I Wanna Be Where You Are Read online

  Eli holds a treat up in the air, and Geezer jumps to get it like a seal in a zoo feeding show. Eli smiles. Not his wolfish one, but relaxed and unguarded. He looks up and aims this smile at me. For a minute, there isn’t bad blood between us, no elephant in the room. But, then again, who am I kidding? The elephant is sitting right in between us, intercepting our smiles.

  We’re still looking at each other. I wait for him to say something. He clears his throat, and I go still. Then Geezer jumps into his lap, biting at the snack bag.

  “Get down, Geez,” Eli says, gently pushing Geezer until he relents and sits back down on the floor. Geezer lowers his head and looks back and forth between us with a sad pout.

  “Here you go with the puppy-dog eyes.” Eli hands him one more treat. Geezer gobbles it up with a loud snort like he’s a little pig, and Eli laughs hard.

  Just like that, the moment where he may have been about to apologize is forgotten.

  * * *

  At three a.m., I wake up and stare at the walls, briefly forgetting where I am. When I roll over, I see that Eli is still awake, bent over his sketchbook, moving his pencil in quick strokes. Geezer is curled up at the edge of the bed, snoring his chainsaw snores.

  Eli drew something for me once, and it changed the way I looked at him.

  But that feels like forever ago. A different Eli and a different me.

  Chapter 6

  Eli Has an Idea

  SUNDAY

  I’ve finally made it to my audition. I’m feeling nervous, but not nauseous, which is good. When I line up at the barre to stretch, I notice that my feet feel weird. I look down and see that I’m wearing high heels. The silver strappy ones that I picked out for Homecoming last year. And I’m wearing my Homecoming dress: a lavender halter with a tulle skirt that stops at my knees. How could I possibly have left the house and arrived at the audition wearing this outfit? I look around the room and the rest of the dancers are wearing my dress and high heels, too. What is happening?

  Avery Johnson walks into the room, and everyone stands at attention. He slowly strolls around the studio, examining each of us. I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until he reaches me and pauses. He crouches down and peers closer at my ankle. He sees the pink scar and grimaces. He tells me that my injury is unacceptable. That I’m not ready to audition on this ankle and I should leave. I plead with him and tell him that I am ready. He just has to let me show him. In order to prove myself, he tells me to do a hundred fouetté turns. I balk at the request, but nevertheless, run to the center of the floor to do what he’s asked. I prep and rise up to whip around, spotting my reflection in the mirror. I only manage two wobbly turns before my ankle snaps and I fall hard on my face. Avery Johnson walks over and stares down at me. He shakes his head and says, “You will never be the dancer you once were.”

  I wake up covered in sweat.

  I’ve had nightmares since I was little. It’s one of the many reasons Mom didn’t want to go on vacation without me. Before midterms, I always dream that I show up to class without a pencil and my teacher won’t let me take my test. Before a recital, I dream that I’ve brought the wrong costume or forgotten my pointe shoes at home. For weeks after my accident, I dreamt about falling and breaking my ankle over and over again. Last night’s dream was particularly frightening. Especially the disgusted look on Avery Johnson’s face, and the way he repeated the same words that my doctor told me.

  I’m still thinking about it later as I stand in the women’s underwear aisle at Walmart.

  In the cart, I already have a brush, comb, and oil for my hair, a new plain black leotard, T-shirts and shorts for the next few days, soap, and lotion. Essentials. Eli, however, doesn’t have the same mind-set as me. He keeps wandering around the store and somehow finds me wherever I am, holding a random object that he definitely doesn’t need. So far, he’s come back with a jar of Nutella, a Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 DVD, and a plastic inflatable basketball. I’m happy that he’s gone for now. I don’t want him around while I pick out underwear.

  A few feet away, an older woman examines a black bra with cups so big they look like they could carry watermelons. I look down at my own chest, which is tiny in comparison. Just this January, I finally fit into a B cup. Having small boobs wasn’t something that I had ever worried about. Some girls had big boobs, and some girls, like me, didn’t. It came in handy for ballet. I could always fit any costume without needing alterations. But this year my body is becoming something foreign. When I stand in the studio mirror beside my skinnier, white classmates, my thighs are thicker, my chest protrudes further, and my hips are rounder. Mom says that I’m getting my “woman’s body.” But I don’t know how to feel about that. Sometimes I look down at the bit of cleavage I have and feel happy. Other times I think about how some ballet companies don’t accept Black female dancers because our bodies are either too muscular or too curvy. Avery Johnson doesn’t seem to care about that. His company has dancers of all shapes and sizes. I can only hope he wants his conservatory to be the same way.

  I decide that yes, I will buy the paisley pink underwear. I turn to drop it in the cart and—

  “BOO!”

  I drop the underwear on the floor. And Eli, who’s holding a toy water gun in my face, doubles over in laughter. The older woman picking out bras gives us a disapproving look.

  “What is wrong with you?” I hiss after I’ve caught my breath.

  “You still get so scared,” he says, standing upright. “I guess it’s something you’ll never grow out of.”

  “And you’re so immature. I guess that’s something you’ll never grow out of.”

  “Aww. Thanks.”

  He glances down at the pack of underwear and raises an eyebrow. I can tell that he’s fighting a smile. I turn away so he can’t see that I’m blushing. Nothing screams virgin like pink paisley print.

  I snatch the underwear from the floor and drop it in the cart. Eli does the same with his water gun.

  “You don’t need that,” I say, taking it out and handing it back to him. “Just like you don’t need any of this other stuff.”

  “Who are you to tell me what I need?” He drops the water gun back in.

  Choosing not to start another argument, I push the cart down the aisle and Eli follows behind. I head in the direction of the cash registers because we don’t need to spend much more time here. Geezer is sleeping back at the motel room, and I’m nervous about leaving him alone for too long.

  “I have an idea,” Eli says.

  “No.”

  He blinks. “But you haven’t even heard it.”

  “I’m sure I won’t like it.”

  “Let me tell you and then you can decide.”

  I don’t say anything because I’m choosing to ignore him, but Eli takes my silence as a yes.

  “We should try to meet up with Trey,” he says.

  I slow my walk. “Trey Mason?”

  “Yeah. He lives in Delaware.”

  “I know that,” I say. “I just didn’t know you were still friends.”

  He shrugs. “We talk sometimes.” Then adds, “And we follow each other on Instagram.”

  “I follow him, too.”

  Trey has the kind of Instagram account where he doesn’t post any pictures of himself, but he reposts funny videos and screenshots of memes. His profile picture is a caricature, like the ones they draw at fairs and amusement parks. In the drawing his hair is longer, like he might be trying to grow dreadlocks, but that’s been his profile picture for almost a year. His hair could be to his shoulders or his head could be shaved, and I would have no idea. I don’t know if he’s still skinny and short, or if he had a growth spurt like Eli. I don’t know if he still likes to eat banana and peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.

  We used to text a lot when he first moved, but then he started to spend most of his time getting in shape for the wrestling team. It didn’t help that I was already busy with ballet. By the time Reina moved into his old h
ouse and she and I became friends, Trey and I sort of fell out of touch. The most we ever text is to wish each other a happy birthday. Maybe that’s why I’m so surprised he’s stayed in contact with Eli, the same boy who can’t even be bothered to call his mom and let her know he’s alive.

  We pass the candy aisle and Eli drops a pack of gummy worms into the cart. “I just texted him. He’s on spring break, too.”

  “Okay,” I say, not really giving it much thought. I’m more concerned about how I’m going to discreetly put Eli’s unnecessary items off to the side once we reach the register.

  “He offered to come pick us up,” Eli continues. “He doesn’t live too far from here.”

  “Oh.” I blink. I guess this is really happening.

  The three of us back together again, like old times.

  Chapter 7

  Promises

  The summer after Trey and Eli graduated from the eighth grade, Trey’s mom, our middle school principal, got a new job as a superintendent in Delaware. That meant she and Trey were moving to a new state. Even though I’d met Eli first, I’d always felt closer to Trey. And, unlike Eli, Trey didn’t argue with me about every single thing. Sometimes we could spend an entire Saturday riding our bikes up and down the same streets without getting bored. Now we’d be separated by highways and state lines. I was sad that entire summer.

  A few days before he moved, we were watching television in my living room. It was too hot to do anything outside, and Eli was fishing with his dad, so it was just Trey and me. Mom always blasted the AC during summer, so I curled up in a blanket and fought off sleep. I’d had ballet earlier that morning, and even though I was exhausted, I didn’t want to spend one of my last days with Trey sleeping.

  But I drifted off anyway, and I dreamt that I walked to Trey’s house, but it was empty. He’d left without saying good-bye. I couldn’t believe it. I hopped on my bike and tried to ride down to the main road, hoping to catch their moving van, but no matter how fast I pedaled, my tires would only turn in slow motion. I burst into tears with the horrible feeling that I’d never see Trey again.

  I woke up to him shaking my shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked, frowning at me.

  “What happened?” I sat up. My neck and forehead were sweaty.

  “I think you were having a nightmare. You kept making this weird whining noise like you were crying.”

  Mom was the only person who knew about my nightmares. I’d always been too embarrassed to tell anyone else. But this was different. Trey was leaving. I wanted him to know the truth.

  “I had a dream that you moved away without saying good-bye.”

  “I would never do that,” he said. “You know that, right?”

  “I know. It’s just that my dreams get weird like that sometimes.” Quickly, I added, “Don’t tell Eli. He’ll only make fun of me.”

  “I won’t tell him,” Trey said. He hooked his pinky finger around mine. “I promise.”

  I smiled at him. “Thanks.”

  He sat back and slipped his bony arm around my shoulders. “Who cares what Eli thinks, anyway? You’re smart and funny and pretty. Nightmares are probably the only thing he can tease you about.”

  Smart and funny and pretty?

  I blinked. Had Trey always thought those things about me? He’d never told me anything like that before. No boy had ever told me anything like that before.

  As he kept his arm around me and turned his attention back to the television, I got a new thought. It had never crossed my mind that Trey might like me, or that it would make sense for me to like him. We enjoyed the same things. We were the same height. He’d always thought it was cool that I was a ballerina.

  A few weeks before, Larissa let me tag along with her on a trip to the mall. We were sitting in the food court, and a boy who worked at Taco Bell kept staring at her. Whenever Larissa would look up and catch his eye, she’d smile, but he’d look away. They went back and forth like this for a long time, until finally Larissa walked right up to him and asked for his number. I told her that I would be too afraid to ever do something like that. She only laughed and said that the boy doesn’t always have to make the first move.

  I’d already had Trey’s number for ages, so I did what I thought was the next logical step. I sucked in a breath, leaned forward, and kissed him right on the lips.

  The kiss lasted for a millisecond. Once Trey realized what was happening, he stood up and stumbled backward, putting his hand over his mouth like I’d just tried to rip it off of his face.

  “Chloe…” he said, blinking. “I … I don’t…”

  Mortified, I burrowed my face in my blanket. My cheeks were on fire. Of course Trey didn’t like me like that. What was I thinking?!

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I just thought, because you said those nice things, maybe you liked me like that, and it would make sense if I liked you like that, too.” I was rambling, and Trey just watched, shaking his head. Slowly, he sat down beside me again.

  “I do like you, Chloe,” he said after a few seconds. “You’re my best friend. It’s just…”

  “Just what?” I waited for him to tell me all the ways in which I was romantically unlikable.

  He looked down and bit his lip. His voice was low, and I had to lean forward to hear him. “I don’t think I like girls … in that way.”

  “Oh,” I said, a little confused. Then, “Oh.”

  “I haven’t told anyone yet.” He came to sit beside me on the couch and stared at his hands as he spoke. “I mean, my mom and I talked about it, but I haven’t told anyone at school.” He lifted his face and his eyes met mine. “Promise you won’t say anything?”

  “I promise.” I scooted closer and hooked my pinky finger around his, just like he’d done with me minutes before. “But now you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone that I kissed you.”

  He choked out a laugh. “I promise.”

  We were quiet for a few minutes. What do you do after you share your first kiss with your best friend and then he tells you his biggest secret?

  Here is what you do: you feel grateful that he was willing to share his secret with you, and you keep it, knowing he’ll keep your secrets as well.

  “Want to bike to Rita’s for some ice cream?” I asked.

  Trey smiled, looking relieved. “Sure.”

  Chapter 8

  Reunited and It Feels So Good?

  We’re standing in front of the motel, waiting for Trey to come pick us up. Geezer is sitting behind me, breathing heavily like something is caught in his throat or nose (nothing is there—I checked). And Eli is standing off to the side, smoking. Again.

  Today he’s wearing a black T-shirt that says FIGHT THE POWER and red basketball shorts. His Phillies cap is fastened tight on his head.

  He stomps out his cigarette and walks back over to me.

  “Do you ever wear anything else?” I ask, gesturing to his outfit.

  He looks me up and down and raises an eyebrow. “You mean like you?”

  I look at my white T-shirt and gray Soffe shorts. Okay, so I’m basically dressed the same as him right now. I was trying to be as simple and cheap as possible with the clothes I bought at Walmart.

  “I don’t usually dress like this,” I say. “You know that.”

  “I’m using my clothes to make a statement.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That I don’t care what people think.” He stretches his arms above his head, and I take in how tall he is, how long his limbs have grown. The fact that he has muscles. When he glances over at me, I quickly look away.

  “What?” I say, because I can still feel him watching me.

  “You never relax.” He stands up straight as a rod and juts out his chin. Mocking my posture. “Don’t you ever just slouch?”

  “No.” Ballet has drilled holding my center and keeping the ultimate poise into my brain forever. I couldn’t slouch even if I wanted to.

  Eli takes a step closer and p
resses his hands onto my shoulders and upper back, bending them forward. It makes me feel like I have a hunchback. “Doesn’t that feel better?” he asks.

  “No. Why would anyone want to stand like this?” I say, shooing him away. “And you stink like your stupid cigarettes.”

  He holds a hand over his heart. “That hurt my feelings. Does everyone know you’re this rude? And anyway, I’m trying to quit.” He lifts up his shirtsleeve and taps a nicotine patch.

  “If you’re still going to smoke, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the patch?”

  “Everyone has their own process.”

  “You can’t smoke around me,” I declare. “If you want to stay on this trip, that’s the rule.”

  He groans. “First you tell me that I can’t play my music. Now I can’t smoke?”

  “I said you can’t smoke around me.” I think of the pictures of blackened and shriveled lungs our teachers used to show in health class. “I don’t think you need me to tell you about the dangers of secondhand smoke.”

  “No,” he says flatly. “I don’t.”

  “I don’t know why you smoke anyway. Are you just trying to piss off your mom?”

  “No,” he huffs. “I’m not trying to piss off my mom, and I don’t smoke because I think it looks cool. I bummed a cigarette off Isiah one day and decided I liked it, but now I’m trying to quit, because I don’t want to die from fucking lung cancer when I’m thirty-five. It was a stupid choice, okay, Chloe? Is that what you want to hear? Does that satisfy you?”

  “Stop cursing at me,” I snap.

  “I’m not cursing at you!”

  I bet we’ve set some sort of record for the most fights within twenty-four hours. He stares at me, still frowning. I wonder if my frown is as intimidating. Probably not.

  “You should at least carry some cologne with you,” I can’t help saying.

  He sucks in a breath, no doubt getting ready for Smoking Argument: Part Two, when a red Jeep barrels down the road. Geezer sits up, suddenly alert as the Jeep slows down and stops in front of us. The driver lowers his window and leans out to get a better look at us. He’s wearing sunglasses, and his arms and shoulders are thick and muscular. His dreadlocks are wrapped in a bun on top of his head.