After Swan Lae:

Monday, May 12

I was already awake when my alarm went off at 5:45. Re-entry to normal life was feeling a little bit like a breakup. Sleep had been blessedly dreamless, if fitful. I kept waking during the night, and the reality of my situation would come crashing back over me each time. The prospect of enduring it for another month, and possibly longer, left me feeling despondent and hollow.

I decided if I felt hopeless on the inside, I needed to look good on the outside. I picked out a navy-and-white striped sheath dress, tan blazer, and cute, but comfortable brown leather flats. I put my hair in a neat, simple bun. Vibrant carmine lipstick and a wisp of smoky eye shadow. My armor against the world.

I watched the Miele fill my largest travel mug with hot coffee (pourover would've been asking too much), and I was out the door by 7:20.

Today was all about distraction and misdirection. Avoid all questions. Make it through class. Get back home. For the most part it worked. One person wasn't fooled by my bullshit though.

I walked into the art room and immediately heard "Rough night Cameron?"

I silently mouthed "Fuck you" back at Hanna before joining her at our customary corner table.

"What gave it away?" I asked in an undertone.

"Are you kidding? You look like you knocked over a J. Crew on your way to do a hostile takeover bid. Plus, you never wear that lipstick unless you're trying to distract someone. So who are you trying to distract?"

"Everyone. I slept like shit last night. After a full weekend of shows."

"Speaking of shows, I caught the Sunday matinee." She put fingers to palm in a silent clapping gesture. "You were terrific."

"Thanks, it was a good run. Saturday night was unreal though. I wish you could've seen that one. Hey--weren't you supposed to go to a movie or something on Sunday? With Colton?"

"Oh yeah, that didn't happen." She started laughing. "His parents caught him smoking weed in the house. Like 10 a.m. with everyone home. He's gorgeous, but I swear to God there's just empty space under those golden locks."

"You always liked them dumb. What are you going to do when you get to Barnard?"

She elbowed me in the ribs. "That's not true. Bradford got accepted at Granite State. I think... or maybe he was wait-listed?" She trailed off. "But who cares. You're distracting me from the important part."

I shot her a curious look.

"Guess who I saw at the show on Sunday."

"Creepy Uncle Dave."

"Ew, no," she replied, wrinkling her nose. "Not even close."

"Hanna, I have no idea. Just tell me."

She made a pouty face, "When does fun Shelly get back?"

"Maybe next week," I replied. "Tired Shelly is the only one available at the moment. I still have to finish my history project before Friday."

"Funny you should mention history," she said, playfully shoving my shoulder with a wry grin. She was clearly enjoying herself. "I happened to see a certain local history teacher at the show on Sunday. Whatever you did to him must've worked. He seemed really into it. Walked right by without noticing me in his row."

Oh shit.

"No kidding?" I tried to sound casual. Mildly surprised at this totally new and unexpected piece of trivia.

"For real. Third act especially," she said, her gaze boring directly into my consciousness. "He was enthralled. I wish guys looked at me like that."

Enthralled. There was that word again.

"Well," I stammered. "I hope he enjoyed himself. That's the whole idea, isn't it? Give the audience a good show."

She spent the next two minutes silently watching me. I timed her with the wall clock. It made me feel like an animal at the zoo.

"If you happen to come across any interesting gossip," she said, arching an eyebrow meaningfully. "Make sure I hear it first, yeah?"

"Uh huh."

Fuck. She knew I wasn't telling her everything.

###

Wednesday, May 15

The week was going well, all things considered. I was dog-tired for sure, but at this point I could coast through most of my classes.

I stopped in Mr. Delacourt's office Tuesday afternoon. We allowed ourselves a quick, chaste kiss. Everything very PG. I couldn't actually spare any time in the evenings to see him though, because I was so busy trying to finish the project.

Most of the time, he was Mr. Delacourt, the teacher. I desperately missed Paul, the lover. I hoped he was struggling with it as much as me. Punishment for cooking up History Hell in the first place.

Amazingly, the project practically finished itself. By the time I started writing in earnest, the words flowed naturally. I had a complete draft finished late Tuesday night. My parents arrived back from West Haven on Wednesday, and we got dinner at my favorite seafood dive. I gorged myself on littlenecks in melted butter.

I spent the rest of the evening on revisions. Dad read it over for me, caught a few typos. By 10:30, we proclaimed it finished.

I printed it off and saved a copy to a flash drive, stuffing both into a big yellow envelope. I said goodnight to my parents and got ready for bed, but I had one more thing to do.

I sat back down at my desk and got out the paper my aunt had given me for my birthday. It was off-white, cotton paper. Made in Japan. Very fine texture and lovely to write on. It had a small scallop shell embossed at the top of each sheet.

I wrote a time, date, and address in small, neat,

anonymous

print. Below that: "

LOOK SHARP!

" I folded the paper, sealed it into a matching envelope, and set it with the rest of my things for the morning.

###

Thursday, May 16

I woke up feeling good. The week was almost over, and I had finished Mr. Delacourt's research paper early.

I decided to reward myself with a dress-down day; my favorite hoody and a pair of sweatpants (freshly laundered, I'm not an animal). I pulled my hair into a pony tail and headed out the door a full 15 minutes early.

Mrs. Holland was already out tending the garden. Her geraniums were in full bloom and looked spectacular. I promised I would come by Sunday afternoon to help pull weeds and whatever else she needed. She promised to bake secret oatmeal raisin cookies (the raisins are chocolate chips). They were her late husband's favorite, and I knew baking them always made her feel closer to him.

I stopped in the social studies offices before my first class, and put both envelopes into Mr. Delacourt's mailbox.

I considered it a full day's work, but nobody else seemed to share the sentiment. Teachers lobbed questions at me like hand grenades all morning.

By lunch I was on empty; I scarfed a peanut butter granola bar and retreated to the library. I put in my headphones (no music, maximum silence) and pulled up my hood. With my face in some kind of Psychology book, I tried to be invisible.

I don't know how long I had been daydreaming, but I'm pretty sure my body completely left the chair when I felt a tap on the shoulder. I rounded on the unfortunate soul as the book clattered to the floor. Three-piece suit today, light gray. White shirt. Paul Delacourt himself.

I smacked his arm, "What is wrong with you?"

"Shhh, this is a library," he could barely contain his laughter. Then he picked up the book. "Psychology?"

I did my best sneer. It wasn't very good. "I'm hiding out. It's very people-y here today. How did you even know it was me?"

"If you're trying to be incognito, maybe get a different bag and try wearing something that doesn't have your name printed on it."

"Shut up." Maybe he had a point, but I wasn't going to admit it. "I like my bag." It was the same bag practically everyone had, but I've never seen another one in light blue with pale green mushrooms all over.

"So what's with the mysterious rendezvous? All you gave me was a time and address."

"That's not true," I replied. "I also told you to look sharp."

"I always look sharp."

"He's modest, too."

"Well?"

I offered a prim smile and scanned the room to see if anyone else was around. We were alone; Mrs. McKew must have gone to lunch.

"You'll just have to show up to find out," I told him and slipped my arms under his jacket. I pulled him into a brief, tight hug, putting all of my frustration and sorrow into squeezing him as long as I dared.

I breathed in his scent, but it wasn't the intoxicating aroma from Saturday night. This was the smell of clean clothes and deodorant. Pleasant, but it didn't make me weak in the knees.

"Go read my paper or something, I still have like ten minutes of peace and quiet."

He headed toward the door shaking his head.

"Don't Google it," I called to his back. He waved an acknowledgement as he disappeared into the hallway.

Before starting the afternoon, I stopped at my locker to swap out books. I checked myself in my mirror, then shut the door. Suddenly, I was face-to-face with Derek Gombos. I nearly punched him out of sheer reflex.

"Jesus Derek, wear a bell or something."

"Sorry Shelly," he was stammering, nervous. More nervous than usual. He was two or three shades darker than the usual paleness, too. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, it's OK. Are you..." I made a show of sniffing the air, "wearing cologne?"

"Uh, yeah. Trying something new. Hey, you look really nice today."

I looked down at my clothes, then back up at him pointedly.

"I mean, you always look nice. No matter what you're wearing."

"Uh, thanks Derek," I said, starting to move around him. "It was good to see you. I have to get to class."

"Shelly wait." There was a long, awkward pause, followed by a jumble of syllables that might have been words.

"I'm sorry?"

He took a deep breath. "I wanted to ask if you would go to prom with me."

It was my turn to be awkward. Before this weekend, prom had been something of an abstract concept. Maybe I would go, maybe I wouldn't. After this weekend, I genuinely hated the idea. Still, I felt bad giving him the brush-off.

"Shelly?"

"What? Oh--I'm really sorry. I can't go. I have a... family wedding. My cousin. We're really close and I can't miss it." Smooth. Like a Category 5 storm surge.

"Oh, that's too bad." He looked crestfallen. Also maybe a little suspicious. "Well, I guess I'll see you around."

He started to walk away.

Despite his awkwardness, Derek is a nice guy. I've known him since middle school, and he's never had much success dating. The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. He probably would've made a good prom date for a girl who wasn't seriously attached. A girl like two-weeks-ago me.

"Hey Derek?" He snapped back around with a hopeful look on his face, walking back toward me.

"Yes?"

"I'm really sorry I can't go. I think we would've had fun. But I was thinking maybe I could call a friend of mine. If you want. No pressure. Her name is Miranda, she goes to another school. I think you guys would hit it off."

He considered the idea for a moment. "Um, sure. If you really think so."

"Here, write down your number and I'll put you guys in touch." I went back into my locker for pen and paper.

Thankfully, Derek was the last surprise of the day. On the way home, I called Miranda to pitch the prom idea. She had terrible taste in men and I had been trying to persuade her to try dating a nice guy for years. Now I was dropping one in her lap.

She agreed to meet him and I gave her his number. Now I really had done a full day's work. When I got home, I closed myself in the basement to watch

Sabrina

all evening. Both versions.

My mom came down about halfway through the original (obviously the superior version). I paused the movie when she appeared at the bottom of the steps.

"Your dad and I were going to order Japanese. Do you want anything?"

"I guess. Just the usual."

"Everything OK?"

"Yeah, why?"

She gestured toward the TV screen with her eyes.

"I'm fine."

The thing you have to understand about my mom is that waiting is like her secret super power. If they added a staring contest to the Olympics, she'd have a closet full of gold medals.

She waited me out.

"I maybe met someone, but it's complicated," I finally told her. "I'm just not ready to talk about it. I promise I'm fine."

She nodded knowingly. "Well, you can always talk to me--or your father."

"Thanks Mom."

"I'll let you know when the food gets here."

"Would you mind if I ate down here tonight?" I asked. "Today was just a lot. But tell Masato I said hi? And give him a good tip."

"OK, Shelly. Enjoy your movie."

###

Saturday, May 18

I went to breakfast with my parents--Leo's House of Pancakes--before they headed back to West Haven.

After they got on the road, I had the day to myself. The weather was beautiful, so I sat on the back deck with a book. I figured I would try embracing the absurdity of my situation, so it was

Pride & Prejudice.

Around 2:00, I showered and started getting dressed. I wore the little black dress I bought for opening night; a one-shoulder mini with a hemline that swooped dramatically from just below my right hip down to my left knee. The fabric draped and gathered on my frame in just the right way. I had fallen in love with the dress from the moment I put it on.

Grandma Ariadne's necklace was my only embellishment: a small, flat ring of Moss-in-Snow jade on a gold chain so fine it looks like thread. As far as I know it isn't valuable, but it's my most precious possession.

I slipped on a pair of low black pumps, and was out the door again.

Sheila has been helping me with hair and makeup for years now. She's probably ten years older than me, she's always felt like like an older cousin or cool aunt. We spent time catching up while she trimmed and braided my hair into a high, elegant bun, then worked her cosmetic alchemy.

"So, big night on the town? I know it's not prom yet."

"I'm going out dancing," I said, smiling a little coyly, "want to turn some heads."

"Any heads in particular?"

"Maybe one."

"Who is he? Older? Younger?"

"It's still really early," I replied. "A little hush-hush... we haven't really told anyone yet. He's older."

"Ohhh, a college man. What's he like?"

I waited a beat too long to answer, she continued: "Not a college man? Now I'm really intrigued."

"Sheila, you can't tell anyone," I pleaded. "I haven't even told Hanna yet. This is like... our second date. I don't even know if you could call the first one a date."

"Shelly," she said, drawing an invisible box in the air around me. "You know I respect the sacred confidence of the stylist's chair. Your secret is safe with me. Just promise me you'll spill all the details when you're ready."

She turned the chair toward the mirror, and said: "Almost done. What do you think?"

I do a decent job on my own, but Sheila is an artist; the human head her canvas. It's not that I don't recognize myself when she's done. It's just that I look like the absolute best version of me that could possibly exist. I don't know how she does it, but she's a treasure.

"I love it."

Sheila finished right on time. Everything was working out perfectly. Back home, I put my essentials for the evening in a little clutch and called a car. While I was waiting for the driver, I gave myself one last check in the mirror and two sprays of the Kimono Yui.

Ten minutes later, a small silver Nissan pulled up in front of my house. The driver rolled down the window as I walked out. He was cute enough; a certain type of girl might have even found him interesting. At least until he opened his mouth.

"Is this the bus stop? 'Cause damn, I'm here to pick you up."

I stopped at the sidewalk and gave him my sweetest, most cheerful smile.

"I'll give you that one for free. But if I hear another like it, I'll make sure you wake up at the bottom of Long Island Sound, mmmk? Behave, and I'll give you five stars and a good tip."

He probably thought the problem was me being stuck up. I didn't care.

The rest of the thirty-minute ride was quiet. He didn't even play any Nickelback. Five stars, $15 tip.

I got out in front of an older building, well-used, but cared for. It had been a Catholic church in a previous life, and still had some of the accoutrements. I headed to the basement.

The room was dimly lit with fluorescent bulbs. The walls were lined with wood paneling, which was starting to fall off in a couple spots. Mottled gray tiles on the floor, the same ones you'll find in ten thousand schools, churches, and license bureaus across the country.

Someone had livened the place up with a collection of colorful flags on the far wall: Puerto Rico and a variety of Latin American countries.

There was only one person in the room.

The woman was ageless, and I had never been bold enough to ask. If I had to guess, I would put her closer to 70 than 40. She wore a flared calf-length dress in vibrant persimmon red, with lipstick to match. The fabric swished beautifully around her as she moved. I'll be grateful if I look half as good as Señora Fernanda when I'm 70. Or 50. Or any age really.

She was fussing with a battered old electric percolator, which sat on a table with cookies and other refreshments.

"Hola Fernanda, cómo te va?" I called across the room.

The woman quickly turned and her face lit up. She bustled toward me, and we met in the middle of the room.

"Shelly, it's been so long." She said as we exchanged cheek kisses. "How have you been? You look fabulous, very classy. I think some of the guys maybe try to take you home tonight?"

"I don't think anyone would try that with you around," I said. "I've been good. Mostly busy with school and ballet. We just finished Swan Lake. What about you? Things going well? I've missed you."

"Oh you know, any day I leave the house is a good day," she said, laughing in her lilting, musical way. "I have plenty to keep me occupied around here."

"I'm early, so put me to work. What do you need help with?"

"Oh you know I hate dealing with that thing," she gestured to some large, well-used speakers connected to an ancient hi-fi. "Could you check and make sure it's working today?"

"Of course," I replied, walking over to start turning on the equipment. "You know, I made a new friend who still uses CDs too? I invited him to come tonight."

"What? I didn't think they made boys up to your standard," Fernanda said. "Is he up to

my

standard?"

I kept the volume low and hit play. Congas started up a relaxed clave beat, joined shortly by some horns, then a singsong tenor rolling all his Rs.

"Nobody is up to your standards Fernanda," I replied. "But promise me you'll be nice. Don't badger him with questions?"

"Me?" She tried to sound shocked, started laughing again. "I would never badger anyone. Especially not a guest of my favorite gringa."

She was still laughing as the first few people started to filter in.

Newcomers invariably interpreted the church basement vibe to mean casual attire. Regulars, mostly from the surrounding neighborhood, dressed to the nines.

The men wore bright shirts in wild patterns, open well past their collarbones; equally wild shoes in exotic leathers. Black and white alligator; blue ostrich.

The women often wore dresses like Fernanda's in bright colors carefully selected to accentuate the wearer's features or jewelry.

Fernanda was equally warm and welcoming to everyone. She just loved to get people moving, regardless of their sartorial choices.

I drifted back toward the entrance and slipped a $20 in the donation jar when she wasn't looking. I looked up when I heard the door open again, and saw a beautiful pair of soft, bone white loafers coming down the stairs, followed by gray slacks, immaculately tailored.

The gradual reveal gave me time to appreciate his ensemble. It was almost subtle. Not nearly as ostentatious as some of the other men, but damn he looked good. Plaid sport coat in shades of light purple--not quite lavender--over a crisp white shirt.