Some Convention Center in Anaheim
SOME CONVENTION CENTER IN ANAHEIM
Senior Year
By the time she’s eighteen, Evie excels at downplaying pain, dancing through pain, existing in pain. What choice does she have? She’s spent her entire adolescence bouncing from one unhelpful doctor to the next, who all report that her bloodwork is within normal range and assure her that if it were serious, she wouldn’t be able to perform at the caliber that she does. One doctor refers her to a psychiatrist. Another prescribes naproxen and a muscle relaxant with a gentle Some of us just have a low pain tolerance . Evie is a child, so she accepts this. Lives with unpredictable stomachaches. Learns to first locate a toilet whenever she’s in a new setting. Pops pain relievers like candy and gets on with life. What else is she supposed to do?
She’s a dancer.
An athlete who is curled up in the fetal position on her bathroom floor the night before Nationals, unable to sleep due to severe stomach stabbies. It’s just stress. Obviously. If something were serious… doctors would take her pain seriously. Right?
Stress.
In the morning, she pops three Tylenol and an antinausea medication.
Sees blood in the toilet and is confused.
Her period is never early.
But she doesn’t have time to dwell, instead double-, triple-checking that everything is packed. Costume pieces. Hair and makeup products. She adds a handful of tampons into her duffel bag as Lori and Theo pull up in front of the bungalow. An iced chai waits for her in the back seat cup holder. Car still in park, Lori twists and snaps a candid photo of her sipping the chai.
“ Mom ,” Theo groans.
“What? It’s Evie’s last competition chai.”
“She’s been like this all morning.”
Evie hears the smile in Theo’s voice. Earlier this week, Lori’s most recent scans came back all-clear. NED. No Evidence of Disease. Still in remission. Theo’s anxiety always spirals into overdrive in anticipation of the results. When Lori told them that she’s still in the clear, Evie could literally see the tension leave his body. Now, in the passenger seat, her best friend is at ease. Lori puts the car in drive and blasts the White Stripes, a precompetition ritual. Evie hums along to “Seven Nation Army” with Theo for the last time, relieved that the extra pain reliever kicked in, that her pain has subsided enough to hide it.
Her phone vibrates in her lap.
She’s stupid enough to hope that it’s Naomi. Her mom is currently in Santa Monica, leading some yoga retreat. Naomi, now vegan, took Evie and Imogen to Gracias Madre, a new restaurant in West Hollywood. Evie told herself she would be stone-cold in her resolve to give her mother nothing at this lunch, only to instantly spill her guts and forward the details for Nationals the moment Naomi asked for them.
But it’s not Naomi.
It’s Pep.
genny being a STAR. can’t wait to see u shine too, sweets xx!!
Attached is a photo of Imogen, a blur in motion on a lacrosse field. Inspired by Regina George, her sister channeled her Naomi Rage into a contact sport. Evie sends Pep a heart emoji. After Imogen’s game, her grandparents will drive from Tarzana to Anaheim on a Saturday. Pep and Mo attend every lacrosse game. Every dance competition. Naomi might not show up, but her grandparents do, and shouldn’t she focus on that?
Evie locks her phone, then presses her cheek against the window, and because there’s nothing to see on I-5, she closes her eyes and drifts to sleep.
“Evelyn?” She’s woken by the sound of Theo’s voice and a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Hey. We’re here.”
She blinks. “Sorry.”
He laughs. “Why are you apologizing?”
Together they enter some convention center in Anaheim, carrying everything they need in their arms. People pass them rolling garment racks, suitcases, makeup cases. Dance Parents are intense. Evie doesn’t have that. She has Miss Stella, who embraces her when they enter the conference room that their studio has been assigned as a backstage holding area. She has Caro, her sort-of-friend, Theo’s more-than-friend, who pins the band of her bra to her costume, a simple jade leotard with a flowy skirt. She has Pep and Mo and Imogen, who are on their way. And she has Theo, who French braids her hair because Imogen isn’t here to.
In return, Evie does Theo’s makeup.
Holds his chin in her hand as she applies charcoal on his waterline.
Ignores how stupid beautiful his face is.
Pops another pain reliever.
Theo’s eyebrows crinkle. “Are you okay?”
“Period cramps.”
“Do you need the heating pad?”
She shakes her head. “We should warm up and run it.”
Evie stands and retreats to an empty corner of the conference room to stretch out her limbs. Holds in her wince and releases it as an exhale in forward fold, then sits on the floor. It’s fine. She is fine . Evie has danced through an entire recital in worse condition. Eleven numbers. Three quick changes. Today, she only has two dances. First, a contemporary number to her favorite Sara Bareilles song, “Gravity.” Then a high-octane Broadway tap routine. Just two and then it’s over.
“Evelyn?”
She ignores the concern in his voice.
Stands.
Refuses to cry, to ruin her makeup. “Let’s run it.”
“Ev—”
“I’m fine.”
Theo nods, trusting her. At first, she is fine. Dance is a salve that mitigates her pain, that reminds her she’s strong, that story-telling through movement is her purpose. Confident after the second pass, as if the choreography hasn’t been absorbed into their bloodstream, Evie takes some time alone to get into character, to become the girl in the song who’s falling for someone she absolutely shouldn’t under any circumstance fall in love with. Because to dance well is to act, to emote, to evoke a response from the audience.
To act .
She lets the song loop on her iPod.
Paces.
Her phone vibrates in her hand.
Naomi.
It’s a photo of her in Joshua Tree, along with a message.
HEARTbrOKEN to miss u, evelyn. next time???
Next time?
Embarrassment crashes into her rib cage.
But she will not fuck up her makeup over Naomi.
“Evie?”
Miss Stella’s voice pulls focus. It’s time. She drops her phone. Pops one more Tylenol for good luck. Ignores the pain that shoots straight to her gut as she follows Miss Stella down the hall and through the door leading backstage. She doesn’t let go of Theo’s hand until she must. Swallows the emotion in her throat. Save it for the stage . It’s time to separate, but first he wraps his arms around her, then brushes his lips against her forehead. Evie doesn’t react to this very out-of-character action. She’s in character. He’s in character.
In.
Character.
“Ready?” she whispers.
Theo nods.
Evie ignores his flushed cheeks as the emcee calls them to the stage. Dance through. It’s what she always does and it always works. But her stomach cramps return with a vengeance the moment the producer says, Cue music , and fuck she’s behind the piano notes, only a half beat but just enough to feel off even when she’s back on track after the first rond de jambe. Evie’s not in character. Her body is on autopilot while her brain screams, You fucked up , and there isn’t anything to do except continue breathing, continue moving, continue dancing. Focus on Theo . He’s grounding during a moment of stillness, his eye contact a different sort of excruciating. I love you , she thinks, and it’s not an in-character thought, but a simple truth. She pliés into a split lift, a move that’s as second nature as breathing.
Ignores her heart.
Her body.
Her pain.
And when she slips out of Theo’s arms and hits the ground?
Evie doesn’t even see it coming.