I stand on stage in something like Mountain Pose. My bare feet are firm against the hardwood. My stance is straight, proud. I am exactly in the center. I know it’s the center because Rachel and I measured it and there is a small blue blob of paint there leftover from last spring’s “The Iceman Cometh.” My chest is just slightly out and my hands are both about a foot behind me. Props flank me. My set designer encouraged me to use these large columns with big, metal balls at the top. They’re supposed to match my Romanesque outfit.
The music starts. Just a piano at first, but it sounds like chandeliers tinkling in the window. I’ve listened to that music over and over. I’ve heard it so many times it became annoying. But right now, I relish the familiarity. Energy pumps through my soul. As the piano notes cascade, my fingers wiggle. When I choreographed this, I thought of the wings of a baby bird and how their small feathers at the tips would blow, softly, in the wind. But standing here, with the possibly antagonistic crowd before me, it feels more like my arms are a makeshift cape. I am a makeshift hero, sort of.
On the eighth beat, the stage lights dim. This is part of the routine. I dance in the shadows for the first few steps. I’m surprised at how clearly I can see the audience. During rehearsal, I could barely make out the scattered figures of my dance troupe as they watched me. But now, it’s all clear. It’s still dark, but it’s like I no longer need the light to see.
There are many in the crowd here for us, for me. Their cheers are positive. No sound comes from Jared or his friends. They are to the right, so still, so silent, it makes my heart beat faster.
Mandy is on the left side. Her clenched hands are on her armrest, as though she’s on a ride holding on for her life. She isn’t looking at the stage. She’s looking at Jared. Zachary is next to her, his hand on her back, whispering something. I think for a sliver of a moment that Rashid should be next to him. But I knock that thought away.
Luke is here. He must have gotten out of work. He stands in the back of the auditorium. But he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at the audience. His mouth is slim, grim.
As I shift positions, Jared gets up. Sweat beads at my temples. Two beats later, I shift into my next position and start counting again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. On the final beat, my left leg extends and the tip of my toe gently reconnects with the stage. The stretch opens me up. My hips shift and my right hand makes a fist that plants itself on my lower back. My left arm extends, palm up, to stage left. I hold the pose, my thigh stiff. I can see Lei and Rick there along with a few other dancers. They give thumbs up and you-go-girl gestures, all silently. Except Lei bites her lip, and Rick clutches at his thumbs. I allow myself the tiniest of smiles. You have to keep a performance face, but it’s enough for them to notice. Lei smiles back, big, and Rick’s tense shoulders relax.
Good. They don’t see how my body is shaking, a slight fear-induced tremor.
I swing back to my Mountain Pose with the cape position, facing the audience, for just two beats. But those beats are enough for me to see that Jared is making his way down the aisle. Luke and another guy are following him, but Jared’s strides are quick.
I don’t stop. Some people say it’s better to die on your feet than live on your knees. Well, I’d be just fine living on my knees, but there is no way in hell I’m stopping my senior solo for some punkass like Jared.
I turn to stage right, doing the same fist-against-my-back, palm-out-to-the-people-offstage position I did before, just in reverse. Rachel’s on that side. Her arms are crossed, and she gives me a proud nod. But she’s behind the curtain. She doesn’t see Jared approach.
I do two twirls, which make me a little dizzy, and end up facing backstage. My two open palms glide out, welcoming nothingness. My thighs are strong in this semi-chair pose. During rehearsal, I thought of this move as my reprieve. My break. Here I can just wallow in dancing and not worry about the crowd, which is behind me. Out of sight.
But it’s scary not to see what Jared is up to. It rankles my gut to hear boots pound up the stairs but not see the man. I do two more twirls, part of the routine, and I see him, twice, quickly, as I revolve. He’s on the stage. My stage. He’s not facing me, he’s facing the audience. Arms raised.
I do something horrid.
I break out of routine. I approach him. I hardly notice the throngs of people coming to the stage, thumping up the steps.
“You aren’t Kanye West, and I’m not Taylor Swift, so sit the fuck down,” I say.
He furrows his eyebrows and tilts his head. Perhaps a pop culture reference wasn’t the way to go. Someone grabs my arm. Voices smish and smash in my ears.
“Let him talk!”
“He can save the people.”
“Get the fuck off the stage!”
Dozens of students are on the stage. My stage. Jostling and pushing. They spill into the backstage. Lei, Rick and the others turn in fear. A guy with a poster pushes another guy into one of the columns. I try to find Rachel, but as I’m looking for her, something strikes me and pain spasms down my body. There’s a crack.
The heavy prop, the gold ball atop the tower, crashed against my arm. But it’s not done yet. There is a flash of pain in my side. I slam against the stage, the massive metal ball pinning me. I squirm, but the heat and hurt is too much.
There are so many people, pushing and shoving. No one sees me. Other set pieces have fallen. Chaos ensues and I am swallowed up in it. I try to get up, but the ball is too heavy, and my right arm won’t move. The bone in my forearm is bent. I have an extra elbow. The flesh grows a deep purple that matches my eyes. Something warm and gooey lodges in my throat and I try to get it out. Coughing and hacking under the weight, my side hurts, like a knife is moving around in my lungs. Fizzy blood sprays from my mouth across the hardwood dance floor.
Luke is close now, up on the stage. He has to push aside screamers and people fleeing and people fighting. His eyes lock with mine, and I try again to get up to reach out to him as he lifts the column, up up up. The golden ball is no longer on me.
I try to move again. Luke puts his hand on my shoulder. “Quinn, stay still. The paramedics are on their way.” He kneels beside me.
“Okay,” I say, and cough again. Blood gets on his shoe. He looks at it and looks at me. His mouth parts. The lines around his eyes are like deep caverns. “Hold on, Quinn. Just hold on.”
“To what?” I try to laugh, but the world is getting blurry, like I’m seeing it underwater.
He shifts to get closer to me. “Just hold on. For me.” He tells me to talk to him. But even without the blood it would be difficult to keep on talking— because I see it. When he shifts, his jacket moves and I see it. It’s black and hangs on his hip like it’s supposed to be there. I feel cold. He asks me to describe the next dance moves I was going to do. He asks me to tell him what I am going to paint tomorrow. He asks me a whole bunch of crap questions about things that are very low priorities, given the situation.
I stay quiet. I just keep staring at his hip. As the world drifts away and my vision grows black, I have only one remaining thought lodged in my brain.
Why does Luke have a gun?