Read This Much Is True Online

Authors: Katherine Owen

Tags: #contemporary fiction, #ballerina, #Literature, #Love, #epic love story, #love endures, #Loss, #love conquers all, #baseball pitcher, #sports romance, #Fiction, #DRAMA, #Romance, #Coming of Age, #new adult college romance, #Tragedy, #Contemporary Romance

This Much Is True (3 page)

BOOK: This Much Is True
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My movements, unchecked, disturb the prima ballerina’s concentration. Tremblay stops dancing and glances my way. She purses her lips, intimating deep tumultuous thoughts, and gets this disdainful look. She will be both judge and jury of my fate.

“Talia,” she says. “I didn’t see you there. Don’t dawdle. Are you ready to go? We only have two hours today before the next class. Come. Come.”

So this is how it is going to go.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks.

I struggle to put one foot in front of the other and meet her halfway across the room. I have to will my body to move any further into the room and conquer my fears and the devastation of grief at the same time.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks again with a more derisive tone.

I’m waiting for Holly.
I want to say this, but I wouldn’t dare.

At one point, Allaire Tremblay held the title as the world’s most premier prima ballerina; and, almost ten years later, she takes pride in her ability to teach and create champions even here in San Francisco that is still so far away from the seductive offerings of New York City and the School of American Ballet.

Yet she can help me get there from here.

And, getting there?

It’s all I have left to live for.

Tremblay bites at her lower lip with notable impatience at my slow cautious approach, but she refrains from saying anything more although she stonily glares at my hair. I remain ever defiant and willfully take my designated place at the front of the class. One glance in the long mirror directly in front of me practically undoes my resolve as I stare at the physical replica of my dead sister. After a prolonged moment, I save myself by looking away and catch Marla’s encouraging smile in the side mirror to my left as she scurries into place and barely avoids being cast as the prime example of a late arrival. No one wants to star in that role. I incline my head in her direction but don’t attempt to smile. We’re all just trying to power through it. There’s a vacant spot where Holly normally stood. The class remains subdued while the last of the girls takes their places in the back row. All of us seemingly stare at the empty spot and must think of Holly, until somewhat mercifully Madame Tremblay starts the music signaling the beginning of class.

Ballet is all about the mastery of repetition and a continual quest for perfection. Somehow, that works for me, even now. I can take in the air again as I dance. I can breathe again. My movements are fairly fluid and almost graceful. I ignore the protest my ribs made. I’ve healed enough. I suck it up and concentrate on perfecting the movements. My legs go higher and higher. Perfection is imminent and holds such a worthy promise for me. And, for the next few hours, I can actually feel myself acquiesce to the possibilities of living without Holly by fully embracing and accepting the almost impossible demands of ballet. It won’t replace my twin, but it’s all I have left. Ballet is all that remains of me.

* * *

Madame Tremblay waits by the door after class and touches my forearm in earnest. It’s an unexpected gesture. The woman is as cold as a dead fish, a critical instructor, and nobody’s friend. Her golden-brown eyes gaze into mine reflecting such a dissimilar color, I’m somewhat disconcerted. Even so, I spy the sadness in hers, surely they mirror mine. I involuntarily step back from her upon seeing this, somewhat afraid of how it reflects upon me. “Talia, you did well today.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

It seems to pain her to speak. I can see the rush of sympathy before she actually utters the words. I brace myself for them, but still they assault me as she says the obligatory, “I’m so sorry about Holly.”

I stiffen my upper torso and steel myself against the abrasiveness of these familiar words but like an arrow just glancing off of my beating heart, I feel the briefest of acute pain. I chase the grief away before it can get all the way inside of me. “Thank you, Madame,” I say in rote.

She nods. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. I’m taken aback by the slight smile upon her lips. Normally, her mouth portrays this taut straight dark-red line upon her otherwise impeccable ivory face or even more often a downward frown because nothing is ever right or perfect enough for Tremblay. I can’t quite hide my surprise at her smile. However, incongruent it might be. My mouth drops open.

“You’ve done well. You and Marla. You’re both ready.”

She motions towards Marla, who’s made a point of staying a good twenty-five feet from us so as not to disturb our conversation or even more likely not to get drawn into it at all. Nobody likes to talk to Tremblay. It generally means you weren’t up to standard or were not going to make the cut for an upcoming performance.

Again, she motions Marla forward.

We wait.

Tremblay sighs like a school girl and looks directly at us both. “SAB was pleased with your performances last summer. They’re considering inviting you back for September. There’s been a change of plans, and I’ve arranged for the two of you to help out with the summer program this year. Delora and Laurent have decided to leave New York for a while. Try things out here on the West Coast.” She pauses for effect it seems. “In any case, I’m officially the new director at the School of American Ballet, and I’ve chosen the two of you to come with me to be my quasi assistants and star students at the school. We’ve made an exception for the two of you to attend classes. I’ve spoken briefly to your parents about possible accommodations and tuition. Both sets of parents were extremely pleased with your accomplishments, and I made sure that they understood the opportunities the two of you are being given. I only asked that I be able to tell you personally so as to not have any misconceptions about what this is and isn’t.”

She smiles wide but joy doesn’t reach her eyes. “There are no favorites. You’ll have to work very hard to earn and keep your place at the school. I’ll demand more and expect more from both of you.” She makes a point of searching out both our faces with her direct, penetrating gaze. “In any case, I leave in a couple of weeks, and once you graduate; you’ll both soon follow. Now, let me be perfectly clear; you earned this shot at the big time not because of me but because of your immense talent. Both of you. Talia. Marla.”

This is high praise from Allaire Tremblay. Her sponsorship of us will mean everything, both in returning to one of the most prestigious ballet schools in the country but also in the launch of our dance careers within the next six months and possibly being given a chance at the internships with New York City Ballet. It’s not supposed to work this way, but it does.

She breathes deep, automatically commanding our attention again. “This is your chance, your best opportunity.” She pauses for so long, I’m not convinced she has anything else to say. Then she adds, “Don’t screw it up.”

“Wow,” I manage to finally say.

“Thank you so much, Madame Tremblay.” Marla grins and makes a few joyful squeals next to me. In jubilation, she grabs the older woman’s hand. We hold our collective breaths, while Tremblay gets an exasperated look and withdraws her hand from Marla’s grasp.

“Marla, you earned the spot with your hard work. This has nothing to do with me.
Really.
I’m just going to be the director at the school. Delora and I go way back so when she came up with the idea of trading places and
lives
, basically, for a while, well, it sounded like a good plan. You and Talia are the best dancers I have. You both did well last summer at SAB. It’s a natural choice—with or without me being involved.” She laughs ever so slightly. “Any questions?”

“My parents really want me to consider Stanford, what with Holly—”

“A good school,” Tremblay says with an almost imperceptible shrug of her bony shoulders, and then she shakes her head side-to-side. “But Talia. You’re a dancer. You have
talent
. Immense talent you should make the most of. You both do. You, too, Marla, if you could keep your mouth off of a boy’s long enough and better dedicate yourself.”

Marla protests at the teacher’s accurate assessment of her love life, which makes me almost laugh because it’s hard to argue with that particular truth. I exchange a slight knowing look with Tremblay, who smiles widely and actually laughs. She waves her hand in a dismissive way at both of us. I’m still reminded of a black widow spider but attempt to smile back and push my general distrust of her way down. I shiver, and wince at the movement even as my sore ribs silently protest. I’ve overdone it on this day.

“Okay. Yes. I want to train with you and return to New York.” I look over at Marla, and she’s nodding a more enthusiastically than me. “We both do. We want the chance of a lifetime. We won’t let you down.”

Tremblay laughs again while Marla and I exchange these surprised glances. It appears she’s as pleased with herself as much as she is with the two of us. “Good. We will start tomorrow then. After school, every day, until we leave for New York mid-June. I don’t want to leave anything to chance. It’s your commitment to the program that I’m counting on from both of you.”

I envision my father writing a gigantic check to Tremblay to pay for all these extra lessons, the apartment back east, and the tuition itself at SAB. I imagine his grief-stricken face as he blankly hands me the check while he vainly searches mine for any sign of Holly.

Holly I can never be.

We all know that.

But I continue to try
.

* * * *

CHAPTER FOUR

Tally ~ A conundrum

T
he incessant public gazing follows me down the hall as if they’re watching an accused witch march off to a wooden stake for burning. We’re studying the Salem Witch Trials in U.S. History, so I’m sure that’s why I’m feeling this particular persecution with such potency. I keep my head down and allow my eyes to study the various patterns in the linoleum as I make my way past all these jostling students and sympathetic stares. Nobody wants to be the dead twin’s sister. Nobody wants to be brought down by this tragic story. Including me.

“Tally.” Marla’s voice reaches for me from the other end of the hallway. I skirt past a couple of additional voyeurs who mumble their words at me as I slash my way through the last of the fervent bodies of Paly high-schoolers.

“Hey,” I say when I reach her locker. Marla’s presence represents a certain sanctuary, however temporary, and I almost smile.

“Hey,” she says with meaning, scrutinizing me closely. “How are you holding up?”

It’s been more than three months since the funeral, long after the debacle in the Caribbean with my parents and Tommy, where we did a lot of pretending that everything was normal even though it clearly wasn’t. We holed up in a five-star hotel room and blithely watched the ocean waves from our hotel suite most of the time, and no one said a word. Although after three days of this imposed confinement with what was left of my family, I did sneak off into the streets of St. Thomas and found a brief respite in the arms of one of the handsome locals. He didn’t know a word of English, and that suited me just fine. He seemed to like the fact that I chain-smoked one cigarette after another after we’d done the deed in all various ways possible at least a half-dozen times and I didn’t ask for money. Apparently, this was a refreshing change for him as well. At least, that’s what I was able to put together through his various hand gestures and his excited Spanish. He seemed to like the fact that I didn’t ask for anything except sex and silence.

But the risk factor to both my body and soul was patently high, and I almost lost it with him completely at one point. The shock of what I’d done with a complete stranger in a foreign country resonated with me on an ever deeper almost visceral level. And, as much as I’d felt something, however lascivious it was, fucking a foreigner—a complete stranger from a different culture—both pleased and shamed me on some incalculable, twisted level of my psyche. After that, I made a promise to myself—to do better, to be good. The harsh truth was far simpler. He made me feel
something
. Good or bad. I wasn’t sure; but I was disturbed by all this contemplative thought. Enough so, that when we returned home, I was intent on changing my ways. I was intent upon becoming the good daughter my parents so desperately needed. I would serve as Holly’s replacement in the only way I knew how: I would become more like her, at least for the foreseeable future, and effectively eschew my defiant and deviant ways for fucking a stranger—a foreign one at that. I’d be more careful. I’d be good.

Even so, here at Paly, despite my rather stealthy and unspectacular return to school and maintaining a somewhat earnest intent upon being more like Holly and focusing solely upon ballet, I’ve been unable to completely avoid the piercing spotlight. You would think after a long while that people would forget all about my sad circumstances—sans sister; but no, you would be wrong. A proverbial slow season of inevitable relationship breakups this spring keeps Holly’s fiery demise firmly planted into the hearts and minds of Paly’s student body and continues to hold their unwelcome attention upon me—sole survivor Tally—the victim’s sister. With Holly’s tragic end still reigning as the top newsflash for the year, I serve as the unwilling entertainment—fodder for the social headlines—starring in the lead role as the dead sister’s twin.

And I hear the whispers. The fervent gossip is everywhere around me.

Did you
see
her? How do you think she
does
it? Have you
seen
her mom? I hear her mom’s
drinking
again, and her dad works all the time at the hospital. It must be hard on them all, losing Holly like that. I don’t know what I’d do. She looks
so sad
. Do you think we should
say
something? Or, do you think she
wants
to be left alone? Have you
seen
Rob Thorn? I hear he’s thinking of
transferring
. It’s probably hard on the guy
seeing
his dead girlfriend’s face every day in the form of Tally Landon’s.

I do hear you, you know. I hear it all.

This is not attention that I am seeking. This is not a story I want to star in; but, apparently, I don’t have a choice in the matter. I’m counting the final hours that will lead me to the safe haven that only graduation can promise—a permanent respite from the self-serving gossip. A permanent break from high school is just what I need.

“There’s a party tonight—a kind of welcome-summer-lets-celebrate party.” Marla pauses for a moment, letting her announcement sink in. “At Charlie’s,” she adds in that breathless way of hers.

I glance at her sideways and grimace. “As in Charlie Masterson? As in the Charlie from two years ago? That one?”

“Don’t start.”

“He broke your heart. Who’s starting anything? The question is. Why do
you
want to finish it with him?”

She shrugs in a weak imitation of nonchalance. “Apparently, he’s changed.” She tries to smile but the corners of her mouth tremble and betray her futile attempt at bravado.

I roll my eyes and sigh. “Uh huh. He’s between girlfriends and wants to hook up with a previous one. Let me guess; finals are done at UCLA, and he’s home for the summer.”

My cynicism hails from the last two years of Marla’s never-ending mental anguish over Charlie Masterson. He managed to break her heart and for that—even though she was only sixteen at the time and couldn’t possibly know what she wanted in a guy, in a first love, no doubt—
he sucked,
in my mind.
Big time. Still does.

Marla ignores my mocking tone. “His cousin will be there. The baseball player. I told Charlie I’d bring a friend. I want to set you two up.” She smiles wider as if she’s discovered a new magic trick and is just waiting to show me.

“No.”

“His cousin and you as a setup is a great idea.”

“Because?” I swirl my finger in mid-air forming a question mark.

She laughs.
“Because you need to get out and let off some steam.” Marla leans in closer. “Have some
fun.
Break the rules again. Tally, you need to get laid.”

“Probably so,” I say tartly. “But that is not an option that I’m willing to take on at this particular moment in time.” I frown and recall my last questionable hook-up in St. Thomas all those weeks ago. I never told Marla about that one; I didn’t need the lecture. “I just don’t feel anything right now. I think it needs to be that way…to survive this.”

Marla allows for a long protracted silence. We both still struggle with the firm grip that grief over Holly manages to keep a hold on us both.

“Besides, I hate baseball, and I won’t know anybody else at this party.” I brush back my hair, hoping for nonchalance, and start emptying my locker out.
Graduation can’t come soon enough.

“That’s the best part. It will be all these people that Charlie knows. No one from Paly. Older guys. Older crowd. College guys. You could lose yourself a little. Lose your story.” Marla frowns. “
Come with me
. I want…I need…to see Charlie.”

“Why? He’s just going to hurt you again. And he drives too fast. There’s really no point in getting attached to someone who drives too fast, now is there?”

She glares at me. Her eyes are a lighter green than mine more like a dusty sage-green, but they darken when she’s mad. My morbidity has that kind of effect on people. I blow air out of my mouth and sidestep the guilt for a few minutes in saying something so cruel like this aloud. We’ve talked about Charlie Masterson’s driving skills before. I try to diffuse the bomb of this particular discussion by saying, “Why don’t you go out with a guy who drives a Volvo or something?” I don’t know why that idea popped into my head, and then I spy Rob Thorn as he slowly saunters past us. Marla looks clearly disenchanted with my attitude.
What else is new? Everybody is.
“Sorry,” I tack on. “I shouldn’t have said that about Charlie’s driving. I’m such a bitch. I’m sorry.”

Marla sighs. “Why do you have to be so cynical? Maybe Charlie wants to see me
for me
this time. Maybe he’s grown up. Maybe he doesn’t drive as fast anymore.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.”

“He’s been away at UCLA for three years. That can change a person, you know.
College
.”

“You think
college
changes people, Marla? That’s what you’re going with here?” I briefly glance over at Rob Thorn, who is eight lockers away from us. He’s eavesdropping on our conversation and has this solicitous look. I glare at him and turn my attention back to my best friend.

“I want to see him.
I do
,” she says when I roll my eyes again. “It’s been long enough, and we have our own plans for New York after graduation. I wish Tremblay didn’t commit us to the two workshop performances right off the bat after we get there, but what do I know? I want a chance to say good-bye to him one last time.” She sweeps her hand around, encompassing the expansive hallway, and gets this determined look. “But most of all, you’re my best friend, and you
have
to come with me. It’s an unwritten rule.” She laughs and squeezes my arm. “Come on. Come with me. I
need
you to be there with me. I have to see him. I want to.”

“I have pointe class tonight. So do you.”

Allaire Tremblay could not care less that it’s Friday night before the long Memorial Day weekend. She expects us to be there; and, since her influence is pivotal to our return to SAB and New York by the middle of June, I am beholden to making Tremblay’s class.
Marla? Not so much
. I can tell by the unwavering look upon her face that I will be going with her to Charlie Masterson’s party, too. I suppose it’s possible that Marla is absolutely right and maybe what I really need to do is get good and drunk
and
laid. These particular pastimes have become so absent from my life since the middle of February that I’ve forgotten how to have fun. The respite in the Caribbean just led me to question myself and my motives.

I’ve been busy keeping it together for my parents and Tommy serving as the perfect daughter and big sister. All this good behavior is warranted, especially since my parents reluctantly agreed to let me go to New York with Tremblay and Marla again this summer. It may lead to a winter term with SAB if things go the way they’re supposed to and may lead straight to the New York City Ballet internship if miracles ever happen for me again.
Yet we’re all still broken and swamped with so much grief over Holly that there appears to be no way out of it for any of us. My family still walks around the house in a sad stupor. We barely talk. We never have dinner together anymore. Memorial Day weekend is unplanned, unprepared, and unwelcome at the Landons. My mother has effectively shunned all the neighbors’ good intentions. She doesn’t leave the house anymore. The only thing that changes is the level line on the vodka bottle that I started marking off weeks ago. My parents probably think I don’t notice, but I do.

This truth is I don’t know who I really am at this point. I used to do things—fun things. I’d attend parties every so often, drink frilly drinks and do shots, and have random sex with reckless abandon with guys who were willing, while all the while maintaining a clear, dedicated focus on my ballet career at all times. I was rebellious Tally. I did what I wanted while Holly followed the rules and willingly played the part of the perfect daughter. Look where that got her? Now with me serving in that role, my personal sacrifice hasn’t even been noticed by my parents. It hasn’t changed anything. My family still slowly decays right in front of me. My parents are under a great deal of stress. I see their pain every time I look at them. We all seem to be falling apart in slow motion.

So does being perfect really change anything? Would we all be better off if I just stopped trying to be perfect and was just myself? These thoughts come in on me swiftly. Have I been doing it all wrong? Is the secret to surviving the loss of Holly just trying to feel something and be myself again?

I spin the dial on my lock on the locker, which is located right next to Marla’s, and try not to look over at Holly’s on the other side. Some brilliant wonder on the student council thought it would be a good idea to make Holly’s locker into some kind of shrine. There are cards and dead flowers and unlit candles (because the district has a strict policy against actually lighting them) strewn about. There’s a Tinker Bell balloon that’s begun to lose its helium.
Dead. Like Holly.
‘We miss you’ it says in a black script. It limps up and down with every student who passes by stirring the lifeless air all around it. I shiver.
Who’s going to clean all this up?
I’m pulled from my concentrated study of Holly’s shrine back to reality when Marla puts her arm around my shoulders and vies for my undivided attention.

“After
pointe class. I’ll come over and pick you up. I’ve got a few things you can borrow.”

“This just gets better and better.”

Marla rolls her eyes at my obvious reluctance and closely scrutinizes my standard attire of black jeans and matching T-shirt. “
Please
.”

I sigh heavily after another ten seconds of her
please, please, please
plead. “All right. I’ll find something of Holly’s to wear, and you can pick me up a little after eight.”

“Good. That’ll give me time to re-do your make-up.”

“What makes you think my make-up will need to be re-done?”

“We need to look older, more sophisticated. The über-talented ballet girl isn’t going to cut it tonight.” Marla laughs. “These guys are older. Remember?”

“Right.” I check my dance gym bag and ensure I have an extra pair of toe shoes and zip up my bag. “You’re not coming to pointe class. Are you?”

“Nah. I want to shave my legs for Charlie.” This pink flush stains her cheeks and she starts to giggle. Marla flips her long blond hair over her shoulder and gets this dreamy look.

I still don’t understand why Charlie Masterson let her go. Marla’s mother is from Sicily; she’s a retired fashion model. The girl inherited every one of her mother’s gorgeous genes, including the European olive skin tone, golden blond hair, and these amazing green eyes complete with the long, lean perfect body.
Charlie Masterson is a jerk. A big one.
I frown and begin to worry all over again about Marla getting hurt by him. “Are you sure…about seeing Charlie again?”

“I’m sure. It’ll be okay. New York is our future.” She catches her lower lip between her teeth. “It’s closure more than anything,” she says with a slight shrug.

BOOK: This Much Is True
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