Chapter Thirteen
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO
“Y ou can rely on the old man’s money, you can rely on the old man’s money!”
I scream-sang along with the lyrics to the Hall & Oates song “Rich Girl” with my best friend, Sadie. We were both dressed in outfits curated from items in my mom’s closet. She wasn’t home, and usually when it was past seven on a weekend night, she wouldn’t be home all night.
Sadie was sleeping over, and her parents had taken us to the grocery store to pick out some junk food before dropping us off. I may have lied and told them my mom was home.
We picked out Sno-Caps and Sour Patch Kids and this microwavable popcorn with a packet of butter (flavoring) and a two-liter of the Christmas version of Sprite. We had plans to watch Moulin Rouge! , which I was not allowed to watch, but which Sadie had a copy of and said was her favorite movie.
Sadie’s dad used to work in Hollywood, she’d told me, doing music for movies. So where I was used to listening to what was on the radio, Sadie had playlist upon playlist of music I’d never heard of that was so much better and so much fun. Also she was allowed to watch and listen to whatever, because her parents trusted her with “art,” apparently. Anyway, that was what Sadie said.
“You could get along if you try to be strong—” I sang, but then stopped when I heard something mixing in with the deafening music.
I turned on my heel and saw my mom standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and her eyes so angry they were practically red.
I smacked Sadie on the shoulder and silenced the music.
The air filled with the emptiness and I said, “Hi, Mom.”
“What the fuck is going on here?”
I felt slapped by the words, but Sadie didn’t shiver. She was a rated-R-movie and there’s-always-dessert-in-the-house kind of kid. Nothing seemed to freak her out.
“Are those—my bras?” asked my mom, furious.
Sadie and I looked down at the drooping satin fabric on our flat chests.
I looked up and then noticed a man walking up the staircase. My mom turned to him.
“I’m going to head out,” he said.
“What? Roger, no—”
But he was already walking down the steps again. My mom gave me a look filled with hate and then went after him, whoever he was.
Sadie and I looked at each other.
“Holy shit,” said Sadie. “Your mom looked like she was about to go full Kill Bill .”
I didn’t get the reference, but shrugged and said, “Hurry, let’s get this stuff off.”
We hurried out of my mom’s lingerie, both of us down to the leotards we had on underneath. Sadie was in my ballet class, and we had spent most of the evening so far dancing around.
We ran to put my mom’s stuff away and then scrambled back to my room, where I started anxiously cleaning up the mess of two eleven-year-olds left to their own devices.
Sadie didn’t miss a beat, rushing with me to make things neat again.
My mom reappeared in the doorway. “What were you thinking ?” she asked.
“I—we were just practicing and then we were playing,” I said. “We—her—Sadie’s parents said she could have a sleepover.”
“No, no. Absolutely not. After this? No way. Was that song supposed to be funny?”
I screwed up my face. “Huh?”
She shook her head and breathed in deeply, like she couldn’t believe how dumb I could be.
“Sadie, go call your parents, have them pick you up.”
Sadie, eyes wide, shuffled off to the phone to go call, and I cowered in my mom’s presence by myself.
I was told to wait outside with Sadie until her parents arrived, and neither of us said a word until her parents’ minivan pulled up and Sadie said, “Well…bye.”
I dreaded going back inside. I didn’t know who that man was or what was going on, but my mom was clearly pissed.
I found her in the kitchen with a trash bag, throwing out all the junk food Sadie’s parents had bought us.
“Mom, no!” I said, tears starting, as if she were throwing out my old stuffed animals or something. Which I could also see her doing.
“You can’t eat this shit, are you kidding me? I’m out there finding you opportunities and you’re back here doing this? What’s anyone going to want with you when you can’t fit through the doorway and your skin is all covered in pimples and your fat rolls are all lumpy under your leotard?”
I looked at the trash bag. I had never made a connection between food and appearance like that before. Not consciously.
“Do you know who that man was?” she asked, pointing at the doorway, where presumably he had exited. “That was Roger Harris! He has a cousin who works at one of the best ballet schools in the country. And you ruined that for yourself!”
My stomach churned.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“ Sorry my fat ass. You have to stop eating this crap—I can tell when you come back from Mimi’s and she’s been stuffing you with chocolate chip cookies and popcorn all goddamn weekend. You get this little roll of fat right on the edge of your leotard. See? You can see it now!”
I looked down and saw where the top of my tights ended around my stomach. “I just thought that’s because it was tight. And because it’s skin.”
“Why do you think it’s so tight, Jocelyn Rose? Jesus Christ.”
She inhaled deeply and leaned against the counter.
“You have that,” I said.
“I have what?”
I started to second-guess my words. “Never mind.”
“I have what?” She launched off the counter and turned to me.
“The skin thing. Your clothes are tight, too.”
She raised her eyebrows and bit her tongue. “It’s a little different, Jocelyn. And I’m not the one who decided she so desperately needed to become a fucking prima ballerina. You know how expensive this whole thing is?”
“No,” I said, honestly.
“No. Exactly. Go put on your sneakers, we’re going to the club.”
“What? Now?”
“Now. Let’s go.”
The club is a health club. We go and I run on the treadmill or use the light weight machines. But never like this. Never as punishment. Never on a Friday night.
I thought I was going to have a fun girls’ night and instead, I’m going to the gym.
“Now!” she screamed.
Ten minutes later we were in the car. Ten minutes after that, we were at the gym.
I was on the treadmill, running, and my mom was at the counter, talking to some guy.
After half an hour of running, my mom came over with the guy and said, “Honey,” in a sweet, girlish voice, “this is Mateo. He’s a personal trainer, and he has just agreed to take you on as a client!”
She opened her mouth wide like this was the best surprise ever.
“Hi, Jocelyn. We’ll keep you in shape no problem.”
He sounded like a moron.
“Okay, honey, back on the treadmill. I’m going to go discuss payment options with Mateo.”
The two of them left, going in the direction of the locker rooms. I ran and ran.