My days and weeks fall into a distinct pattern now. Wake up, eat some yogurt and fruit, do other get ready things. Go to school. Do work and try to pay attention. Take tests. Eat lunch alone. Go to dance. Come home. Go to the gym and run on the elliptical. Return home, eat dinner. Work on homework. Have insomnia and get five hours of sleep or less. And repeat.
On weekends, I usually manage to get more sleep. Every Saturday, I wake up, go to dance for four hours, sit at Rachel’s studio for another two hours pretending like I’m actually helping out. Sit and listen to Rachel, admiring her passion for life, until her mom comes to pick her up. Come home. Go to yoga (usually). Return home, eat dinner. Sit around doing who knows what until I hear a car in the driveway and sneak up to my room, trying to pretend like I don’t exist.
Sundays are usually filled with a lot of homework. And now that it’s cold and snowy, I don’t really do much else on Sundays. Sometimes I go to the ATM at the grocery store and deposit the money I get from “teaching,” my weekly allowance of five dollars, and whatever money I’ve gotten from various dance sponsors that month.
One Sunday a week before Thanksgiving Break, I’m lying on my bed staring at the ceiling. I’m trying to build up the motivation to do my homework when I hear the doorbell ring downstairs. It’s probably for my mother, an idea that I don’t doubt when I hear her begin to talk to whoever it is excitedly. But not five minutes later, she calls up the stairs, “Audrey, a friend’s here to visit you!” I can hear the smile in her voice. I have no idea who it is. My friends now consist of Rachel, basically. It could be Jana or Robin, but I thought they’d both given up. I suppose it could also be someone from dance or school, but my mother probably wouldn’t have greeted them the way she did if that was true.
I sit up, realizing that I haven’t brushed my hair or gotten dressed today. I quickly run a brush through my hair, pull on a pair of leggings and a big sweatshirt from camp. I also slip on a pair of flats. My eyes have dark circles underneath them, and my lip has a deep red line (a scab) from where I’m always biting it. I sigh, giving up my face as a lost cause, tuck my hair behind my ear, and plod downstairs.
Lo and behold, Robin is standing awkwardly in our front hallway. I stop at the end of the stairs and cross my arms over my chest, looking at the floor. I clear my throat to let him know I’m here, raising my eyes slightly.
“Hey!” He says surprisingly warmly. He takes his hands out of his coat pockets, and formally folds them in front of him. I notice that he looks oddly formally dressed for a Sunday morning. But, then again, not everyone is as lazy as I am on Sundays. He’s wearing a pair of black pants and a leather jacket, and somehow he doesn’t look tired at all.
“Hello,” I respond, biting my lip yet again.
It’s obvious that he’s thought about what he wants to say to me. He has very few pauses, and his words sound distinctly reversed. He clears his throat, and begins. “Audrey. I’m worried about you. You never talk to anyone anymore. It seems like you’ve lost all of your emotion, but I know deep down in your eyes that it’s still there. But you just never stop. You’re always going, going, going, like the damn Energizer bunny or something. Do you ever slow down anymore?” Now he pauses for a moment. I can see in his face that he’s trying to figure out how exactly to says something more tender and fragile. “You look so tired, Audrey. I don’t know if you stop to look at yourself. But your face is gaunt, pale, and you always have those dark circles.” He sighs. “I just…I hope you know you’re not alone.”
When he finishes, I just look at him, directly in the eyes.
“Well?” He looks frustrated now, something I’ve never seen in him before. “Oh, come on, Audrey, just talk to me. Even if you don’t want to tell me everything. Tell me something. Please?”
I can see the desperation in his eyes. Suddenly, I’m angry. I’m scared that someone still cares about me so much. Before I realize what I’m saying, I burst out, “Where exactly do you think you come off telling me how I’m feeling? Or telling me I need to change the way I’m living my life? I mean, god, it’s my life and as long as I’m not hurting anyone, what business is it of yours?”
Instantly, I can see the pain in his face. And I’m sorry for what I said. I can see that he wants to respond, but is battling the other part of him that now wants to stay far away from my life.
I sigh, and finally uncross my arms, letting a small part of my guard down. I look at the floor. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t really mean all of that. I’ve been really stressed lately, and I don’t know how to talk to anyone anymore.”
He nods. “I understand. But maybe we could go running together or get a cup of coffee or grab lunch sometime? Even if you don’t want to talk about what’s going on, maybe it will help to just have some fun with someone.” In his eyes, I see love and hope and care. All of the things I felt over the summer, that somehow disappeared when I left that supportive atmosphere. His love scares me and saddens me, because I want it so much.
I pause. There’s no way I’m letting him into my running routine. Probably not lunch, either. Now that I’ve spent two months eating lunch alone, it’s hard to imagine bringing someone else into that ritual, either. But I’m not against coffee.
I bite my lip again, and then am immediately angry that I can’t stop this habit. “Coffee would be okay, I reply. Maybe one morning before dance. Though it’s going to start getting crazy with Nutcracker rehearsals.”
That last sentence is the closest I’ve come in a long time to starting a conversation. He nods, happy. Realizing I’m probably being rude leaving him in the doorway, I ask, “Do you want to come in? My mom has a lot of leftover food from her parties, and I think she has some really good muffins from a breakfast yesterday.”
“I can only stay for twenty minutes. I have to go to a wedding of my parents’ friend soon.” I lead him into the kitchen, where I get out two muffins. He eats his happily. I pick at mine, eating considerably slower than him.
“So, are you excited for the Nutcracker this year?”
I shrug. “I guess. I’m finally playing Clara, so that’ll be good I guess. I’ve waited so many years to play the main character. How about you?”
“Oh, well, I’m just a soldier this year, even though I was moving up at my last studio. Seniority and all that.”
I nod, and we fall into an awkward silence. Robin finishes his muffin, looks at his watch, and says he has to go. I nod. “Next Sunday maybe?” He asks, as he’s halfway out the door.
“Sure. E-mail or call to remind me, though.”
He smiles, and for a moment he pauses on the threshold, as if there’s something else. Then he finally waves, turns, and closes the door.
I leave my half finished muffin on the counter in the kitchen. I’m sure Sophie will finish it when she gets home from wherever she is without even thinking about it. I never really wanted it in the first place, but it would’ve seemed weird to just watch Robin eat a muffin.
It’s eleven. I grab my keys and decide to go to the bank, since I got some money recently from a couple dance stores around here for using my pictures in their ads, pamphlets, or catalogs. I don’t exactly enjoy seeing myself this way, especially since it’s usually not a candid picture, so they look awkward and posed. I wish they’d come to dance practices or performances and snap pictures and use those. But whatever. It’s good money, which I need for gas.
As I wait in line for the ATM, I realize how boring my life has gotten. When did I fall into these rituals? I don’t remember. But now I’m one of those people who comes to the grocery store to deposit her money on a Sunday morning in the wet snow.
I return home and walk straight up to my room. I place my keys loudly on my desk and throw myself down onto my bed. On my bedside table, I have two pictures. One of Holly and me riding horses a few summers ago. And one new one from this summer after the recital. It’s Robin, Amber, and me sitting on the steps of one of the cabins. I’m still in my costume, and in the picture we’re all laughing, holding bottles of water, and squinting into the camera. The sun is shining down on my hair, making both it and my face glow.
Where did that happiness go? Where did the hope go?
I move my head so I’m staring up at the ceiling again, white and endless.
And for a million different reasons, I cry.
