Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (14 page)

“Anticipation”

On Monday, Mr. Gabor breezes into the studio and announces that in preparation for
Hamlet
, we’re going to learn how to fence. Ian immediately starts asking questions like: “Will we be using real swords?” and “Will we be using rapiers or foils?”

Mr. Gabor asks, “Do you know something about fencing, Mr. Slater?”

“Yeah, I do,” Ian says.

“Really?” Carla says, twisting around in her chair to gawk at Ian. “
You
know how to fence? Like Zorro? Is that your secret hobby or something?” She laughs, but as soon as the words are out of her mouth, Ian gets this cold look in his eye. It’s like Carla’s crossed an invisible line, and she knows it. She says, “Hey, just kidding.” But it’s too late. Ian’s jaw is twitching like he’s biting down hard on something.

Mr. Gabor barks, “Cabrielli, your attention, please,” and begins talking about the different styles of sword combat. It turns out that when Mr. Gabor was in theater school in London, he studied kendo for seven years with a sensei, a martial arts master. “
Kendo
means ‘the way of the sword,’ ” he explains.
He demonstrates some moves called
kata
, and it’s like watching one of those Japanese movies where the samurai warrior leaps into action, slashing his opponent to ribbons. You’d never guess that a big man like Mr. Gabor could move so gracefully, but he does.

Jeremy says, “Whoa, man, far out!”

Ian stares at Mr. Gabor like he’s just discovered God.

Mr. Gabor brings out a box of stage swords from his office, and Ian can hardly wait to get his hands on one, but when he slices his sword through the air, it wobbles and makes a tinny
wap-wap-wap
sound. “This sword is crap,” Ian says, disgusted.

“It’s a stage sword, Mr. Slater,” Mr. Gabor says. “Stage fencing is about creating the
illusion
of danger.” Mr. Gabor lines us up and teaches us the basics: how to hold the grip with our fingers instead of a fist, and how to do this scampering heel-toe shuffle that fencers use when they move back and forth. It looks easy when Mr. Gabor does it, but when we try, we sound like a herd of stampeding elephants. The only one who looks good is Ian. God, does he look good!

Mr. Gabor also shows us the salute and en garde positions and how to “beat our blades” against each other’s swords. Finally, he marks out a couple of simple attack and parry exercises and asks Ian to help demonstrate. At first, they do everything slowly so we understand the technique, but then Mr. Gabor nods at Ian and they ramp it up, like a real fight. Ian is amazing. He lunges and hits in lightning bursts of
speed, and I can tell by the smile on Mr. Gabor’s face that he’s getting the biggest kick out of the fact that Ian actually knows his stuff.

When they stop, we all applaud. Mr. Gabor gives Ian a slight bow. He says, “Well done, Mr. Slater! I’ll be expecting great things from you.”

When we break to practice in pairs, Carla immediately rushes over to Ian, but Ian turns his back on her and walks over to me. “Hey, Rapunzel,” he says, flicking his hair off his face, “let’s see what you can do with a sword.” Carla looks stunned. I don’t know what to say. But Ian’s already facing me, raising his sword into the air.

Carla gets stuck with Geoff, whose only athletic ability is tap dancing. She’s spitting mad. She keeps glaring at me. Ian ignores her and shows me how to position my body and work the sword with my wrist. He’s a tough coach, and
not
patient at all, but I like the way he’s so precise. “Lead with your blade, not your feet, or you’ll telegraph your attack,” he instructs. “Don’t push the blade, follow it. Drop your back arm when you lunge.” Since when did he become so articulate? I try to focus, but when Ian puts his hand on mine, shifting my fingers to hold the grip properly, all I can think about is how strong and smooth his fingers are. For a second, I flash to Carla’s basement, remembering Ian’s fingers sliding under her shirt, but then I shake off the thought.

I listen carefully to Ian’s instructions, and we spend the whole class practicing together. At first, my cuts are feeble, nervous swipes, but after a while, I begin to get the rhythm and balance of it and it feels good. I stop thinking with my conscious mind and trust my “body-mind,” as my dance teacher used to call it, letting the movement flow. Ian watches and nods his head. “Rapunzel, I never figured you for a fencer, but it looks like you’re a natural,” he says.

I feel myself blush. “I used to take dance classes,” I say. “So it’s kind of like dancing with a weapon in your hand.”

“I never thought of it that way,” he says. He tilts his head, assessing me. “We should spar together when you get better.”

My heart thumps. “I have a lot to learn.”

“That’s okay,” he says, smirking, “you’re a fast learner.” He’s staring at me, kind of amused. I think he might be flirting with me.

Across the room, Geoff leaps at Carla like a swashbuckling pirate with two left feet. Carla scowls. “You’re such a klutz,” she sneers.

“Well, it would help if you picked up your sword and defended yourself,” Geoff replies. Carla snarls. Geoff lunges again and almost stabs Carla in the leg.

“Shit!” she yells, and swats him across the arm with her sword.

“Ow!” Geoff shouts.

“Shut up,” Carla says.

From across the room, Mr. Gabor roars, “Cabrielli! My office. Now!”

The buzzer goes. Geoff stares at the welt on his arm. Carla marches into Mr. Gabor’s office. And Ian walks out of the studio with me.

“Where Did the Love Go”

I’m sitting in Mr. Gabor’s office, and he’s giving me a lecture about swords and safety. I nod in all the right places, but inside, I’m fuming because Ian is such a prick! He knows I hate Julia. He picked her as a partner just to get back at me. And why? Because I teased him? Can’t the guy take a joke? I mean, how was I supposed to know that fencing is such a big deal to him? Who does fencing? It’s not like he ever talked about it. And why did he have to be pawing Julia, “correcting her technique”? How cliché!

“Cabrielli!” Mr. Gabor snaps at me.

I guess he can tell I’m not really listening. “What?” I say.

“I am not speaking for my own edification.”

I hate when teachers use big words like that, but I get the gist. “I’m having a bad day,” I say.

“I thought you were serious about drama,” Mr. Gabor says.

“I am!” I insist. “I love drama. It’s my favorite subject. I even want to do
Hamlet
.” Mr. Gabor looks surprised. “What?” I say. “You don’t think I can handle it?”

“I thought you’d try out for the musical,” Mr. Gabor says. “I didn’t think
Hamlet
was your cup of tea.”

“Well it
is
,” I say, annoyed because obviously he doesn’t think I’m intellectual enough to do Shakespeare. “As a matter of fact, I want to be Gertrude,” I say. I wasn’t planning on getting into this, but once we’re on the topic, I go with the flow. “I think I would make an excellent Gertrude because I happen to have a very powerful personality, and queens are strong and confident people, don’t you think?”

An amused smile flickers across Mr. Gabor’s lips. He says, “Just because you want the part doesn’t mean you’re going to get it.”

“Are you saying I’m not good enough?” I ask, offended.

“No, Cabrielli, you’re good enough,” he says. “You have excellent timing and a strong presence, but you don’t focus. Being an actor requires discipline. You can’t have ‘bad days.’ You need to work harder, dig deeper, go beyond the obvious.”

“I can,” I insist. “I can be really, really deep if I want to be.”

Mr. Gabor doesn’t look convinced, but that only makes me want the part even more. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being dismissed. “Just give me a shot at this,” I say. I stare him down. I can be tough, like Papa. And maybe Mr. Gabor likes the fire in me ’cause he chuckles, and I sense this mental shift.

He leans across the desk and says, “Okay, Cabrielli, if you want to audition, you have to prepare yourself. Understand the language. Taste the words in your mouth. Find out what
makes Gertrude tick—as a queen, a mother, a lover, a woman. And don’t just dabble with the part, own it.”

I nod my head. This is so great. He’s talking to me like I really count. Like he’s my mentor, director to actor. I’m so excited, I pop out of my chair. I say, “Mr. Gabor, thank you. I’m going to work so hard, it’s going to blow your mind.”

Mr. Gabor laughs and then gives me the Gabor glare. He says, “And if you ever hit anyone again—”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“You will deliver your apology in person to Mr. Jones.” He grunts and jerks his head toward the door. Case closed. I waltz out of the office. I’m so pumped up, I could fly. And maybe I don’t get 90s like Julia, but I must be some kind of genius to turn a detention into a casting call. One problem down, one to go.

I race through the hall, and sure enough, who do I see hanging out at Ian’s locker? Zorro and his little protégé. Ian’s giving Julia fencing tips. “Your footwork’s good, but your wrists are weak. You should do arm curls and push-ups every day.” Blah, blah, who cares. But Julia’s nodding like a doll with its head on a spring.

Damn, that girl moves in fast! I want to twist her head right off her neck. But I know I can’t play it like that in front of Ian, so I saunter over, real casual, and say, “Ian, you were
so cool with that sword. Who knew you had this hidden talent!” And then, just to prove I’m not threatened by that bitch, I say, “Julia, you weren’t bad either for a beginner.”

“Thanks,” Julia says quietly.

There, done. I smile at Ian like it’s time to skedaddle. “Let’s go,” I say. “You can teach me some of those moves in my basement.” Hint, hint.

Ian swivels his head to face me. “I’m giving Jules a ride home,” he says.

“What?” I squawk. I look over at Julia and her eyes fly open, like this “ride home” is news to her too.

Ian grabs his jacket from his locker. “Come on, Rapunzel, let’s get out of here,” he says. Julia scampers after him. And I’m left alone in the empty hall.

I can’t believe this is happening to me. Ian is choosing Julia over me? Ian Slater is rejecting
me
? Is he out of his fucking mind? Anger shoots up my spine. My entire body vibrates with rage. And wham!—I kick his locker, hard! And then, oh my God, the pain! The pain! I think I just broke my big toe.

“Helplessly Hoping”

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, climbing off Ian’s bike.

“No problem,” he says. “So are you asking me in?” He grins and looks at me with those smoky eyes, and more than anything I want to say yes.

“No,” I blurt. Ian looks surprised. I glance over at Mom’s car in the driveway. “I’d like to,” I say, “but things are kind of weird at home.” I can’t imagine what my mother would say if she saw Ian in his black leather jacket, unshaven and longhaired, sitting at our kitchen table smoking cigarettes. I’d never hear the end of it.

Ian nods. “I get it,” he says.

“Maybe another time?” I say desperately, hoping he doesn’t think I’m not interested.

“Sure.” He smiles. He glides his bike down the driveway and takes off.

In the McDuffs’ garage, I find a broken hockey stick. In the kitchen, I grab two cans of soup. I bring these to the basement and begin training. First I do arm curls with the soup cans until my arms ache. Then I do push-ups, but I can
barely get to eight before I collapse. I have Gumby arms—pathetic! This will have to change. To limber up, I practice my dance exercises:
pliés, tendus
,
battements
. I figure that a lunge in jazz is almost the same as a lunge in fencing, and extended lines are something every dancer understands. I play “Soul Makossa” on the stereo and rehearse my old dance routines. In my mind, I can hear my jazz teacher, Eva von Gencsy, counting out the beats in her deep Hungarian accent:
Von, two, sree, four, five, seex, saven, eight
.

Next I pick up the broken hockey stick, my trusty sword, and run through the attack and parry exercises. Mr. Gabor says that we have to keep our steps controlled and tight because “big moves are slow moves.” He says, “Fencing is the graceful economy of movement.” Ian sure has that down. He even looks like a fencer, with his slim frame and flinty eyes. I still can’t believe he drove me home, the two of us leaning into the road, my body pressed against his back …