10. Jolie
10
JOLIE
M ost people use an empty apartment to listen to whatever music they want, throw on their guilty pleasure TV show, light a candle, dance naked, masturbate.
I’m not most people.
It’s been a week since I saw the wolf outside the Institute. I have no clue at what point I decided to tempt fate and try to contact my ghost—or whatever—but I’ve been counting down to Lark and Delilah leaving for the night ever since. Technically, I’m listening to my therapist’s advice. Exploring what these strange things I’m seeing could mean. Though I’m certain she doesn’t believe there’s anything happening beyond my subconscious swirling in my grief, especially as the anniversary of the accident looms closer.
Narrowing down a way to lure my mystery messenger has been the hardest part. Do I write on the mirrors and windows? Leave an entry in my journal with questions?
About an hour after Lark and Delilah leave the apartment, I dig in my Caboodle and pull out some deep-pink lipstick, then head into the bathroom. Uncapping its lid, I twist the base until enough has emerged to write with. Its pointed tip has been curved over from all its use. Pressing up to my tippy-toes I write across the highest point of the mirror in bold letters.
Hello?
I stare up at the pink streaks and lean against the bathroom wall.
Last time they used the steam to write into, didn’t they? I quickly twist the faucet and turn on the shower before shutting the bathroom door. Steam billows around me in a cloud of gray, and my pulse taps at my sanity while I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Popping the lid off the lipstick again, I scribble down another line. Shoving the lipstick into the back pocket of my sweats, I go back to resting against the wall. Steam collects around me, and I use the time to stretch out my hamstrings, hips cracking as I move through some exercises while my body is warmed by my homemade sauna.
Are you here?
Jax?
I do the same on the window, sweeping my finger against the frosted glass. After I wonder for a half second how weird it would be for someone living in the apartment across the way to see this, I decide I don’t care. Apparently, my desire for answers is greater than my desire for sanity.
To kill time, I go through the stretches and exercises Heather gave me, then I sew ribbons onto my extra pairs of pointe shoes. I hiss when the needle pierces the pad of my finger. I forgot what a pain this is. When it’s been about fifteen minutes and there’s no response, I try not to be disappointed.
The questions spin like ballerinas doing piqués across my mind. I sit at the desk and smooth the paper beneath my fingers, pen poised over my journal in my other hand. As each thought twirls into view, I jot them down.
Is your name really Jax Frost?
Are you a ghost?
What do you look like?
I draw the wolf to the side with a question mark next to it, then circle it for emphasis. With each press of the pen, the pressure in my skull abates, somehow feeling lighter.
Have we met before?
Why are you here?
This is ridiculous.
There’s no way to logically explain this. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe this is all in my head. Either way, I continue to write, getting the words and doodles down until the page is filled. Each line and curve unclenches the tightness in my chest a bit more until I finally release a sigh, staring down at my handiwork.
Those eyes stare right back.
After I twiddle my fingers for a few minutes, I peek up at the window. The frost embraces each stroke, preserving it within the delicate flecks. By the time the sun rises tomorrow, my window dressing will be gone. Out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.
Scooting my chair out, I get up and move far enough to peek into the bathroom. The leftover fog is gone, leaving behind only smudged lipstick decorating the mirror. Maybe they are off haunting someone else right now.
More likely, I’m losing it. Or maybe…
I unlatch the window and open it a crack. “Jax?” My voice quivers as I say his name, trying to stifle how crazy I feel. “J-Jax Frost?”
The cold wind smacks me with its icy palm, stinging my skin. Shivering, I scan the room, waiting for something to happen.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I’m not patient enough for this.
Just a week ago, Jax Frost , or whoever this entity is, visited me after I’d been outside. As far-fetched as this seems, I head for the balcony, retracing my steps. Like the last time, the breeze almost assists me when I slide the glass door, something that usually takes much more effort. A chill dances across the ice-blue ballet shrug that crisscrosses over my chest. It comes down low, a peek of the silver scar beneath my leotard showing.
Admiring the thin glistening layer streaking the railing, my gaze follows how it expands out to icicles hanging at varying lengths. They’ll no doubt be dripping come morning. According to the weather report there’s supposed to finally be some sun. For the first time in days I might not need to bundle up like a human marshmallow to leave my apartment. Each year, winter seems to grow shorter and shorter, but this one has been unseasonably frosty. Where it’s usually just a handful of especially frigid days, this year there’s been weeks of it.
The ice is smooth as spun glass, entrancing me with how it encases the iron railing. I reach forward, trailing a finger along it. After the initial shock to my skin, the pain skims into a numbness I find myself leaning into. I’ve missed the warmth of sunlight lately, but there’s something magical about being surrounded by such a white winter. As if on cue, Leslie Odom crooning “Winter Song” spills out of one of the apartments a few over from ours. The beat vibrates through me, thrumming with each gust against my body. It’s like the wind itself is whispering dance with me.
Could this be my phantom?
“Jax?”
My hair lifts in a silent, playful response. Music kisses my skin, echoing through my soul. Swaying to the rhythm, I let the billowing breeze sweep me through the movements. My arms extend up, reaching for the stars, a glittering audience spread among a sea of black.
“Are you here?” I whisper along the wind as I continue to dance.
Snow appears as if from nowhere, flurrying with the lines of my arms, tracing all the way to my fingertips. Every brush of it against my skin sends goosebumps pebbling beneath my shirt, but it’s less chilling and more invigorating than anything. There’s no choreography to retain, no one else to judge my timing or technique. Just my body and this wind moving in eerie harmony.
The moon shines on me like a spotlight set from above, and spicy notes of pine and juniper swirl around me like a cozy embrace. It’s one I never want to leave despite the wintry sting that streaks through me. When the music ebbs and I slow my movements, I’m hit with the burn searing into my uncovered fingertips.
I shiver and the wind scoots me toward the sliding glass door, then assists me to open it.
Steadying my breaths, I try to stay calm while nerves jolt deep in my belly. I slide the glass shut, locking it into place, and wait for any movement, wondering if he’s still here…
I wait.
And wait.
And wait…
Nothing happens. Even the wind has receded outside.
When I finally slink back into my room, I notice that the window is no longer open. Did my ghost shut it? My words from earlier are strewn on the glass, still legible enough to read.
With each passing minute it feels more likely that it all was a dream. And the only dream I have time for is ballet. Giselle rehearsals need to be my entire focus. Even if I know most of the steps by heart, that only intensifies my need to perfect them. I should shine within the corps, but it wouldn’t hurt to rewatch the solo variations. While most dancers would rather suffer through injuries and illness than give their spot to an understudy, there’s no harm in being prepared.
Grabbing my laptop, I climb into bed and set it off to the side while I get cozy under the covers before resting it on my knees. Maybe this will kill some time and my ghost will come back. My gaze darts to the thermostat, which is at its usual setting, and my lips pull into a thin line. Clicking ahead to the famous mad scene from Act I, I settle against the pillow behind me. It’s one of the most gut-wrenching moments in ballet that takes skillful acting, transitioning through so many emotions in one scene. The principal in The Randolph Ballet’s 1996 production, Stasia Sylvane, performs with a broken grace that’s absolutely captivating.
The heroine, Giselle, collapses to the ground after learning the true identity of her love, Albrecht: He’s no peasant but is actually the duke and already engaged to a noblewoman. The audience witnesses her heartbreak, and she dances by herself, twined around an invisible force as she relives her whirlwind romance. Conveying an echo of a love that was a lie, she showcases her disillusionment through a series of steps interrupted by pauses and jarring movements, slowly losing her grip on sanity until her heart fails.
I scan through about five or six other productions, replaying my favorite moments. Pausing the performance, I glance between the window and the thermostat, hoping for… I’m not even sure.
Would it all make me less or more crazy at this point?
Chastising myself for my own irrational thoughts, I train my gaze back to the screen, visualizing myself swaying and falling apart with the music, conveying the final moments of Giselle’s humanity before she’s summoned to the woods to become one of the ethereal wilis. Doomed to dance for eternity, luring men to their deaths.
The act closes on the seventh video, the instrumental replaying in my head, strumming over and over like a sad lullaby. My eyes flutter. I glance at the window, finding it empty of anything other than my words. I groan. 4:30 a.m. will be here before I know it, and I need to be at my best and most rested. Curling up in a ball, I pull the covers over myself, settling my head on the pillow. I manage to force myself not to look at the window again and try to get some much-needed sleep.