Page 41 of Canadian Boyfriend

“Since I flamed out? Nope.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” he said. “You’re gonna giv’r.”

“I’m gonna what?”

“Sorry, that’s a Canadianism.” His brow furrowed. “Or maybe it’s a hockeyism. Anyway, it means to do a really great job.”

I was shaking like a leaf as I introduced myself to the kids, who fell into line in a cute little demonic row, but I held it together. I was gonna giv’r, right? Mike Martin watched me in the mirror as I led them through barre work. Not in a creepy way, just as if he were holding me in his sights. Bolstering me. He usually watched Olivia. A lot of parents, Mike Martin included, only had eyes for their own kids, which I loved as long as they were watching so closely because they were delighted. Like,Look, that’s my genius kid right there!There were always one or two whose attention seemed critical rather than adoring, and those I was not thrilled about. But what could I do except be extra kind to their kids, which was something that might have helped me when I was in their ballet slippers?

The weird thing was how my body knew what to do. Once we started, it was actually easy to turn off my brain. It was funny: ballet was the thing that had caused me so much damage, the thing that had made me into a person who was afraid of sugar and needed coping mechanisms to stave off panic attacks, but in a way, the actual act of dancing, the familiar port de bras I opened the floor work with, was much more effective than tapping at calming my brain. There was a kind of sentience, an intelligence that went beyond muscle memory, in my body, and, remarkably, it wasstill there, even after lying dormant all these years. I let it lead, and before I knew it, class was over. I looked in the mirror as I led the kids in arévérencecombination, and there was Mike Martin, steady as ever, beaming his green-eyed surety at me.

When I stepped off the dance floor,hehuggedme. Caught me up in a giant bear hug that lifted me off the ground. When he set me down, he was grinning. I grinned back. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I; we didn’t have to. I had done it, and he knew what that meant.

The next afternoon Lauren picked up Olivia and me for the hockey game.

“I heard you guys aren’t sitting in the box,” she said as we got on the highway. “But maybe you want to come for a visit? I think some of the families would love to see you, Olivia, if you feel like popping in.”

“Mm, maybe.” Olivia was being noncommittal, but I could tell she didn’t want to.

At the arena, I leaned into the idea of Olivia as my tour guide, both because I wanted her to feel important and because I wanted to keep us busy so there was “no time” to get to the box. I let her lead me to a concession stand that sold edible cookie dough, and with my cup of brownie batter in hand—look at me, this was way more advanced-class than mint chocolate chip ice cream—bought us both foam lumberjack axes. When we found our seats with only minutes to spare, she was looking fussed, glancing around the arena as if she didn’t quite recognize it.

“Does this make you miss your mom?” I asked gently.

“I always miss her, but yeah.” She looked alarmed. “Are you gonna make me go up to the box?”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “We’re cool here.”

“I don’t like talking to people who are going to make a huge deal about my mom,” she said, and my heart twisted. “I know they mean well, but I never know what to say. It’s better out here anyway. You’re right in the middle of things.”

She was right. The theater of it all, even before the game started, was exciting. The cold air, the music, and when they introduced the teams—wow. They started with Boston, thenthere was this overdramatic yet awesome song-video-montage thing on the JumboTron. It included these jerky, artistic close-ups of individual players, and when Mike Martin came on, it was from behind—you could see his jersey with his name and number—and then he turned around and he was all sweaty and intense looking. I couldn’t help it: I screamed. Olivia did, too. We grinned at each other and shrieked like we were at a Beatles concert in 1964. After the video, the announcer shouted, “Here are your Minnesota Lumberjacks!” and the team skated out with music blasting and logos being projected everywhere. Olivia and I kept screaming. I didn’t even really know why, except that it felt so great to stand there and scream. When Mike Martin whooshed by the glass that was a few rows in front of us and patted his chest and extended his arm in our direction—he must have known where we were sitting—I thought I might die. When Olivia’s generalized screaming transformed itself into “Dad! Dad!” I think I did die for a second. But I revived myself. I had brownie batter to eat and hockey to watch.

Dear Mike,

My mom bought me a T-shirt as a going-away present that has that iconic “I heart New York” phrase on it, and I want to take a red Sharpie and draw one of those circles with a diagonal line over the heart—like “I (do not) heart New York.” Everyone here is so good and smart and skinny. And, oh my God, theclasses.I don’t know which is harder, the ballet or the school. You know how my mom and I battled over if I should join a company right away or do a combined academic/ballet program? I hate to say it, but she might have been right.

I have something to tell you, and it’s hard. There’s this guy here, Luc. He’s French. I told everyone about you, of course. Luc stopped by my room the other day. I assumed he was there for Emma, but he was actually there to see me. He asked about you, and I told him we broke up. It just popped out, and all of a sudden, he was kissing me. It wasn’t bad. It was kind of exciting, actually, and then he came back the next day, and the next. Things started to heat up, and honestly I didn’t want them to go so far so fast… Why didn’t Isaythat?

The weird part is, afterward, I thought, well, it will be nice to have a local boyfriend, one that I actually get to see (ha ha). But then the next day was the Friday before Christmas break and we were all talking about people we’d see at home. Turns out Luc has a girlfriend in France. They met in high school; she’s at the University of Paris now studying philosophy. They agreed to open their relationship while they’re apart. What? Are they French teenagers or middle-aged swingers?!

The bigger question is: Why didn’t he tell me any of this before I slept with him? Was I supposed to ask?

One more question: Why do I feel guilty?It’s not like you’re going to care. (That was supposed to be a joke, but I’m not laughing.) I guess I feel so bad because at the first inkling that a boy might like me, I just… dumped you. What kind of person does that make me?

I just want to go to the moon and not come back,

Rory

10—EMOTIONAL LABOR

MIKE

When I got home from a mid-December trip to Vancouver, I had to face the fact that it was almost Christmas and that I had done shit-all to get ready for it. Olivia and Aurora weren’t home, so after changing into sweats, I went around the side of the house and got to work on some wood.

Splitting wood was my meditation, the thing I did when I wanted to chill out. I had chopped so much wood last winter and spring, it was almost comical. I would push myself relentlessly, heaving the ax up and bringing it down so many times that my muscles gave out and my hand blistered—or I knocked out a tooth.

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