Page 74 of You Spin Me

“You have a full kitchen here but no stove—” Her eyes flicker to the left side of my face, and she seems to realize what she’s asking. Eyes back on the coupons she says, “Or I could use a different one.”

Taking her hand along with a deep breath, I say, “It’s not a big deal. I mean, I want to know everything aboutyou, so…”

The pupils of her Disney-princess eyes almost eclipse the honey-brown of her irises when she meets my gaze. I have to tamp down a flare of panic. No one outside of my family and a few doctors knows my whole story, but I need her to accept all of me. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

Pressing her palm to my left cheek, I draw it over my jaw. Then I kiss it before clasping her hand in both of mine.

“When I was four, I wanted to be like my older brothers. We had a new baby in the house—who I resented, I guess—and I didn’t think I should have to go to bed early like her when they got to stay up and watch movies.

“One night, something woke me up in the middle of the night. Lying there, I got the idea that I could show them what a big boy I was. I didn’t like to wear pajamas because they were itchy and tight, but I was cold when I got out of bed, so I grabbed the blanket I liked to wear like a Superman cape. Then I snuck down to the kitchen, climbed up on the counter and got out a package of Jiffy Pop.” My heart pounding, I push through the rest. “I’d watched my mom make it tons of times and thought I could do it, but when I turned on the gas flame, the blanket caught fire. And so did I.”

She sniffs loudly, and I realize that I’ve got her hands in a death grip. I release them to swipe at her wet cheeks with my thumb. “So I don’t cook.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I shrug. “Not your fault.”

She nods. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Could’ve been worse. Our dog woke up my parents, and they got the fire out. I’m lucky that we lived close enough to Boston that I could get treated at Mass General. It had the best burn center in the country at the time. At any other place, I might not have survived.”

“Well, I’m glad for that.” She squeezes my hand and takes a swallow of wine. After a few moments, she points at the coupon book. “Can I use another one?”

I don’t like overhead lights, but the one lamp I usually leave on isn’t quite enough, so I turn on another before sitting a little closer to her. “You don’t have to use them all tonight.”

“You went to all this trouble. I don’t want them to go to waste.”

Pointing to the coupon for a foot massage, she raises a brow.

“Very well, madam.” I hold up a finger. “I’ll be right back.”

After fetching the mineral oil I use to massage my scars, I refill her glass before settling on the couch again. She holds up one boot and then the other for me to unzip, kicks them off and then uses her toes to slide her socks off before putting her feet on my lap, where she points and flexes them.

“What the fuck?” I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. “Are you sure you want a massage?”

She stares at her feet like they belong to someone else. “Yeah, they don’t hurt anymore. In fact, I can’t feel anything in some spots.” With ridiculous flexibility, she folds herself into a pretzel and sniffs her toes. “Not too stinky.”

Gently, I draw the gnarly, knobby beasts back onto my lap. Her toe joints are red and look swollen, but when I touch one, it’s hard as a rock. Some toenails are greenish black; others seem to have disappeared completely.

As I trace over the shapes, I hear a tiny sigh escape from her lips. For once, I can’t quite read the expression on her face.

“Why would you do this to yourself?”

“It seemed worth it at the time.”

The edges of her heels are like sandpaper, but not as regular as sandpaper. More like the surface of a clamshell. “But it wasn’t?”

She slumps sideways against the back of the couch. “When I was really, really little, my mom took me to the ballet. From that moment on, it was all I wanted, to be a part of that picture.” Her hand loops in the air. “To make those shapes and lines. To become one of those perfect beings.

“And I did—I was. For years, I was one of them. The day I got my pointe shoes”—her feet arch under my hands, lengthening, as her toes fold away—“it was a high, a drug I couldn’t get enough of. No matter how much it hurt, it was worth it.”

“What happened?”

“These happened.” She grabs her breasts, but not the way I’d want to grab them. Her hands serve them up like they’re leftovers that’ve been in the back of the fridge too long. “My body betrayed me, wouldn’t bow to my will anymore, couldn’t make those perfect shapes.” Angry tears trickle down her cheeks. “I know it probably seems stupid and”—her hands fly from her breasts, flapping— “trivial, especially considering what you’ve been through, but it was the only thing I was good at. And then it was gone.”

“But what about other kinds of dance?”

She swipes a palm across her cheek. “Modern and jazz, they were the silver and bronze to ballet’s gold. I would’ve tried, but I had some… other issues.” She sniffs and seems to rearrange her face. “Whoa. Way to bring the room down.”

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