Shattered (11 page)

“So what stage do you think you’re at?”

I study the brochure. “I don’t know. I can relate to a lot of the things in the first four stages.”

“That’s perfectly normal, too. You can bounce from stage one to stage three and then go to stage two. The good thing is to understand that this is simply how people feel when they lose someone. If you know what to expect, such as that you’ll be unreasonably angry at times, it’s comforting to know it’s just normal. Or, say, if your father gets angry over something irrational, you can remind yourself that he’s probably just grieving, too. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” I put the brochure in my bag. “I think that’s going to be helpful.”

She smiles. “Good. Knowledge is power, you know?”

“Thanks for telling me about this.” I want to go now. I don’t want to seem rude or ungrateful, but I don’t want to talk to her too long. I’m afraid I’ll say too much.

“You’re going to be okay, Cleo. But it’s going to take time. And you’ll probably keep bouncing around in these first few stages for a while. But I’m here for you... if you ever need to talk. And I’d like to contact a grief group for you. I do think that would be helpful.” She makes a note of this. “I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Okay.” I stand, thinking this is a good time to go. “I do appreciate you talking to me.”

She reaches out to shake my hand. “And I mean it, Cleo, anytime you need to talk, just come on in to the guidance center. If I’m with someone else, Ms. Farrell will make you an appointment. Okay?”

I nod. “Sounds good.”

“Don’t forget to ask Ms. Farrell for a hall pass.”

“Right.”

“Hang in there.”

“Oh, yeah.” I try to insert a bit of enthusiasm into my voice, but it sounds false to my ears.

I make it to fourth period, art class, about ten minutes late. Mrs. Lloyd gives me a hug, telling me how sorry she is for my loss. I thank her, then get my current project out of my locker and take a seat in the back of the room. I try to focus on the acrylic painting, but my vision grows blurry so the cottage and flower garden I was painting for my mom’s Mother’s Day gift is wrapped in thick fog.

“Hey, Cleo,” Drew Mackey says to me. “Sorry to hear about your mom.”

I thank him. Drew is kind of a character—artistic and unique. He has dreadlocks that go midway down his back. For years Lola has been pretty sure he’s into drugs, but I’ve always defended him as a free spirit. And he’s a good artist, too.

“Mind if I sit with you?” he asks.

“Sure, if you want. I’m not very good company.”

“It’s like a double bummer. You lose your mom like that and Lola moves away—all in the same weekend. Seriously, that is so twisted.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“And the thing with your mom. Man, it’s just so random... so unfair. What is wrong with the universe?”

I bite my lip.

“So, really, are you doing okay?” He’s peering into my eyes with what seems like genuine concern. “Not so good.”

He nods. “Life is tough sometimes.”

I suddenly get an idea. Studying him closely, I wonder if I’m completely losing my mind, or if I’m just really desperate. “Drew?” I say quietly, glancing around to be sure no one can hear me. “I... uh... I’ve been taking some of my mom’s old pain pills.” I blink back tears. “And they kind of help me through this. You know what I mean?”

“Oh yeah. Totally.”

I look down at my painting again. What had started out so cheerful and bright now seems so garish, so wrong. Like me. I feel so ashamed. What am I doing? “I know someone who can help you with that,” he says in a hushed tone.

I look up in surprise. “You do?”

“Yeah. A friend of mine. T. J. He can help you.”

My heart is pounding. What am I doing here? Am I actually initiating some kind of drug deal? How did I get to this place? But even as these thoughts are racing through my head, I watch as he tears off a piece of sketch paper. He writes down a phone number, then slides it over to me.

“T. J.’s a good guy. You can trust him, Cleo.”

I slip the paper into my bag. “Thanks,” I murmur as I stare at my painting.

I won’t be using that phone number. I won’t be calling this T. J. person. Good grief! That would be so incredibly stupid. Even more stupid than what I’ve already done. I will simply stop taking those pills. I can do it.

A
fter school, Daniel joins me by the front entrance. “So... how did it go today? Your first day back at school? You doing okay?”

I attempt a forced smile. “I guess it went as well as it could go.”

“How was Mrs. Stanley?”

I almost forgot I told him about that. “She was nice... helpful.”

“Are you interested in getting coffee?”

I blink, trying to grasp what he’s saying. “With you?”

He laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

“Sure.” I nod. “That would be—”

“Hey, Cleo!”

I look over to the street and see that white minivan, even dustier looking than this morning. Did she take it on a dirt road? And Aunt Kellie, wearing one of her horrible ValueMart outfits, is standing next to the minivan, waving wildly at me. “Time for ballet lessons!” she calls out like she wants the whole school to know.

Blood rushes to my cheeks as I turn back to Daniel, but he just smiles. “Looks like you have a previous engagement.”

“Just ballet. And I told her I’m not going.”

“I think it’s cool that you do ballet, Cleo.”

I frown. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’d love to see you dance.”

“Come on, Cleo,” my aunt yells. “You don’t want to be late.”

“How about you give me a rain check for coffee?” Daniel offers.

“Sure.” I nod eagerly. “I’d like that.”

“What time does your ballet class end?”

“Five.”

“How about if I pick you up?”

“Really? That would be great.”

“I’ll bet you take lessons at Madame Reginald’s Ballet Academy.”

“How did you know that?”

“It’s a small town, Cleo.” He smiles and his eyes sparkle like sunlight on the ocean. “And my little sister used to take lessons there.”

My aunt yells again.

“So I’ll see you at five?” I say as I step away from him.

“I’ll be there.”

Feeling unreal, I jog over to the minivan and climb in. “I told you I didn’t want to go to ballet today.”

Aunt Kellie puts the van in gear. “I know what you said. But I didn’t think you meant it.”

“But I didn’t bring my things and—”

“I found your ballet bag.” She jerks her thumb toward the backseat. “I assumed your things were in it.”

“Thanks a lot,” I grumble.

“Who was that handsome young man you were talking to?” she asks with way too much curiosity.

“A friend.”

“Oh... ?”

“Yes. A friend, Aunt Kellie.
Just
a friend.”

As I’m getting out of the van in front of the ballet studio, I turn to my aunt. “By the way, my
friend
Daniel will pick me up after ballet so you don’t need to get me.”

“I don’t mind picking you up.”

I’m tempted to tell Aunt Kellie to get a life, but I remember the last time I said that. “Thanks,” I tell her in a curt tone. “But I don’t need you to. Okay?”

She nods.

I feel trapped as I go up the stairs. I do not want to dance today. I don’t think I even remember how to dance. How does one dance with a bag of rocks tied to one’s back? Feeling like a robot, or a zombie that’s been programmed, I go into the dressing room where Faith Stuart and Amanda Green are already changed into tights and leotards and lacing up their pointe shoes.

We three are the only dancers in the advanced en-pointe class. Faith is still the “new girl” since she only moved here last fall. And although she’s in the advanced class, her skill level isn’t quite there yet. Still, she’s a sweet girl, and it’s a relief not to be stuck in this class with only Amanda.

“Oh, there you are,” Amanda says when she sees me. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t come in today.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your mother.” Faith gets up from the bench, coming over to give me a hug.

“Thanks,” I murmur after she finally releases me.

“I’m sorry too,” Amanda says. “It was so shocking to hear it on the news last weekend. I couldn’t believe it was actually your mother, Cleo. You must be totally devastated.”

I just nod as I set down my bag and begin to undress.

Amanda and Faith continue to make polite chatter, but when they see I’m not really responding, they excuse themselves to start warming up. I take my time as I gather one leg of my tights into a bunchy “donut.” That’s a term my mom made up when I was little and trying to figure out how to put on tights without ruining them. I point my toe, slip it into the donut, and feel a lump growing in my throat.

So many things my mom taught me. How will I get along without her?

As I pull on my leotard, adjusting the straps, I feel the need for a pill. I want to block out these memories, to numb this pain. The problem is, I don’t have any on me. I had planned to go home and remove one from my secret tampon stash. But thanks to Aunt Kellie, I’m stuck here without any. So for now, I’m on my own.

“Oh, Cleo!” Madame Reginald exclaims when I finally join them in the big open loft. She rushes at me with her wraparound skirt flapping behind her, takes me into her arms, and holds me tight. “I am so very sorry for you loss, cheri!”

“Thank you, Madame,” I mutter as I step away. I’m surprisingly comforted to see my ballet instructor. I’ve known her since I was in preschool, yet she never seems to change or age, and the French accent, which is authentic, never goes away. I think even her perfume is the same—an airy citrus aroma.

“I am so sorry I could not make her funeral.” She shakes her head. “I had lessons that morning.” She taps her chest. “But my heart was with you.”

“Thanks.”

“She was a wonderful, wonderful woman.” Madame Reginald tucks a loose strand of my hair back into the sloppy bun I made in the dressing room and takes a bobby pin from her own hair to secure it. She sighs sadly. “She will be so very missed!”

“I know.”

“So, how are you doing, cheri?” She takes my face in both of her cool hands, looking directly into my eyes. “You are so sad. I know.”

“Yeah...”

“But
dancing
is like medicine. It is how you will recover from this heartache. Your mother so loved to watch you dance, Cleo. She will be with you in spirit whenever you dance. Don’t you think so, too?”

“I hope so.”

“Good.” She nods firmly, then points to the barre. “Now, warm up,
s’il vous plait”

I go through the paces, stretching and warming up, doing plies, fouettes, jetes, and pirouettes. But my heart is not in it. And then we begin to actually dance, rehearsing our numbers for the June recital, and the steps come automatically to me, but my movements are without life. We are doing
Cinderella
this year, and although I was thrilled to win the lead, there is no passion in my steps as I dance. No one says anything, but I know they are aware of this. Even the janitor who is beginning to sweep on the far side of the room probably knows I have lost the ability to dance.

As we finish the dance where the stepsisters tear up Cinderella’s dress, I can see the wheels turning in Amanda’s head. And then she begins showing off, doing one perfect fouette after another, spinning so fast that I feel dizzy, and then just like that she stops.

“How was that?” she asks Madame Reginald.

“Very good.” Madame smiles and nods.

“I’ve been practicing.”

“I can see that.”

I’m sure Amanda is already planning to replace me as Cinderella—she hates that Madame Reginald picked her to be a stepsister as well as the fairy godmother. For years Amanda and I have competed, and she would love to see me fail at holding on to the lead. That alone should motivate me to try harder. And yet I don’t really care.

Madame Reginald says something to the pianist, then instructs Faith and Amanda to begin their stepsister number. She turns to me, asking me to come speak privately with her at her desk.

I follow her, noticing not for the first time how she walks like a real ballerina—straight spine, head high, smooth arms, graceful legs, feet turned out. I try to imitate her.

She sits on the edge of her desk, looking intently at me, as if she’d like to push a magic button that would fix me. Oh, how I wish she could.

“I know you are so sad, cheri.”

I bite my lip, feeling the edge of tears, feeling the need for Vicodin.

“How could you not be? But you must use your pain to reach that place in your heart.” She taps my sternum with her forefinger. “That secret place where the true dancer lives. You bring her out and you allow her to dance from the depths of your emotion.” She strokes my hair. “And you will get well again. I promise.”