing minutes vying for attention, they abandoned the stage. The male dancers remained, paying for their indecision with loneliness. The curtain closed.

Nia applauded longer and louder than her fellow audience members, prompting several row mates to squeeze around her to the exits. After a few minutes, she followed the departing crowd into the Lincoln Center lobby. She stood by a wall of three-story-high arched windows, avoiding the
river of people flowing out the main doors. The courtyard outside glowed golden. The famous Lincoln Center fountain shot forth shining white water, like liquid light.

Fingertips brushed her hand. Dimitri beamed at her. He wore relaxed blue jeans and a long-sleeved button-down. The casual attire announced that he’d performed. Most of the ballet audience donned business casual. Nia had shed the leggings and sweater ensemble she’d worn on the train for a knit dress. She’d changed in a Grand Central Station bathroom to keep Peter from seeing. She’d feared that wearing something so fitted to see a “friend” would bother him.

She kissed Dimitri’s cheeks, a French hello. “You were amazing.”

“You should’ve been up there with me.”

Dimitri could never take a compliment without returning one. She smiled. “I wish.”

His boyish face grew serious. The expression made him impossibly sexier. His palm engulfed her hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Much better. Can’t wait to get out of that school, though. It’s crazy there.”

“Yeah?”

She shook her head. No need to ruin their night. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to tell you how proud I am of you.”

He embraced her like a lover. Strong arms supported her back. His defined chest pressed against her bosom. He smelled of basil and lavender. She’d always loved his cologne.

“Let’s go to dinner,” he said.

She wanted nothing more. She had so many questions: What was it like working with the principal dancers? What was the tone of rehearsals? How did his preparation differ from their time at SAB? Her interests weren’t confined to
the professional, either. Deep down, she wanted to claim his time. The idea of Dimitri celebrating his achievement with another woman made her anxious. Jealous.

But she had no right to feel that way. They weren’t together. She had Peter.

Her new boyfriend had purchased her return ticket for exactly thirty minutes after the show’s scheduled end—just enough time for a cab to drive the two miles from Lincoln Center to the train station, allowing for ten minutes or so of city traffic. She couldn’t exactly argue for more time. As it was, she wouldn’t arrive in Claremont, where Peter was picking her up, until 11:00.

“I have to catch a train.”

The sparkle left Dimitri’s eyes. He stared at her hand in his palm. His thumb brushed her knuckles. “I thought you would stay.”

“I can’t. I have rehearsal in the morning. The show is this Friday afternoon.”

“I can drive you.”

“I already have a ticket.”

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll take the taxi over with you.”

They stepped into the cold night. Wind attacked her face and shot through her sweater-dress as they walked to the corner. She huddled into Dimitri’s side for warmth. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Her head fit in the crook of his neck.

Headlights inched toward them. Vehicles crawled. Manhattan was notorious for Saturday-night traffic. She scanned for a lit taxi sign as Dimitri raised his free arm.

“Remember that night when we finished
Cortège Hongrois
and went out right after, still dressed in the costumes?”

Nia laughed. “Ms. Pavlik was not happy about that. What were we thinking?”

“We were excited. It was our last performance with SAB.”

“I think I just didn’t want to take off that white-and-gold tutu. I felt like a princess. It was like having an overdue sweet sixteen.”

A taxi light shone from the far left lane. Dimitri extended his hand and waved. The cab’s blinker flickered. A wall of cars refused to let the vehicle through. The taxi continued through the traffic light.

Dimitri shrugged. “Yeah. Like Cara did. That was an overtop party.”

Her eyes rolled. “I saw the pictures.”

He pulled her closer into his side and rubbed her arm. “You looked beautiful in that costume. I must have looked like a weirdo, though, because no cabs would stop for me in those white tights.”

“I think they thought we were on a reality show or something.” She laughed again at the memory. “Eventually one stopped.”

“Well, he stopped at the light. Then I kind of just opened the door and he said . . .” Dimitri cleared his throat. His voice reemerged from his nose, an imitation of a thick Queens accent. “‘I don’t think so, Shakespeare, I am not headed out all the way to Roosevelt Island.’”

A yellow cab with a darkened sign pulled over. The man shouted out the cracked passenger window. “Where you go?”

It was illegal for drivers to ask. Either you were on duty or you weren’t. But no one wanted to travel to the outer boroughs at the end of a shift.

“Grand Central,” Dimitri shouted.

The locks clicked. He opened the door for her, always the perfect gentleman. She scooted over to the far side of the plastic bench. He slid in beside her, close enough for their
thighs to touch. A chill ran down her spine. She wanted him to kiss her. What was she thinking? She looked out the window. A line of livery cabs and fancy cars crept beside them. The theater crowd had left the building.

Dimitri continued the story. “That guy must have thought we were in the circus.”

“Then you started doing
Goodfellas
, but really badly.” She mocked his fake New York City accent. “‘Do I look like a clown? You think I’m here to amuse you.’”

“That did not help.”

“I think we ended up walking to, what? The Olive Garden?”

“We did.” He grinned. “I believe I convinced the waiter to serve us wine without carding.”

“He figured anyone crazy enough to show up as a courtier at the Olive Garden had to already be drunk.”

They laughed. The mirth in Dimitri’s eyes morphed to desire. His hand brushed her thigh. She turned her attention toward the traffic beyond the window. The headlights blurred like a long exposure photograph. She should not feel this way. Peter was waiting for her. He would pick her up in a few hours. He loved her.

Dimitri touched her cheek, urging her to look at him. Brake lights illuminated his face.

He cupped the back of her head in his palm. She closed her eyes as their lips touched. The cab seat seemed to fall away. She felt displaced, suspended in water or time, weightless. She forced her eyes open. The cab turned onto Forty-Second.

She pulled away. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m with someone.”

“Who, that Peter guy? Just leave him.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? You’ve been together, what, a month? We were together for four years. You can’t feel for him what you feel for me.”

“I don’t know.”

She glanced at the time on the cab’s dash. It read fifteen minutes until nine. She would barely make the train.

“What do you even really know about this Peter Andersen?”

The use of Peter’s last name surprised her. She hadn’t ever mentioned it. Dimitri avoided talking about him whenever he called. Had he searched the Wallace roster for Peter?

“I know that I care about him.”

“Did you know that he was married before?”

The romantic sheen had disappeared from Dimitri’s eyes. A vein in his neck throbbed.

“Yes, I did. And I didn’t have to scour the web to find out. He told me. His wife left him after he decided he wanted to finish his novel instead of slave on Wall Street.”

She added the last part to give Peter artistic cred. Dancers, like all artists, lauded their higher calling to compensate for the money they didn’t make. Dimitri would have to respect the fact that her new boyfriend had abandoned the life of a banker for loftier pursuits.

Dimitri’s chin tucked into his neck, as if surprised. The rest of his expression seemed satisfied. “She died.”

“What?”

“It’s in the fourth link after his name. She was killed.”

“No. That’s not right.”

It couldn’t be. Peter would have told her that his wife had been murdered—unless he’d feared it would be awkward with the talk of Lauren’s killing. But after all this time,
certainly he would have said something. And he wouldn’t have made up that story about his ex-wife leaving him.

“It must be another Peter Andersen. The name is common.”

“Their wedding photo was in the article. It was the same guy in Wallace’s online faculty directory.” Dimitri looked like a parent struggling not to say
I told you so
, simultaneously smug and concerned. “He never mentioned it?”

The cab stopped. Grand Central Station’s red awnings spread out across the street. Shop windows glowed along with the street lamps and headlights, an electric sunset illuminating the night sky. The brightness added to Nia’s disorientation. It didn’t make sense. Dimitri wouldn’t lie to her. But would Peter?

“This good?” The cab driver shouted from the front seat.

“Actually, we might not get out here.” Dimitri responded. “You can keep the meter running.”

Nia barely heard the exchange over the questions rattling in her brain. Why wouldn’t Peter have told her? Why make up an elaborate story about his wife leaving?

“Did the article say how she died?”

“She was found in the East River.”

Lauren’s bloated body floated into Nia’s mental vision. She forced her eyes shut, squeezing the image out of her mind. Had Peter’s wife jumped off a bridge? Maybe she’d been depressed after the dissolution of their marriage. Was that why Peter hadn’t said anything?

“So she committed suicide after their divorce.” Nia said the words to herself, testing them aloud to see if the theory sounded sensible.

“No.” Dimitri touched her arm. “The article said she was stabbed multiple times.”

Her vision swam. She felt as though the car was moving, taking corners too fast. But the taxi hadn’t budged from beneath the overpass that funneled traffic around Grand Central’s second story. She could hear vehicles rumbling overhead.