This Much Is True (22 page)

“Crazy,” I say in an attempt to console her.

Where have I been? How could Charlie do this to her? Discard her just like that?
I’m instantly reminded of his cousin.
Why am I so surprised?

I start feeling light-headed while all these thoughts race through my head. This conversation has taken me completely by surprise, and I feel bad for not being there for my best friend while she was going through all of this with Charlie. It makes me wonder who has been there for her with all of this. Still, she manages to smile.
It’s so Marla.
“And what do you want to do if it isn’t ballet?” I ask.

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything to you just yet. It’s in the early stages…but there’s this fashion photographer—Kandace Daniels? She’s been working with me for the past month, off and on. She’s started putting together a portfolio for me, and she’s gotten some interest.” Marla’s face lights up. “She’s heard of my mom, and she has connections here in New York as well as Paris and Milan. Kandace says being a dancer gives me an advantage as a fashion model because I’m tall enough, thin enough, and I know how to keep the pose. Clothes, fashion, and good fortune all rolled into one. You should see the photos she’s taken. Somehow, she made me look amazing.”

“You
are
amazing. Wow. You’re serious.” I slide off ‘
red velvet
’ and intently study Marla’s face. “This is what you want?”

“I’ve always had the dream of being a fashion model,” she says slowly.

“You never told me.”

“Holly knew.” She gives me an apologetic look and hurries on. “I just didn’t think it would ever happen. I met Kandace in Starbucks one day about a month ago. She was just staring at me and finally came over and introduced herself. She’s pretty well known. She discovered Helga Swenson three years ago. She thinks I have
the look
.”

My penchant for a black T-shirt and jeans for all occasions doesn’t afford me to know who Helga Swenson is or what
the look
entails. I’m sure Marla will teach me soon enough.

Right now, her blond ponytail swings through the air as she pirouettes around our living room. Her outright enthusiasm manages to deflate and effectively burst my bubble of an only-ballet world and the two of us in it. I’m bewildered by it all. She glances over at me.

“What will your parents say about all of this?” I’m confident all at once. Surely, her parents will talk some sense into her about this crazy fashion model idea. It’s so not a part of our plan.

“Well, unlike
you
, I actually do stay in touch with my parents.” She laughs. Her utter joy is contagious, and I start to smile. “They’re
thrilled
.”

“You told them already?” It’s obvious that I am way behind on the news around here.

She’s so giddy that I actually step back from her just in case it’s contagious. Giddy is not a feeling that I normally ever allow myself to feel—with one exception—with Linc that night, when we’d promised to be exclusive to each other.
Giddy.
I’d felt giddy right up until the moment at the airport when he said, “Tally,” like it had become a personal swear word to him and then shattered my heart in the next for all time.
Giddy. I hate giddy.

Even so, I force myself to smile. I even make an effort to flit around the living room with Marla a couple of times and start rearranging picture frames to drum up some elusive cheer for all of this. Marla doesn’t seem to notice my general lack of enthusiasm for all of her news.

“They’re thrilled. They might even be willing to fund my trip to Milan this spring. So, I need a job that
pays,
until I can afford to pay Kandace for her stellar photography work on my portfolio. I also have a plan B and even a plan C, which includes working at the Dahlia on 5th, taking classes at NYU per Rob’s smart suggestion, and working with Kandace on building up my fashion portfolio until I get my first gig. Rob thinks it’s a good plan. All of it.”

Rob again.

“Rob? NYU? Slinging drinks at the Dahlia? Where have I been?”

I feel more and more left out of all these plans.

“Rob’s been supportive that way…as a
friend.
I’ve already registered for the fall quarter at NYU because I’ll have time for classes during the day now,” she says. “My parents are thrilled with that, too. And the Dahlia is fine. The tips will be fabulous, and there are a lot of fun people that work there and hang out. The money’s going to be great.”

“And the fact that you’re not yet nineteen, let alone twenty-one?” I ask suddenly intent on following all the rules.

Marla just laughs. “That’s what fake IDs are for. Rob has a friend, who knows someone, who fixed me right up. According to my ID, I’m twenty-one.”

“You’re killing me.”

“Rob can hook you up, too.”

I shake my head suddenly bent upon being a rule follower to the death.

“I just never took him for being one to break the rules like that,” I say in confusion.

“I never took you for one to follow any of them.”

Point taken.

“Rob’s actually a lot of fun.
Truly.
He’s funny and capable and good.”

“Rob Thorn,” I say. “Funny. Capable. Good?” I look at her closely feeling this twinge of jealousy for some unknown reason. Maybe, I’m just defending Holly at this juncture. “Huh.”

She looks out the window at the lit-up Manhattan sky and then looks back at me with this sad face. “As for Charlie? Well, he’ll just have to figure it all out on his own. The truth is he needs to grow up. I can’t help him do that. In the meantime, I have an opportunity to do something I’ve always wanted to do, and I want to try to make it as a fashion model more than anything. Kandace thinks I’ve got what it takes, and I want to go for it. In the meantime, I want to have some fun, go to college, and live life on my own terms. If Charlie Masterson ever figures it out, he’ll have to work hard to win me back because I’m moving on.” She sweeps her hand through the air. “Just like you have.”

She looks over at me in triumph. The heady bliss of promised fame just reverberates off of her. Who am I to
argue
with her? I’ve chased that feeling since I was ten for ballet.

“I haven’t been the best example of moving on.” I shake my head side-to-side and get this rueful smile.

“Yes, you have. You’ve put your
all
into ballet. Look at you. You’re a day or two away from getting the apprenticeship offer from NYC Ballet and the chance of a lifetime.
Everyone
wants to be you.”

“I don’t think so. Everyone is going to want to be you. Marla Stone—fashion model extraordinaire.”

“Can you believe it? Just think, one day you may be walking by a newsstand and casually glance at one of the magazine covers and see
me
on the front cover.”

Her happiness fills up the whole room for a few moments and attempts to work its way inside of me but there’s another part of me that still hesitates.
She’ll be in Milan by spring.
And what will I do without Marla? Because I surely won’t be in Milan this spring.
Where will I be?
Nowhere
whispers this little voice inside my head.

I hug her tight. “I’m sorry about Charlie.”

“Me, too,” she says pulling back to look at me. “The thing is…love shouldn’t be this hard. Maybe, Cynthia would be the best thing for him right now.” She stands a little taller and straighter. “What I do know is that Charlie isn’t ready to get married
.
As much as it hurts me to end it with him, I’d rather do it now—then find out down the road when I’m
married
to the guy—only to then discover that he isn’t really committed for the long term. I mean if the biggest test of our relationship is making it work when we’re apart—and yet we can’t make
that
work—what are we really trying to save here?” She shakes her head side-to-side in disbelief. “It’s over.”

“I’m still so…sorry about you and Charlie.”

“I know. Me, too.” Her voice catches and she gazes out the window for a few moments before looking back at me. “I thought we had something special, but it turns out we didn’t. He hasn’t called me for almost five days. We usually talk every three hours. And now he’s asking Cynthia out. I guess, in the end, he just doesn’t care about me.”

“He cares about you. He’s just being stubborn and mixed-up about his priorities. That’s all. Guys do that. All the time.” We share this knowing look. “Thanks for being there for me. God, I wasted the whole summer on Lincoln Presley. Remind me never to do that again.”

“As long as you keep reminding me never to do a long-distance relationship again,” Marla says softly. “You know? On some level, it feels good to be free.
Really.
Now, I can just concentrate on living here—building a life here. Working, going to school, and maybe I’ll even call Devon. Someday,” she says. “Not now. Later. New Year’s or something.”

“Better. Let’s not rush into another relationship when we’re still trying to get over the last one.”

“Are you lecturing me or yourself? Because the one remedy I have in mind for you is mindless sex with a stranger.”

“Is that a drink call you’re memorizing?”

“No. It’s a solution to all this moping around. Not for me. For you. You need to relax and stop being so committed to ballet. It’s not the end of all things as we know it, you know.”

“I feel, like if I let up even once, I’ll fall or fail or both.”

“I know. I get it. But if you don’t let up and have a little fun, you’re going to lose the best part of you—that feisty, fuck-it-all Tally that we all know and love so much. Even Lincoln Presley loves that girl.”

“I thought we agreed some time ago not to talk about
him
.”

“We did, but you’re in a weird place,” she says. “You’re stuck between joy and sorrow. You’re in no man’s land.
Literally.
You’re so caught up in trying to forget about him that you can’t move on. Instead, it just keeps you here—in this awful, dark place. It’s not pretty.”

“Heavy-duty stuff coming from the girl who just sent her engagement ring back.”

“Well, I’m in an introspective mood. I’m just trying to figure it all out, too. What I want. What I don’t want.”

“Hard questions to ask, let alone answer.”

“Funny. That,” she says with a little laugh. “You’ve always known what you wanted. Maybe that’s what’s going on with you. Maybe you’ve changed your mind about what you want.”

“Impossible. I’m not allowed to do that. My dad just sent me the tuition for SAB’s Winter Term.” I start to smile, but it quickly fades when I catch this look of disappointment flit across her features. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says, starting towards her room. “It’s been a long day. Crazy. I just need some sleep, so I can try to focus upon moving on. I’m sleeping in by the way.”

“What about class? Rehearsal?”

She turns back and actually smiles. “That’s what so great about making decisions about my life. I don’t have to go to class or a rehearsal. There’s a wait staff meeting at three at the Dahlia tomorrow. Rob’s meeting me here and we’re going together so he can introduce me around beforehand.” She shrugs. “Why should I be in the last performance? What? So I can put it on my resume?” She rolls her eyes. “I already told Tremblay about my decision and declined her offer for being on the Winter Term wait list. Like I want to be on a wait list in case someone drops out,” she says. “I told Allaire I wouldn’t be there anymore. She’s cool with that.”

“She’s
cool
with that?” I ask, incredulous. Tremblay is never cool about anything. Cool is never a way to describe the woman.

“She’s fine with it,” Marla consoles. “Truth? I just want to go to bed and have a good cry over Charlie. Then, tomorrow? I’m going to wake up and start a new day and a new life. I’ve been in limbo for far too long. It’s time to move on.”

I don’t know what to say to that because her words ricochet through me like a stray bullet. My heart hurts as much as my head in just thinking about what all Marla’s revealed tonight about her relationship with Charlie that inadvertently reveals even more about mine with Linc. She’s handling the disappointment over her broken engagement with Charlie amazing well, whereas I have been all but falling apart over a guy whom I spent less than twenty-four hours with in total.

I need to move on.

I need to move past this thing with Linc and forget all about him.

That needs to happen. It does.

And, I need to start thinking of a back-up plan for my future just in case ballet doesn’t work out.

The fears rise again after being buried for some time in my psyche. Failing. Falling. Losing. I shake my head, wondering if I’ll ever really outrun them and if Lincoln Presley finally has.

* * * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tally ~ I have arrived

L
ife can change in as little of fifteen seconds. I know this.

Fifteen seconds.

An SUV clips my car, kills my sister, and changes me and my life forever.

Thirty seconds.

The time it takes for a stranger to lift me up and carry me away and save me from the burning wreckage.

Thirty seconds.

Thank you, Elvis.

One night.

The time it takes to fall in love with Lincoln Presley and forge promises that neither one of us can keep.

One night.

Thirty seconds.

The time it takes for him to tell me he loves me in one breath and then in the next says that he can’t be with me in just the way he says my name.

Thirty seconds.

In thirty seconds, a heart can break.

Right, Elvis?

Sixty seconds.

The time it takes to read the offer letter for the apprenticeship at one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the world—New York City Ballet. Only mirrored by the same amount of time it takes me to sign the offer of a lifetime.

Four weeks.

I’m allowed four weeks of almost pure bliss at NYC Ballet, where I finally feel that everything is actually right with the world.

Four weeks.

Miraculously, I seem to be in a better place. I’ve overcome the grief of losing Holly and the heartbreak over losing Lincoln Presley.

I am here. I have arrived.

I embark on my new life at New York City Ballet with new zeal.
Zeal.
This inexplicable almost energized happiness combines with equal parts gratitude and surreality. I pay homage to luck and timing. I smile more. When my parents call, I tell them that I’m fine and actually mean it because life suddenly feels amazingly grand for the first time in a long time. It’s still surreal, since Holly, since Linc, but I’m better. So much better.

This is me. This is me moving on.

I am put back together; I’m not the same—but I’m stronger, more determined, and freer.

Almost…dare I say?

Happy?

Four weeks.

In four weeks, I feel almost worthy and certainly beholden to both the unbelievable good fortune that got me here. Yet, at the same time, I acknowledge the entire truth—all the hard work that brought me here to this triumphant moment in my life.

I’ve made it.

I am here.

I have arrived.

This much is true.

Still.

I can’t quite fight off the effects of this seemingly endless flu. It feels chronic these days just like the heartbreak I finally admit to Marla to experiencing all summer long over Linc.

And, still?

I think it’s temporary so I push through this unknown malaise because I believe it’s just a nuisance and nothing whatsoever to worry about.

After all?

After all, the dance world awaits.

Yet this much is true: It waits for no one.

I push through this sick feeling to the third week of September.

Still, it doesn’t make any sense.

Until it does.

Four months to the day.

I’m free.
Free.

I’m on my way. Almost a star. A dancer. An apprentice. At eighteen.

This much is true:

The world awaits.

But really? It waits for no one.

I blow eighty bucks on my father’s credit card—the emergencies only Visa—, but it doesn’t matter how much money I spend at the pharmacy.

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter because the results are in.

They’re the same with every test I take.

Three minutes.

Test and wait.

Five Tests.

Five times.

Test and wait.

The results are all the same.

Plus lines. Pink lines. Blue lines.

The results are the same.

The results will change my life.

Again.

Either way.

Silly me.

I kept thinking that thoughts of Lincoln Presley would eventually fade away.

But he’s here to stay.

And how.

Now he haunts me…in such a surprising way.

Three minutes.

Just three minutes to turn my life upside down.

Again.

* * *

Marla sails through the door like she’s on roller skates. Tips must have been good at the Dahlia. It’s late. One in the morning. I’ve been pacing for four hours. Test time is long over. Reality settles in on me. I have to tell someone. That someone is Marla.

“Hey,” she says pouring herself lemonade in a ready shot glass. She makes it fresh every day now. We got on a kick about two months ago for old-fashioned lemonade when the temperatures eerily soared here in Manhattan. I watch her drink it down. She wipes her lips on the back of her hand when she finishes. “Great night. These New Yorkers are good tippers when they want to be. And Kandace booked me for a shoot next week with
Fashion Sense
. Can you believe it?”

“That’s great. She’s amazing.” I try to sound upbeat, but I’m not sure it’s working.

“How was your day? How’s the Corps?”

“Sasha tagged me for the Lilac Fairy in
Sleeping Beauty
.”

Marla looks amazed. “Oh, my God. That’s fantastic. I knew you’d get it.” She starts dancing around the living room. “God, that’s so amazing. You’re in! Sasha Belmont wants you to dance the lead part in Sleeping Beauty. That
never
happens this fast. It’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”

“I know it’s really great. It’ll run through the first week of November.” I sound like I’m giving a speech at my sister’s funeral. I cringe in thinking of that because now I do feel awful for not speaking at Holly’s funeral.

Marla stops twirling and looks over at me. “So, if it’s so great, why do you look like you’re about ready to cry?”

I take a deep breath because telling Marla will make it
real. Too real.
But telling Marla will make it possible for me to figure out what I’m supposed to do here. “It’s not that simple anymore.”

“What’s not that simple?”

“
This.
All of this. It’s just not that simple anymore.” I sweep my arm across the room like she did a few minutes before. I’m barely holding it together for an entirely different set of reasons that begin and end with Lincoln Presley. The irony of it all almost makes me want to laugh or cry. It would be funny if it wasn’t so damn serious.
I’m going to cry.
My ability to survive from one moment to the next has been largely centered on a true concentrated effort that has been solely focused on breathing for the past several hours. I’m surprised Marla hasn’t noticed this about me sooner, but she does now.

“What the
fuck
is your problem, Tally?”

We made a recent pact to use the f-word sparingly to give it more impact and meaning when we actually say it. Holly had always insisted upon this rule, and we honor her with it now. I gaze at Marla in an attempt to form the necessary words, so she will begin to understand the gravity of my situation.

“I’m late,” I finally whisper.
The heat rises to my face in delivering this truth. The hormones rage right on schedule like flipping clockwork. My body knows it, even if my mind refuses to admit it, despite this somewhat insistent fluttering in my midsection and five positive pregnancy tests.

“Late?” Marla looks momentarily confused but then gasps. “How
late
?”

“Possibly four…
months
…late,” I say slowly trying to find air. I hang my head. “More like four. Late. I don’t know.” I raise my arms feeling helpless and give her this pleading look. “I’m not sure.”

“Holy shit! When were you going to
tell
me?”

“After I tell myself,” I say softly.

Marla begins to laugh but then she stops. She’s caught between joy and sadness just like me; because, yes, being given the part of the Lilac Fairy in
Sleeping Beauty
with the NYC Ballet is a dancer’s dream, although finding out you’re pregnant the same day…not so much.
Welcome to my world.

We stare at one another and share in this utter bewilderment and silently acknowledge this cruel twist of fate. I’m unable to hang on to the funny yet still refuse to openly capitulate to the sadness—the tragedy of it all. There is just no right answer for this one. We both seem to know it when we look at one another. I know because I’ve searched for it again and again in the past couple of hours.

“Are you sure?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I make my way to the bathroom while Marla follows closely behind me. She gasps when she sees the pregnancy sticks and sort of groans as she compares the test results with each package’s set of instructions. “Holy shit,” Marla says in disbelief.

“Yeah. I aced my tryout for the solo part for the Lilac Fairy in
Sleeping Beauty.
Sasha was pleased. She made a special point of coming up to me afterwards and telling me what a great job I did and she didn’t waste a lot of time in announcing to the group that I had the part. I wasn’t the only one surprised.” I try to breathe. “Things were looking up. Right then. Until Benson made a casual remark about our last couple of lifts. I wasn’t twisting in his hands as well as I usually do. He said, “What you’d do, Tally, gain three pounds?” I leveled him with a bitchy stare, but his teasing caused me to race back to the dressing room when we had a break and step on a scale. I’ve gained three pounds. I kept asking myself how can that be. I mean I’ve been eating better but not enough to gain weight…”

“This can’t be happening,” Marla says in complete sympathy.

“Oh, but it is. Now that I think about it…it explains so much about this summer. How I just felt sick and tired all the time. I blamed it on Lincoln Presley.” I sigh. “I guess I still can…just not for the reasons I thought. He didn’t just break my heart; he knocked me up.” I start to laugh softly, but then I’m gripping the counter as I feel a panic attack coming on. I close my eyes and concentrate on taking deep, steady breaths.

“Okay, let’s not panic,” Marla says from behind me.

“Too late for that.”

“You’re handling it quite well. I think I would have screamed or something.”

“That might be next.”

This sick feeling overwhelms all of me. I race to the toilet and vomit the last remnants of dinner from earlier. At least, I can breathe again. Marla disappears giving me a few precious moments of privacy. I brush my teeth and pull my hair back in a ponytail and try for some kind of order both physically and mentally in my otherwise wrecked life.

“Come on. Let’s go.” Marla dutifully hands me my favorite black T-shirt and her black leather bomber jacket. She grabs my hand, pulls me out the door, and then down the fifteen flights of stairs and through the apartment building’s heavy steel doors into the rush and bustle of lower Manhattan. I actually begin to feel better. There’s nothing quite like a crowded sidewalk of people rushing every which way who don’t give a shit about you and whether you’re five months pregnant or not. These strangers as well as Marla provide enough solace and comfort in an otherwise cold, cruel, twist-of-fate world.

There’s nothing quite like having your best friend hold your hand and navigate the uneven sidewalk for both of us. Her actions alone implicitly tell me that everything is going to be okay somehow. In true heroic fashion, she leads me to our favorite place—the all-night diner we discovered our first week we were here—where she quickly orders two cups of black coffee from the waitress, who wears this crisp white uniform dress and purses her spunky red lips while sporting the wildest black punk haircut I’ve ever seen. I can’t help but admire the woman for her daring to wear it that way. She blatantly displays her personal fashion statement and doesn’t need an endorsement of any kind nor does she implicitly require a sense of belonging to an otherwise staid world from anyone else. No, it can all be damned. The waitress smiles over at me while Marla proceeds to order the juiciest well-cooked hamburger possible, an extra side of fries and a heaping pool of ketchup, and the biggest slice of coconut crème pie that the waitress can find along with two forks and two knives.

Why?
Because the situation as Marla puts it “
demands it.”
My best friend holds up two fingers to the waitress to further demonstrate all the things she wants in twos in double-time.

In this moment, the person I love the most, without question, is Marla Stone.

* * *

We don’t say anything for the first half-hour. Ironic, because there is plenty to say, and we’ve been talking incessantly to mostly each other since we arrived in New York. We’ve clung to each other in all these unexpected ways, in search of courage, as we braved this new world. We nimbly navigated our way into the most preeminent ballet academy in the United States as many aspirants tend to describe SAB. While Tremblay may have considered us her favorites back home, however implicit, she didn’t show it at all here. She’d been a taskmaster—demanding more, expecting more from both of us, and we’d given it back to her a hundred-fold. We were the best in all the classes that we’d taken at SAB; but it didn’t make us popular with anyone. We’d been somewhat ostracized by the intermediate and advanced students who had been at the SAB for much longer and who fully expected the newbies to pay their dues via this quiet torment that had been exuded with such force and cruel intent that most dancers would have quit. Yet, we shouldered this heavy burden of being Tremblay’s protégés and silently accepted our fate, even when Marla didn’t make it, and I miraculously did.

Yes. My best friend has hung in there with me through all of it. She’s here for me now.

“It’s going to be okay,” I finally say on a manic quest of some sort.

My words go unheard. She gets this pensive look instead. “Charlie called. He left a voice mail
again
. Do you think I should call him?”

“Do you
want
to call him?”

“I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated.” I frown. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it, does it?” I try to smile but fail as my new reality washes over me.
I’m pregnant. What am I going to do?

For a much-needed distraction, I pick up the knife and cut into my half of the hamburger and then proceed to judiciously cut the half into fourths. I pop the first one into my mouth and slowly savor the flavors of Swiss cheese and juicy, well-cooked ground sirloin and sweet onion and pickles. “I have had a craving for this burger for a couple of weeks now,” I admit to Marla. She stares at me open-mouthed.

“You never crave anything. Your willpower is amazing, bar none.”

“Not lately.” I laugh softly and steal another part of the burger from my plate. “You don’t have to stay.”