Page 38 of Canadian Boyfriend

I couldn’t help thinking of all the opportunities I’d had touse that acronym back in the day. I’d been a WAG and hadn’t known it. But not really, of course.

“They’re all nice people,” said Olivia, suddenly quiet, almost abashed. “I just… don’t want to sit there.”

“Did you used to sit in the box with your mom?” I asked, as gently as I could. I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I wasn’t sure Mike Martin realized this particular conflict had a pretty obvious cause.

He had not, judging by the way his mouth fell open. And by the way his eyes got the empty, green-hole look in them when Olivia said, so quietly it was almost imperceptible, “Yeah.”

Sarah Kowalski seemed like she had been a pretty great person. There were pictures of her in a few spots in the house, and she was always smiling broadly in them. She had Olivia’s dark hair and wide-set eyes. And though Olivia was usually pretty tight-lipped about her, she’d let slip a few things that made me see the depth of the hole her mom’s death had left. One time, we’d decided to try to make a pie, and in going through some cookbooks, we’d found a grocery list in what Olivia informed me was her mom’s handwriting. “My mom used to write notes in my lunches,” she’d said. “She would make up silly horoscopes, or do a code all week that I wouldn’t be able to figure out until Friday when she included the key.” I never knew how to respond to these stories, other than by being glad she felt like she could talk to me. And by telling her it sounded like she’d had a great mom.

Mike Martin moved toward Olivia, and she tried to turn away, but he wasn’t having it. He got right into her space and hugged her. He caught my eye over her shoulder and mouthed, “Thank you.” Olivia, who had started out stiff and unyielding, relaxed in his arms. I went to the mudroom to give them some privacy ashe said, “I’m sorry, Liv. I didn’t realize. You can sit wherever you want, but if you don’t want to come, that’s totally fine.”

“I want to go with Rory if she wants to.”

“I want to!” I called back, and the mood was light as we piled into the car.

Well,theirmood was light. I should have driven myself to the studio in the Normal Sedan. I should have realized I wouldn’t want company.

The closer we got, the harder my heart beat and the more my stomach fluttered. Damn it. I’d been doing so well lately.

I did my tapping. It worked well enough that Mike Martin didn’t notice I was starting to freak out. Or maybe that was thanks to Olivia, who was now all sweetness and chatter, going on at length about the year-end semiformal dance, which although it was months away was an increasingly frequent topic of conversation. It was for the middle schoolers at her private school, and this was the first year she was eligible.

Mike Martin kept looking at her in the rearview mirror and smiling like a dope.

By the time we got to the studio, I was sweating, despite the fact that it was freezing out. “Do you mind dropping me at the door before you park?” I croaked.

Mike Martin did as I asked, but he also put the car in park and laid a hand on my arm as I unbuckled my seat belt. “You OK?”

I was not OK. Butnot OKwasn’t really an option here, so I squeaked out a “Yep!” and fled.

We were early, which in retrospect hadn’t been a great idea. I’d been thinking that since I was taking over this class midsession, I should show up early in case any parents wanted to talk to me.

They did, it turned out, but not about their kids.

“Oh, Miss Rory,” said a mother I didn’t recognize, “I was just talking to Miss Miller—where has she been hiding you all this time?”

“She’s been hiding in plain sight, in tap and jazz, apparently!” said another.

“Who knew we had a former member of the Newberg Ballet under our noses this whole time!”

I wanted to point out that I had been a student, not a member of the company. And that their kids were ten to twelve years old, and that if any of them had been good enough to truly make a go of it in ballet, they wouldn’t be studying at Miss Miller’s of Minnetonka.

I pushed past them into the studio, ignoring Gretchen at the desk. There had been a time when a dance studio was a place of refuge for me. The scuffed wooden floors, the walls of mirrors, and the smooth barre had, long ago, been soothingly familiar. But not today. A bunch of girls were already in the studio, in their black leotards, white tights, and buns that looked like walnuts affixed to the backs of their heads.

I tapped. I didn’t care if I looked weird. I had to calm down. I knew enough by now to trust that I wasn’t having a literal heart attack, but damn.

“Miss Rory, are you OK?”

It was Sansa, who I hadn’t realized was in this class. Which meant Sansa’s mom was nearby, which only made everything worse.

Why did I have to be like this? It made me soangrysometimes. In the ramp-up, in the space where I could try to arrest things, there was still room for something else, and right nowthat something was anger. At my traitorous body, at my stupid brain, at my mother, whom I had given too much power.

At myself, for daring to think that since I hadn’t had an episode for months, maybe I was done with them.

“Miss Rory?”

I fled through the viewing area into the lobby, where I heard Gretchen saying something from behind the reception desk but not the actual words she used. On my way to the stairs, I passed the entrance as Mike Martin was coming in. He’d been holding the door for Olivia, but he froze when we made eye contact. Only for a second, but it was enough for me to register thathewas registering that there was something wrong with me. I wondered if my eyes were giving me away, the way his sometimes did with him.

I broke free and ran downstairs.

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