41. Strike 13 Cold As Fuckballs
JENNIE
It’s colder here. Harsh and biting, a bitter, frigid wind that slaps every inch of exposed skin until you feel like you’re both numb and on fire.
It’s a prickly, uncomfortable feeling, and with a sound of distaste, I bring my phone to my face and pull up my Toronto Pros Toronto traffic is a shit show.
“Thank you so much, Manny,” I say to my driver as I climb out.
“Good luck on your interview, Jennie!” he shouts through his open window.
The building before me isn’t all that tall, but as I stare up at it, it feels massive, like the decision that’s weighing on me, pulling my future in every direction like a rag doll. Indecision swirls in my stomach, making it ache, and my gaze roams the space for a place to sit, to catch my breath.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I ramble, pacing the walkway. Apprehension claws at my chest and my heartbeat runs rampant. I press my hand there as if I can still the frantic racing. “I can’t do this. What am I doing here?”
My phone pings once, then twice, and the world skids to a stop at the tiny bear lighting my screen.
Bear: I know you need space to make this decision on your own, but I couldn’t let you go in there without saying something first.
Bear: You can do this. You deserve this. You’ve earned it. If you want it, all you have to do is reach out and take it. I’m proud of you, Jennie, and no matter what, you’ll always be my best friend, and I’ll always be your safe place to land.
A sneaky tear leaks out of my sneaky tear duct, trailing a sneaky path down my not-so-sneaky cheek. I quickly swipe at it, sniffling as I reread his message once, twice, and then a third time, just for good measure.
With a steadying inhale, I tuck my phone away, march up the front steps, and throw the doors open.
* * *
“Jennifer?”
“Hmm?” My gaze falls from space, searching for the person who spoke my name.
Monica, Leah’s friend, gives me a soft smile and looks to her right, where Annalise is watching me.
“I’m so sorry. Adjusting to the time change.
” Also, she keeps calling me Jennifer, even though I’ve requested several times now to be called Jennie.
“You’d think you’d have more energy, since we’re, what? Four hours ahead here?”
“Three.” It’s 6:30 p.m. here, which means it’s 3:30 p.m. at home. Garrett would be picking me up from school and we’d be going home for a quick nap. Nap time is one of my favorite times.
Annalise smiles. There’s a hint of tightness behind it, seen in the firm way she presses her lips together, but then again, I haven’t seen her teeth once all afternoon. She’s in her sixties, and something tells me she hasn’t gotten laid in at least twenty years.
“Nevertheless, we were just saying that we think you’d fit right in with us here.”
I’m not sure about that. Earlier today I watched half of them bark orders at ballerinas who looked on the verge of passing out, or crying, which is exactly why I left ballet in the first place. Still, that they want me is exciting all the same, and my shoulders fall back as I sit taller and beam.
“Really?”
“Of course. We’ve been watching you for years. You’re a beautiful dancer.”
“And Leah always has the most wonderful things to say about you,” Monica adds.
I like Monica. Like Leah, she’s younger and still, I don’t know…
full of life? Not beaten down by the dictators of the professional dance world?
A nice human being? She’s friendly and personable, and she spent most of the tour whispering in my ear about Annalise every time that woman turned her back.
At one point, I had to pretend I was coughing to hide my laughter.
Before I can respond, a young man stops at our table. “Are we ready to order?”
Annalise gestures at me. “Why don’t you start us off?”
“Hmmm…” My eyes sweep the menu. Six-ounce teriyaki sirloin. Sold. My stomach sings with glee, and I tap on the option. “I’ll have the sirloin, medium rare, with a twice-baked potato, fully loaded, and—”
“Oh, Jennifer, sweetheart.” Annalise’s patronizing gaze rises above her frameless glasses. “Wouldn’t you prefer something lighter?”
“Um…” Not fucking really?
“It’s a very rigorous program, so we of course expect our instructors to be as dedicated as our students when it comes to training. That includes nutrition.”
“Of course.” I plaster on a smile, slipping a protective hand over my belly beneath the table, chasing away the ashamed thoughts that try to enter, reminding me I’m not as slim as I was just a handful of months ago. “I’ll have the grilled chicken caprese salad, please.”
“An excellent choice, ma’am,” the waiter replies, but the amusement dancing in his eyes tells me he knows as well as I do that that’s fucking bullshit. At my narrowed gaze, he dips his head to hide his grin as he takes my menu. “And to drink?”
“She’ll have a vodka soda water with a lemon.” Annalise winks. “Sugar-free.”
“Actually, I don’t drink. A root beer would be great.”
I wonder if the horror and disbelief in her expression are due to my self-inflicted sobriety or the sugar-laden soda.
Before she can tear me down for either, I tell her, “My dad passed when I was sixteen after his car was struck by a drunk driver. I haven’t had root beer in ages, up until very recently, because it was my dad’s favorite drink.
We loved that kind that came in the brown glass bottles, Dad’s Old Fashioned Root Beer, it was called.
” I laugh. “My dad used to tell me that he made it, that’s why it had his name on it.
He came home from work every Friday with a six-pack, and we all drank one while we had our family pizza and movie night. ”
“That’s…well—”