Brandy Colbert - Pointe

I unlace my right shoe and slip it off carefully, followed by the padding. My toes sting as I run my fingers across the top of the open blisters, wipe off the blood caked into the crevices around the nails.

I used to have nightmares about The Red Shoes. The fairy tale, not the movie. I imagined myself dancing to exhaustion but unable to stop. But I was never like Karen, the girl who wore the enchanted shoes. I didn’t beg for mercy from an executioner; I was so captivated by my red pointe shoes that I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop under any circumstances. I always woke up before I saw what eventually happened to my feet.

Looking down at my bloody toes now, I wonder: if those magical shoes existed, would I slip them on? I used to think I would, if the alternative meant never dancing again. A year ago—even six months ago—I would have laughed at anyone who said I might not pursue a career in dance. Now I know anything can happen, that life can change so quickly, the plans you thought were set in stone can crumble into nothing. That I could be stuck here for another year, then apply to colleges like everyone else.

There are plenty of wonderful dance programs at regular universities, even public schools. That’s what Marisa tells the people who aren’t good enough to go pro.

Sometimes I think it would be easier if Donovan had chosen to run away with Chris, and never come back. I’d be able to practice in my spare time without the guilt, kiss Hosea without the nagging memories of Chris. I don’t know how I’d ever get over that kind of betrayal, but at least I wouldn’t have to ruin my life in the process.

If Chris kidnapped him—well, then of course I’m happy he’s back. Safe. But if I told people about our relationship, I know what they’d think every time they looked at me. They’d never be able to read an article about Chris or see his picture without thinking of me.

Marisa raps on the dressing room door ten minutes later and I’m still staring at my toes. She asks if everything’s okay because she needs to lock up soon, but all I can do is look at the rust-colored smears where my thumbs brushed away the blood.

I WAKE TO THE AROMA OF PIES TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

Sweet potato and pecan and key lime, too. My stomach rumbles and I think about how I used to race downstairs as soon as the smell of pies wafted up, needling my mother for a breakfast sample before she’d taken them out of the oven.

Now, I lie in bed for a few minutes. Awake but with my eyes closed, savoring the smell because that’s as close as I’ll get to the pies. I don’t know why she makes so many. We always have leftovers because there are only three of us and I never take dessert if I can help it. Of course we don’t have to worry about food going to waste with Phil so close by, but it seems a bit decadent.

Still, I can’t help but breathe in and remember the taste. The buttery crusts and the tang of the limes and the richness of the pecans. I pinch my side hard and think about the costume fittings in my future. Then I get out of bed.

Downstairs, Dad is sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop blatantly open in front of him. I look around for Mom because no way is she putting up with this, but she’s nowhere to be found. The three beautiful pies cooling on racks at the end of the counter are the only indication she was ever here.

“Morning.” I lean in to kiss Dad’s cheek. “Where’s Mom?”

“Delivering Christmas baskets with her coworkers,” he says, looking up long enough to flash me a smile.

I stick a piece of bread in the toaster and dig around in the fridge until I find an egg from the stash Mom boils each week. “On a Sunday? Aren’t most people around here at church?”

Not us. We’re very much the Easter Sunday/Christmas Eve type of Christians, and even then we visit the closest nondenominational church and leave as soon as the service is over. I used to think it was weird since most people I knew went somewhere on Sunday, whether it’s a temple or mass or the AME church in the city where Donovan’s family used to go. Then I met Sara-Kate. Her parents are atheists, and in the Midwest, that clearly made them the weirdest people in town.

“The baskets are going to the shut-in,” Dad says, pushing up the sleeves of his flannel robe. “You’re up awfully early for someone on winter break.”

“You’re being awfully bold about doing work at the table. And the day before Christmas Eve? Mom has eyes around here, you know.” I blink at him with an exaggerated gaze.

He laughs, holds up his hands in defense. “I’m not doing work, I swear. Just reading the news.”

I peel the egg as I wait for my bread to toast and scoop out the round yolk over the garbage disposal when he’s not looking. Then I sit down with my slice of toast and hard-boiled egg whites, which I chop into tiny pieces. The toast would taste better with butter but so would a lot of things.

“Don’t forget we’re meeting with Donovan’s lawyer next week,” Dad says, looking up from his laptop. “He wants to brief you on the questions you’ll be getting, from him and during the cross-examination.”

I push cubes of egg whites around my toast. “What’s he like?”

“Mr. McMillan?” Dad looks off into the distance, squints his eyes as he thinks. “He’s nice. Professional. Really passionate about what he does. Donovan’s in good hands with him.”

Mr. McMillan is going to ask me about Chris and unless I can talk to Donovan by then, I’ll have to lie.

“He keeps saying how much he’s looking forward to meeting you.” My father takes a sip of his coffee, sets the mug carefully on the table as he looks at me. “He knows how close you were to Donovan.”

My eyes land on the pies again and I sit up with a start. I have an idea.

“We should take one of those pies over to Donovan’s house,” I say. Nonchalantly, so it sounds like something nice I thought of and not a ploy to get him alone.

Dad glances at them over his shoulder. “We can ask your mother when she gets home. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“We should do it while they’re still warm. It’s a nice gesture.” I make one last halfhearted attempt at my toast, swallow hard around the dry crust, and stand up to take my dishes to the sink. “He’s been back for two months now. And it’s the holidays.”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt.” He’s distracted by something on his computer. I love it when he brings the laptop to the table. He doesn’t notice as I dump half my breakfast into the sink. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“I can do it.” I turn my back so he won’t see the smile splitting my face. “I’ll go over after I brush my teeth.”

Ten minutes later, I’m standing on my front porch, holding a foil-wrapped pie and sweating profusely. I can’t believe how easy this was. Stars aligning. Fresh-baked pies. Preoccupied Dad, who won’t overthink it like Mom would. We’d still be sitting at the table, making a pro-con list for leaving a pie on the neighbor’s doorstep if she were here.

I walk down my steps and start heading over.

The day is winter-wet. The kind of damp that hangs in the air from morning to night, when old snow melts into slush under the sun and cools into ice after dark.

I walk down the driveway and the sidewalk, stopping to look at Donovan’s house from the street before walking up the path. The welcome-back debris has been cleared off the porch, but it still stands out from the others. Every other house on the street is draped in strings of twinkly lights with tasteful holiday decorations dotting the yards. The Pratt house is nothing more than dark windows and a desolate lawn. The porch sits like the empty, ominous mouth of the house, waiting to swallow up anyone who comes too close.