Page 66 of Forbidden Dance
My freedom, I think, but I don’t say it. “Might need to save it. Sounds like college tuition is coming,” I say. “I know Dad talked about online classes, but there is St. Mary’s. It’s Catholic.”
She carefully places the shoes back in the bag. “Livia, you know your father. He won’t allow it.”
“I’m a legal adult,” I say. “If I get accepted and get financial aid, I can go without his permission.”
She bites her lip. “Do not speak that way, Livia. We have taken care of you all these years, despite your terrible wicked actions. You tore this family apart. We had to move.”
I stand up. I have to get away. “I’m going home,” I tell her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shiny red car coming up the street. Oh no no no. It can’t be Blitz.
I’m so torn. If I wave him down, I can just get in his car, and be gone. Never come back. Would he do that? Would he take me, no matter what the consequences? If I called the police myself, told them I had left home and was not in danger, would that prevent any trouble when my father found out?
I take the bag from my stony-faced mother and hurry along the sidewalk.
I’m halfway down the block, then the red car turns the wrong direction, away from the park, and I see it’s some other sports car, not a Ferrari.
I slow down, realizing how rash I was being. Not thinking. Not planning. Not being smart.
My time with Blitz is done. I have to face it. When Mom can’t see me, I pull out the phone and text one quick line. Then I turn it off for good.
I’ve had a wonderful dance with you, Blitz. Enjoy your limelight again. I hope you find the perfect partner on your show.
Chapter 23
I make it through most of Thanksgiving week without turning on the phone. I’m like a pendulum, and the moment in the park when I thought about running away was the upswing. Now I’m all the way back on the other side, being a dutiful daughter, working hard to earn my toe shoes, and volunteering like a good Catholic.
But after dinner on Thanksgiving Day, Dad leaves to watch football with some friends, an activity he won’t do at home due to the salacious commercials. Mom starts pulling out the Christmas decorations and gets totally absorbed in it with Andy.
So I’m alone in my room, supposedly studying for the SAT, which is now only two weeks away. I want to do well, be eligible for as many scholarships as possible. I want to learn, excel, be better. I won’t live here forever, and I need options.
I avoid all thoughts of Blitz.
But in this alone time, I can’t help but wonder if he’s in town, eating with his family. At church last Sunday, Mindy tried to tell me what was going on with him and the show, but I stopped her. I don’t want to know.
The phone lost its charge days ago. I did take it out once in a moment of weakness, and the dead battery helped me pull myself together.
But it calls to me, hidden in a drawer. The charger is still behind the desk.
I can’t do it. I shouldn’t.
I roll to the edge of the bed. What if he’s here? What if the show hasn’t worked out? What if he’s been rejected and needs me?
Idle hands are the devil’s playground. It was something that was drilled into me in the weeks after my pregnancy was discovered. It’s happening now. I should go out into the living room and sort the ornaments. I’m the only one who likes tinsel.
But I don’t. I kneel by my desk, blocking the view of the drawers with my body so no one passing by my door will see. And I dig out the phone and plug it into the charger.
It’s dead enough that nothing happens for a moment. Then the screen flashes on. Once it’s past the opening logo, notification after notification scrolls up. Many are from Blitz. A few are from Mindy, links to news sites before I saw her and asked her not to tell me anything.
It’s been seven days since I sent my last text to Blitz. I feel sick now thinking of all the unanswered messages. When did he give up? Did it take a day or two? Or is he trying still?
I have to know.
The phone is cold in my fingers. I bring it closer, stretching the power cord to its limit. If anyone comes, I can just drop it in the drawer. I can’t decide if I should go back to the first missed message, or read the most recent one.
It doesn’t matter. My eyes fall on the newest, sent just an hour ago.
Happy Thanksgiving, sweet Livia. I wish I were in San Antonio today, close to you. I’d be happy just sitting in our dystopian park, hoping for you to walk by.
