Chapter 19
AIDAN
“Please,” I beg, staring directly into Victor’s eyes. For the last five minutes, he’s been meticulously tearing his program book into tiny strips, balling them up, and chucking them at other students. At this point, I’ll do anything to make him stop. I’m not above bargaining with students.
“But ballet is stupid. It’s for girls.” Victor dares me to argue with him with the same fiery gaze he had when he was in my classroom two years ago.
“Ballet is for everyone. Plenty of men do ballet.”
“Name one,” Victor challenges. At least ten sets of eyes turn to look at me, waiting to see who will win this challenge.
I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life.
“Well,” I open my program and thumb through the pages until I find the ones that have the headshots and profiles of the dancers. “Right here. This is my friend, Covey Gallagher. We grew up together right here in Burlington.”
Victor studies the page with the kind of focus I wish he’d apply to his math worksheets. “Really? You know him?”
“Yep, our families are still good friends.” That might be a slight exaggeration, but I’m tired.
The show doesn’t start for another ten minutes, and I’m already dreaming about what I’m going to do when the students go home for the day.
Plus, it’s not like I can disclose the full extent of our relationship.
“Showing off your boyfriend?”
I could kill Silas. Sadly, the theater is full of students who’d tattle on me in a heartbeat.
“Boyfriend? I thought you said he was your friend?” And that incredibly loud question is enough to draw eyes from multiple rows of students, some not even ours, willing to stop their conversations to find out the newest teacher gossip.
“Thank you, Mr. Ralson. Covey is my friend, but we’re also… dating.” I shoot Silas a look that I hope conveys my anger. It’s one thing to play this game with our families, but dragging it into the classroom is another story.
It’s not that I hide who I am from the students.
The school administration and my fellow teachers are fully aware of my sexuality.
But I’m also single, and my dating life is not an appropriate topic of conversation for kindergarteners, no matter who I’m with.
If someone was in my life more permanently, then they might get an introduction.
Even if Covey and I were dating, it’d be too soon for that. Kids get weirdly attached, and I don’t want to have awkward conversations about breakups with a bunch of five-year-olds. Having them with my twenty-something friends is uncomfortable enough.
“Gross,” Victor says under his breath. I decide not to take offense at it. I’m pretty sure he’d say the same thing if I were dating a woman.
“You’re dating one of the dancers?” one of the girls in the row in front of us asks, craning her neck around to get a good look at me.
“Really?”
“Which one?”
“Is he The Nutcracker?”
“Mr. Matthews, how did you meet a dancer?”
A flurry of questions from a group of third-grade girls comes hurdling at me, one after another, with no pause for me to answer.
It’s clear why I keep my mouth shut, right? Silas gives me a satisfied grin as I sink further down in my seat, ignoring the questions that keep coming my way, and plot my revenge.
Thankfully, the lights flash a couple of times, signaling that the show is about to start.
These special productions for elementary school classes are a little different.
They dim the lights, but don’t make it dark so that we can keep a better eye on the kids.
It’s an entirely different vibe than when I was here a week and a half ago.
And didn’t tell Covey.
I meant to, but then I didn’t. And the longer I didn’t, the less I thought it was worth mentioning.
He’ll know I was here today, which is all that matters.
And then at least if I say something about his performance, he’ll attribute it to tonight, and I don’t have to be so on edge, worried I’ll accidentally say something.
A woman steps out on stage, carrying a microphone. “Good afternoon,” she says a little too exuberantly.
“Good afternoon,” the students repeat, used to this type of call and response.
Thankfully, she doesn’t do the bit where she makes them try again.
Instead, she goes on to explain what they’re going to see on stage today, talking about the history of The Nutcracker and the changes that have been made to it over the years.
Most of the information is also in the program, but none of the students have read it.
Soon, she introduces the dances, the lights fade slightly more, and the curtain opens.
Even having seen this once this year, I’m instantly mesmerized by the scene in front of me.
Even more once Covey is on stage, there’s something about his presence.
And yeah, I know I’m biased, but I think he’s the best one.
Maybe not the dancing—I can’t say—but the aura he gives off.
His face and body language are so expressive the whole time.
Maybe it’s because I can see better from this seat than I could on the balcony.
Maybe because he’s performing for the kids, but I have to say that it’s incredible to watch him.
I can’t wait until the kids get to meet him after the show. It’s a thing the dancers do. When I found out about it yesterday, I texted Covey to make sure he’d be one of them. I got a thumbs up and a winky face, so I’m guessing he’ll be there.
Maybe I should give him a heads-up that the kids think we’re dating. One more thing to add to the mess we’re making.
When I do manage to tear my gaze away from the stage, I can’t help but look at the expressions on the faces of the children.
Sure, a few are bored out of their minds, but the rest are looking at the stage with an expression I rarely see unless it’s about a new video game.
Pride threatens to spill out of my chest. It’s stupid, but I’m overjoyed that it’s Covey who gives them this bit of holiday joy.
With a little bit of help from the rest of the dance company.
That feeling stays right up until someone tugs at my shirt sleeve. “Mr. Matthews? I need to go potty.”
COVEY
Performances during School Week, where we do matinees every afternoon for local elementary, middle, and high schools, are exhausting. It’s an incredible way to connect to the community, people who might not otherwise come to the ballet, and to share a bit of our art.
It’d be hard enough if it was all we did, but it’s not.
There are still company classes in the morning, rehearsals in the evening with the various casts of children, and rehearsals for the new show we’ll be debuting in February.
It’s a grueling schedule that’s breaking my body down faster than I imagined.
Still, as I make my way toward the theater lobby, I can’t help the smile that stretches across my face. This is where I belong. I’ve felt for a while that being back in Burlington is the right choice, but being here, doing these shows, really cements my decision.
And then there’s Aidan. My pulse picks up the minute I see him.
He’s easy to spot, too, towering over most people in a room full of elementary schoolers.
He’s a big part of this content feeling.
I’m still trying to work through all of that, figure out what we are to each other.
As long as we’re together, I guess I don’t care what we call it.
He’s in professional attire, a button-down shirt and tie, plus a pair of black pants.
Even with that, he looks incredible. It’s not the look that draws me in.
It’s the way the kids hang—literally—on him, like they’re trying to soak up every word that he says.
It’s the same way I feel when he’s around, like if I don’t get every ounce of his attention, I’ll die.
I’m one of the first dancers out, but as soon as a few more company members join me, the kids turn and start to rush toward us.
Okay, by us, I mainly mean the female dancers. They always get the attention. That, and Anders. As the lead for the Candy Cane dance, he’s earned every ounce of attention. It’s a pure show of strength, with plenty of quick jumps and turns.
Aidan spots me and we lock gazes. I give him a ridiculous little wave that several of the kids return. They don’t make a move toward me, so I push my way toward him, moving through groups of students flocked around the women, begging to touch their tutus.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, that was incredible.”
“Thanks.” I feel my cheeks heat. I didn’t expect Aidan to come to a show.
He came plenty when we were kids, but mostly because my parents brought him along and then rewarded us both afterwards.
They always took us to a great restaurant after a show.
Somewhere we’d never usually get to go, and we ordered anything we wanted.
That usually included milkshakes. And since his mom was always on some health food kick, he was happy to get anything that wasn’t tofu and quinoa.
His being here today means a lot to me, even if he’s here by force.
“Mr. Matthews, is this the one you’re dating?” A little girl with blonde pigtails stares up at me.
Is my mom using mini-spies now?
Aidan winces. “This is my friend Covey.”
“But that’s the one Mr. Ralston said is your boyfriend. Right?”
“Yes.” I can practically hear Aidan grinding his teeth together. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but I can tell I’ve missed something.
“Oh, are you guys going to get married?” a girl wearing a pink skirt that looks like a tutu asks.
I nearly choke on my spit. It’s been a whole ten minutes since the show ended. How did things go sideways this quickly?
“Can you visit our classroom?”
“Can you show me how to do turns?”
The questions come rapid fire. No one seems interested in pausing long enough to get an answer, which is good because I don’t have any.
“Why aren’t you wearing pants?”
And… everyone is staring. At my crotch. Cool. I take a deep breath and try not to look uncomfortable. “I’m wearing tights. They’re part of my costume.” That’s the kind of question I answer a lot. Perhaps not surprisingly, I get a lot of questions about the tights. And what I wear under them.
“But I can see your—” Aidan moves fast enough to get a hand over a little boy’s mouth before he can finish that thought.
“I think we’ve taken up enough of Covey’s time. I’m sure he has important things to do.” I’m so thankful I could kiss him. That’d only create more problems.
“I do need to mingle a bit.” Lies, but one I feel comfortable with. Perhaps I should think about how comfortable I’ve become telling little fibs. Maybe something to tell my therapist about in our next session.
“Okay, but since you’re Mr. Matthew’s boyfriend, we’ll see you again soon, right?”
I stare at Aidan, silently pleading with him to answer this one.
“Well, I’m not sure if he’ll have time before the end of the year,” Aidan says.
“Okay, we’ll see you next year.” My throat thickens. It’s not like Aidan and I won’t still be in each other’s lives. But friends don’t visit each other at work, right?
Bored with the direction the conversation has taken, the kids are wild and screaming, using the open space in the lobby to play tag.
It’s a stark contrast from the usual audience.
And yet, Aidan seems completely in his element.
It’s as if he can anticipate the next issue before it even arises.
One stern look from him and the students change course entirely.
I don’t blame them either. If I got that look…I manage to hold back a full-body shiver.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, as if that might be the right answer to whatever unasked question is lingering between us.
I hope my face conveys a little more of what’s going through my mind at the moment, all the feelings I can’t seem to put a name to.
He smiles at me, but it doesn’t look right. It’s too forced, restrained.
I manage to make it through the crowd with only a few other questions from students. At least this time, they’re about ballet and not about my tights or relationship status. Backstage, I collapse in one of the chairs with my protein shake. I need real food, but this will do for the moment.
It’s quiet, which is a stark change from the usual chaos backstage. A lot of people have already left or are still out front. There’s an uncomfortable feeling brewing in my chest.
I think… I’m sad. Sad that I won’t be with Aidan in the new year. The realization is a slap in the face. It’s not like our friendship will be over. I hope. There’s something that feels different. I like him being my fake boyfriend.
And that’s a thought that I’m way too tired to unpack today.
I manage to get out of my costume and back into my favorite sweatpants and a waffle shirt.
After way too long in sweaty, tight-fitting clothes, it’s a welcome change for my skin.
I’ll shower at home and do a proper cool down there.
I pull my phone out of my bag. There’s a handful of text messages, but I zero in on the ones from Aidan.
Sure enough, there’s a warning about the kids finding out about the two of us. Followed by a more recent one.
Aidan
Meet me for a drink tonight?
Guess I’ve got plans.