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Teddy
“SO, TELL ME ABOUT TARYN,” Victoria says.
She smiles pleasantly at me, and there’s something strangely alluring about her eyes. I can’t look away. It’s like she’s Medusa or something. I don’t even know if that’s right. Greek mythology isn’t my strong point.
“About Taryn?” I frown a little and glance around the studio before looking back at Victoria. “Why?”
“Well, we’re going to have both of you in the company, right?” she says sweetly. “So, I want to know about her.”
My eyes narrow. I know what she can be like. I asked Xavier for the names of the company ballerinas who were making Taryn’s life difficult, believing Jaidev would’ve said something to him, and he had. And the first name uttered was Victoria’s.
“Well, Taryn is the kindest person I know,” I say.
She’s kind and a genuine person. But there’s sadness under her outer layer, I can see it. Anyone can really who looks at her. And I know it’s because of her sister. The dead one. The one she doesn’t ever talk about.
So many times, I’ve wanted to ask Taryn about Helena, but she’s never told me about her directly. Or at all really. And I don’t want to mention her name, be the one to bring her up. I don't know how Taryn might react. I don’t want to upset her.
“And what does she want?” Victoria asks.
I frown. My stomach makes a grumbling noise. I haven’t eaten or drank anything today, but that’s okay because I’ve got the catheterization procedure later this afternoon, and you can’t eat six hours beforehand. “What do you mean?”
“What’s her goal? Why does she want to be at Roseheart’s company? She wants to be the female principal?”
I laugh. “What girl wouldn’t?”
“Woman,” Victoria corrects. “Though I suppose she is a girl, isn’t she? Still seventeen, right?”
I nod. Taryn’s birthday is the last day of August. We’d been told before that any diploma student admitted to the company who isn’t eighteen at the time would need a guardian to also sign the contract also. Taryn had been nervous telling her mum that, a few months ago, said she was half expecting her to refuse to sign it. But I’d assured her that that wouldn’t happen. And when Taryn had messaged her about it on Facebook, her mum had said she’d do it.
Victoria makes a disgusted sound, deep in her throat. “So, she wants to be principal. Well, well, well. And she’s stuck up enough to think she’ll get it easily.”
“Uh, no,” I say. “She’d just be happy to get into the company. We both would be. All we want is to prove that aroace dancers can succeed. That romance can be authentically performed and...” I trail off, feeling too much blood pound in my head, as I realize what I’ve said.
Victoria’s eyes are wide. “Taryn is aroace?”
“Oh, uh. Yeah. I am, too.” I rub at my arms. My breathing is suddenly too quick.
“Don’t look so worried,” she says. “I won’t say anything. I’m not heartless.”
“Really? You’ve been making life pretty difficult for her as it is.”
She shrugs. “Just rites of passage, isn’t it? She’ll get over it. They always do.”
“I mean it, Victoria. You can’t say anything about Taryn being aroace.”
“Why would I? I’m ace-spec, too.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder then reaches for a hair-tie from her bag
“You are?” I stare at her.
She nods. “Demisexual. Not aro though—well, I thought I was for a while, but then turned out I was demiromantic as well as demisexual. Fell right for this guy, found I was pretty into sex once I had the deep emotional connection to him, blah blah blah.” She rolls her eyes. “I sound like one of them definitions guides. But, anyway, I’m not going to say anything. Not about that. I know the struggles we all face. Anyway, do you want to learn this choreography or not? We’re here to dance. Not talk.”
We dance—forty-five minutes of grueling combinations. Victoria is pretty ruthless, and by the time I’ve finished, I’m nauseous and a little dizzy.
“So, tomorrow then?” Victoria asks as we change our shoes after.
“Oh, uh, no, I can’t do then.” I look at my phone. Shit. I'm going to be late. “I’ll message you!” I yell as I run.
##
“YOU STILL SHOULDN’T have gone back there.” Dad’s in a mood with me when he arrives to collect me, and that’s the first thing he says. There’s no Hello, Teddy, how are you? or anything nice like that. Just going straight to the point because I went against what he wanted. To be honest, I’ve been avoiding his phone calls ever since I came back here.
“Dad, please.” I haven’t got the strength to argue with him. Not when my appointment, the catheterization procedure, is so soon.
It’s a 6 p.m. surgery. Check-in is forty-five minutes before. The letter said they’re running an extra clinic into the evening to try and clear waiting list times. Not that there’s been much of a wait for me. I collapsed on July 1st and now it’s the 21st.
“It’s too much.” Dad drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Being back here so soon. You’re not well. I need to be able to keep an eye on you.”
“What. To check I’m not dancing?” I snort, but I’m suddenly aware of everything—how it’s cold in the car because Dad’s got the air conditioning turned up full blast. How my shirt is scratchy against my chest. How the headache I’ve been trying to ignore is still there.
“Well, are you?” Dad looks at me, then pulls the car out onto the road without waiting for an answer.
But I still say it. “No.” The lie doesn’t even make me feel bad because it’s kind of meaningless anyway. Soon, this will all be cleared up.
Dad doesn’t talk really for the rest of the journey, except to say he’s packed an overnight bag for me. As if I’m even going to be staying that long. I’m fine. I’ll just have this procedure, and then it’ll be done, and all this silliness will be sorted, and me and Taryn can dance together again.
When we arrive at the hospital, Dad drops me off because he can’t find anywhere to park. A sudden rush of dizziness tries to grab me as I walk into the main entrance of the hospital, alone. Suddenly, I feel weak and small and scared.
Scared.
“But it’ll be fine,” I say, and several elderly people near me give me strange looks. Right. I’m just the weird teenager talking to himself.
I’ve got the appointment letter, and I check where to go. My feet drag as I take myself there. There’s a lump in my throat that I just can’t seem to swallow, can’t get it to go away. I imagine that it’s the shape of my esophagus now, that extra shape a permanent feature, and it nearly makes me throw up.
One, two, three, four.
I breathe deeply.
Five, six, seven, eight.
I can do this.
I’m fine.
This will prove it.
I have to do this to dance with Taryn again.
I sign myself in at the reception area of the cardiology department. Just seeing that word—cardiology—on the wall makes my stomach feel heavier. My breathing is too loud as I sit in the waiting room.
I strain my neck, looking back toward the door, waiting for Dad to arrive.
No sign of him.
Are you coming up yet? I text. Level two, department C. In case he’s forgotten.
I drum my fingers on my thighs.
Still trying to park.
“Theodore Walker,” a voice calls.
A young nurse with a smiley face and clumpy mascara.
And then it’s... Then it’s happening...
A hospital gown. A blue basket to put my own clothes in. Consent forms. Another nurse. A pen to sign the forms with. Someone laughing, making a bad joke. The doctor in front of me. A bald man with a head that’s too shiny. He laughs and says he does these procedures all the time. Nothing to worry about.
Nothing to worry about.
A nurse tells me to empty my bladder. I do so, feeling sick with nerves the whole time. Then I’m led through to a lab that looks too sterile. Like something off a horror film, where people are cut up.
My mouth dries, and I try to distract myself, paying attention to what’s going on in here. Two doctors in scrubs. A blood pressure cuff is strapped around my arm. Pens write notes on clipboards. Someone directs me to lie on a table. The flimsy paper creases under me. I try to adjust my hospital gown, to give me some more dignity. Someone laughs.
They put sticky electrodes on my chest. They talk all the time. Their voices are abrasive and grating.
“Are you nervous? Oh dear, you do seem nervous. Your heart rate’s gone right up. Just relax.”
Relax. I can’t relax. My empty stomach churns.
I try to straighten my gown again. More voices.
Then an IV in my arm. A syringe of clear liquid. Just a sedative, they tell me. Because I’ll be awake, but this is just to help me to relax.
I’m fine.
But I wish my dad was here, as they prepare the side of my neck for the catheter, swiping it with a cold disinfectant wipe that stings a little with the force applied.
I wish someone was here with me.
“We’ll just get the local anesthetic in, before we thread the catheter,” a doctor says. “Then we’ll begin.”
###
IT’S A WEIRD EXPERIENCE, the during and the after—because I’m groggy, groggier than I thought a sedative would make me, and it’s like time is too thick, like seconds are dragging on my skin, pulling me both forward and back. A nurse is here at one point, saying something, but then she’s gone. Dad’s here, and then he’s gone, too.
Someone’s serving food. I can smell it. Grease. My stomach curdles.
But then they’re gone. Everyone keeps going.
“Yes, he’s still a bit out of it from the sedative, bless him. It can happen, but he’ll be right as rain shortly, I’m sure.”
Dad’s back. I blink. Feel a bit more normal now. More like me. I’m in a bed in a ward. Blue curtains are drawn around, but only half the way, so I can still see some of the room, other beds.
“Sorry, son,” Dad says. He pulls at his face, making his skin sag even more as he looks at me. “The procedure confirmed what the echocardiogram showed. You’ve got hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, but the doctor said they were able to get a lot of data.”
Confirmed? No.
It can’t be.
My mouth dries. No.
Dad’s still talking. His lips are moving, but the rushing sounds in my ears are too loud. There’s an angry tide inside me taking over, washing everything away, flooding me.
No.
No.
No.