At Least They're Committed

It’s quiet and empty in this room, my saddle shoes make no sound. The light is bright, shining hot down on me but it’s still cold. I pirouette and fly into the chair. It looks like it’s made of sand but it’s hard and hurts my bare knees as I land in it. Its skinny metal legs scrape, making an ugly chirping noise that echoes as it bounces across the cement floor. It’s still moving with me in it. Maybe I jumped too hard.

He grabs the chair and holds it still for me as I twist from my knees and sit down the way I was told. He smiles because he wants me to like him, but he’s not like my dad and he scares me a little. He moves from behind me and kneels at my left side. His hair smells good and it’s kind of the same color as the chair and it has little curls that almost make me want to touch them.

But I won’t.

I bite my lower lip not too hard and shove my hands, palms down, under my hips. I lean forward and curl my legs around those of the chair. They feel icy and the metal stings and it’s like it’s buzzing, but I keep my shins there anyway. This time, my feet are only about six inches from the floor.

He’s looking at a greenish-blackish window in front of me. I look there, too, and there’s a lady looking at me. She’s nice. I can tell because she’s smiling like I’m smiling.

“He’s behind the glass. Do you want to talk to him?” the man says.

I’m confused. So is the lady because we both look at the man next to me. I don’t see any man behind the glass, but I do know who he means. So I don’t question. I just drop my eyes.

“Do I have to?” my voice sounds silly, as always. I bet when I’m 25 I’ll still sound like I’m 5. And it echoes, but his doesn’t.

He smiles that one big smile that I don’t like. “I think you should. He just wants to ask you some questions.”

I blink and toss my head to the side because even though my hair is short, like Tinkerbell’s, my bangs have gotten long and they’re in my eyes.

“I don’t want to hurt.”

“I don’t think it will hurt,” he says, but I’m not sure he means it or maybe he just doesn’t know. I’m looking at the glass and at the lady who is in front of ‘him.’

“. . . he can ask. OK . . .”

A wave of wind and noise like a giant bottle full of water breaking whips past me, through me, swirling around me sucking all the air out of the room for just a second or two so I can only hold my breath and wait until it stops. It stops. There were no words, but I heard him just fine. Now my hair looks more like Peter Pan’s and it’s really, really, really quiet in the room.

I look at the man kneeling by me and smile and he looks back at me like I’m supposed to say something. He nods, like, “so?”

“What?”

“Are you going to answer?”

Well, now that’s not fair!!! I squirm and pull my hands up and fold my arms tight. I said the man could ask. Nobody said I had to answer.

It’s so quiet. And cold. And I’m shaking a little.

I uncross my arms and wipe my nose with my sleeve and then wipe my hands on my plaid, pleated skirt even though there’s nothing on them.

Maybe I should answer. Maybe it would be OK. But my cheeks feel the heat of the light all the sudden, even though I’m shivering and I can’t stop wiping my hands on my uniform.

“OK,” I stare forward without seeing.

“Yes, I do . . . For a long time. . . No, it was dark. I didn’t. . . people like me don’t get to . . . I think maybe it’s supposed to be like that.”

The man beside me smiles, “Anything else?”

There was one more question, I remember, but the man behind the glass had asked it before. I sigh and roll my eyes.

“Go ahead,” he says.

“Is this going to haunt me later?” I say, my voice still echoing but deeper, my legs still wrapped around the chair legs, but my toes hitting the floor.

He smiles, wrinkles his nose and stands up. “I don’t think so . . . ” He still doesn’t know.

I’m still cold.

“Fine,” I turn to the glass and the lady looking back suddenly looks familiar to me. “But only if you can catch me.”

My feet firmly on the floor, I stand and walk away.