Bud

Chapter 2

Chapter 2“Lookee there! The Paris. Ya see the Eiffel Tower? Not as big as the real thing, but just like it in every other way.”

Please. Just stop. This is the last thing I want to see. Mimi planned a trip for us to Paris this coming summer. She already got my passport. It was gonna be just the two of us. Now that’s not happening. And here’s this man who crawled out of the woodwork rubbing it in.

And still, he brayed on, like a trained donkey. “Lots of shows on the Strip. Look!” He pointed. “There’s Usher.”

I looked, not because I wanted to but because I almost had to follow his finger that was blocking my view. And yes, Usher was on a giant electric billboard. Whoo-hoo. Big deal.

Before Sarge could shout out anything else he wanted me to be interested in, I saw a billboard for a singer I did like. There, in his ten-foot-high glory, was Kyan. Kyan was a rapper, and I loved his song “Holy.” I’d even made up a dance to it.

Yeah, dance. I tried to dance away all this crap that happened, but it just didn’t work. Always, just always, if I had any problems, I could dance them away. Whenever I got bullied at school, I rushed home to my little studio. If I felt like no one understood me, I loved going to ballet class. Dance was my savior. It took me away from the bullying, from the looks, from the whispers.

But I never wanted to dance again. The only one besides me who really believed in my dancing was Mimi. So why bother? This soldier sitting next to me certainly wouldn’t care. He probably wants me to play football. That’s what his kind always is into. And his husband? What’s up with him? He hasn’t said a word since the airport.

I just wanted to be left alone. Sarge continued his blabbering. But all I could think about was the last day I had at home.

I slept, I ate, I packed. But I felt nothing. Mr. Stern’s news guaranteed that. Did I just forget—no, that’s not the word, maybe bury—the grief I had? Whenever thoughts of my mother came into my brain and my heart, I would clutch the necklace, and she was near me. Some moments during that day, I clutched the little ballerina so hard the edges pressed into my hand and left marks. I don’t know how, but I got through it. I refused to hurt. Not out loud, at least.

I wanted to hide. Go into the studio. Lock the door. Never come out. Not to dance. I’d tried that. Didn’t work. No, I just wanted to forget—my mother, Greta, moving, this uncle I didn’t know.

Weird. I felt kinda lucky. Lucky I didn’t have time to just crawl into a ball and forget everything. I had to pack up my life. Load it all into a carry-on, a few suitcases, and some cardboard boxes. Neatly stuffed. Shipped to a new life. A scaryland far away.

Not a smile the entire day. So many memories hiding in my stuff—programs, ballet DVDs, things Mimi had given me for my birthdays and Christmases. I was a robot, stuffing it all into the boxes. I packed the tutu Mimi gave me the Christmas before. I almost threw it away, knowing I’d never wear it again. Mimi was the only person in the world who understood me and why I wanted this thing. Greta laughed when I pranced around the house in my tutu. “Stop it, liebchen,” she’d say. “Your mother is crazy letting you joke around in that thing.” But Mimi understood my tutu wasn’t a joke to me. I was a ballerina whether Greta knew it or not. I didn’t know it, I guess. Boys can’t be ballerinas. But I was one.

But all that’s behind me. My new uncle’s in control. And he won’t want a crazy boy jumping around in a skirt. That’s for sure. But I couldn’t make myself leave my tutu behind.

Christmas was only a few weeks away. Christmas without Mimi. No. There’s no Christmas without Mimi. She made it special. Christmas movies, seeing the lights, going to The Nutcracker. Mimi made Christmastime for me—just for me. But not this year. Oh, no, she was determined to chase that man who could make her a few more dollars. Damn you, Mimi, damn you. We didn’t need any more money. I needed you. I need you. But you left me.

I swiped a tear. I was not going to cry. No. No, no, no. I was not going to give anyone the satisfaction. If Mimi was looking down from somewhere, she could just wait and wait and wait before I cried anymore. She left me. Why should I cry for her?

Greta stood right by me, helping me make decisions about what I wanted to take, what I wanted to leave. What a joke. I didn’t want anything. What I wanted was it to be two days before, with Mimi still here, and none of this happening.

“Leave the tutu, sweet boy. Your uncle will not approve, I’m sure,” she said.

“No. Mimi gave it to me,” I said. I don’t know why that came out. I didn’t care anymore, right?

Greta sighed. “Very well.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’ll miss you, liebchen.”

“You know, we can email each other. Or text. We can text every day, Greta.”

“Oh, my sweet boy, your Greta is too old to learn computers or fancy phones.” Then she smiled. “But we will write letters. Lots and lots of letters, liebchen.”

“Of course, Greta. You give me your son’s address, and I will write you a lot.” I didn’t know anybody did that anymore, but I did love Greta, and I figured she was the only one left on earth who loved me now, so I needed to stay in touch with her.

She stopped packing and hugged me. “Ah, liebchen, we are both beginning new lives, you with your uncle, I with my son. He has long begged me to join him and his beautiful wife and my grandchildren—they are getting so big—but I did not want to leave my Amelia and you, my sweet boy.” Greta will always be there for me. “Now I am forced to move to the lovely room my dear, dear son created for me long ago.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Perhaps good will come from all this bad for both of us, liebchen.”

She was trying to be hopeful. To make me feel better. But all this talk of beginning new lives just reminded me I was moving, and most of all, I was meeting a man I never knew, and he probably wouldn’t even like me.

By the end of the day, everything was packed and ready. Mr. Stern was taking care of everything but one carry-on. The guys were coming to pick it all up and crate the painting for shipping at four P.M., so the only time Greta and I paused was for a lunch of pizza she called for. Neither of us ate much of it.

I finally felt the hurt the most when those guys came and packed the painting. Degas painted the most beautiful ballerinas, and Mimi had bought the painting for me. My heart was ripping to see it being taken from the wall and enclosed in its coffin. I wanted to stay close to it, but I had to see it put in a dark moving van. My beautiful dancer would be so lonely and afraid on her journey to her new home. And where she was going, I had no idea. Is my uncle’s home heaven or hell?

Mr. Three-Piece Suit Stern showed up just as the men were closing the van doors. He signed some papers, and my life drove away.

“Son, come inside. We need to talk,” he said. And he didn’t wait to see if I was following him. I guess he was used to people doing what he said.

“Okay. Tomorrow. Your flight’s not until early evening—five o’clock—best I could do. I will accompany you to the airport. My driver will pick you up two-thirty P.M. sharp. Be ready. I have an appointment I must make after I drop you off. I have paperwork—my temporary guardianship, which I will carry to the airport, and notice of permanent guardianship which I have already sent to your uncle. My paperwork will get me through TSA, as will your passport, which, praise God, Amelia had already gotten for you. I will hand you off to the gate agent. You’ll be tagged for identification—standard procedure for a juvenile flying unaccompanied. I’m told you will be boarded last, at which time, a flight attendant will take charge. Understood?”

I nodded.

“Fine, fine. Two-thirty tomorrow? Understood?”

I nodded again.

And he strode away.

* * * *

At precisely two-thirty P.M. the next day, Mr. Stern’s town car pulled up. I was waiting, goodbyes to Greta already said. I had to be strong to face this horrible new place I was going to. I didn’t need Greta slobbering all over me. I packed just enough clothes to last a few days because my other stuff would get there soon. But I also packed some paper, some envelopes, and a pen—so I could write Greta as soon as I could. I even found some stamps in Mimi’s study. I had everything I needed to make good on my promise to write Greta often.

The driver stowed my carry-on in the trunk of the car. I slid in next to Mr. Stern, busy on his cellphone. He gestured distractedly, supposedly welcoming me.

He talked on his phone the whole time we were in the car. Business talk. As he droned on, I got more and more upset. Fear was building in me. This was getting more and more real. My life was changing forever. I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough.

At the airport, everything Mr. Stern had described happened. Security, gate attendant, tag, flight attendant. The flight attendant was a really nice guy named David, who took me to a seat at the back of the plane after everyone else had boarded. Buckled in, I started to cry. I didn’t want to. But it happened. I cried all the way through that thirty-minute flight. Then we landed, I wiped my tears, and vowed that would never happen again.

David got my carry-on bag and led me up the jetbridge—that’s what he called it—into the airport.

I looked ahead and there stood him. He was trying to pretend he was glad to see me, calling me buddy and smiling a fake smile there with his giant body and totally bald, shining head, with his husband, who he introduced, trailing behind us to the Jeep. Of course someone named Sarge would drive a Jeep.

And the travelogue started. On and on and on. If I hadn’t been so keyed up, I could have just fallen right asleep to his Caesar’s this and Venetian that. Supposedly, these were hotels, and Caesar’s was like Roman and Venetian was like Venice, Italy. I didn’t care.

I just wanted to kill Mimi all over again for throwing me into this zoo.

I don’t know when it was, but somewhere in all that, I remembered something Mr. Stern had said. He called this man my Uncle Sheldon.

Sheldon? Same as me? Mimi always said I was named after my grandfather. And now I find her brother, who she never told me about, also has my name? How could Mimi name me after this person?

Finally, he got on a busy freeway, and we rode in silence a long time, maybe twenty minutes. Then he spoke again. “We live way up north, bud. Lotsa land. Big house. You’ll like it, if only for one room in the house. A surprise.”

After merging onto another freeway, I saw ahead a tall building with neon lights: Aliante. We drove past it a bit, and Sarge got off the freeway. He wound around until we were at a house set apart from other houses. He pulled in front and stopped the Jeep.

“Welcome t’ Chez Sheridan.” We got out, and he ushered me into the house. There was a large living room with a wall of windows. Outside the windows was a lighted swimming pool. I could see another, smaller house, on the other side of the pool. To the left was a hallway. I looked down it, and there seemed to be several doors which had to lead to bedrooms. On the right was an iron staircase winding up to another floor. A door past it showed a dining room with a table all set for a meal.

“Need t’ pee?” Sarge asked.

“Sarge.” Will pushed him on the shoulder. “Shelly’s not one of your Marine recruits. Show some manners. I know you have them.”

So, he can speak.

And Sarge let out a belly laugh. It was the first time I had even an inkling I would grow to like—no love—this man. Right then, all I wanted to do was hate him. He said, “Sorry, bud. The head, sorry, Will, the powder room”—he put extra emphasis on those two words, like he was trying his best to be polite—”is the first door on the right, there in the hall. Drain your wiener—” he cut his eyes around to Will with a wicked smile, and continued, “—and wash up. Gonna chow down.”

Drain my wiener? I wish I didn’t even have one of those. I wanna tug on it until it falls off. I always sat down to use the bathroom. Mimi never cared. She just let me.

I was turning to obey his orders when a lilting voice stopped me. Oh, no. Another person? Please, just let me go to bed. Sleep all this away.

A beautiful older woman with sparkling eyes, ruby red lips, and a perfect bun of coal black hair on top of her head—she reminded me of ballet teachers I’ve met—was rushing into the room, drying her hands on a towel, exclaiming, “Is this the bailerin famoso?”

“Bud,” Sarge said, pulling her toward me. He did his best to control people his whole life, I bet. “This here’s Maria Josefina, once prima ballerina of the Mexico City Ballet, now retired. She graces us with ‘er presence. Lives in the pool house and is a chef extraordinaire. She’s the reason Will and I stay alive, for if it were not for her cooking, we’d be eatin’ k-rations.”

Without asking me if she could, this beautiful woman grabbed me into a bear hug. It felt good—not as good as a Greta hug—but I knew I was going to like this Maria Josefina. “I can’t wait to see you dance, mijito. I’ve heard you are maravilloso.”

I tried to tell her I was through with dancing, but I couldn’t get it out.

“Enough, Estrella. I’m starvin’. Wash up, bud, and then join us in the mess hall.”

After doing my duty—Sarge would probably have liked me thinking of it that way—I went to the dining room to find a feast. Sarge took the head of the table, of course, with Will at his right, Maria Josefina at his left. Sarge motioned for me to take the place beside Maria Josefina, whom I soon learned was always called Estrella. When I finally worked up the courage to ask why, I was told Estrella meant star in Spanish, and Maria Josefina was indeed a star in every way. I knew, in my short time of knowing him, Sarge had to have been who pinned that name on her.

I wasn’t hungry. Didn’t wanna eat. Just wanted to sleep.

But this lady had gone to a lot of trouble for me. I had to act like I was eating. Push a little food around the plate. For her sake. It was Sarge I didn’t like, not her. I took a little bit from each dish. I didn’t know Mexican food, but, turns out I was hungrier than I thought. I found myself taking seconds onto my plate. Fantastic.

Estrella chattered away the entire meal. I don’t remember all she said—lot of it in Spanish, which Sarge and Will understood—but I do know she only asked me about my dancing. The one thing I didn’t want to talk about.

Mimi taught me to be polite. And Estrella was just trying to be nice. So, I told her all about my training, my studio in Salt Lake, how I’d started out with classes in modern dance and ballet and then switched to ballet alone and how much I loved Ballet West. That stopped me. No more Ballet West. No more Nutcracker. Estrella was so bubbly. And she loved dancing. I couldn’t help myself as all that stuff poured out of my mouth. Maybe, just maybe, I can dance again—for her. After all, she is a ballerina, something I wanted to be some day. With all my heart, from the moment I saw my first ballerina, I wanted her grace, her beauty. I wanted to wear the flowing tutus, dance en pointe—the French for toe dancing—have long silky hair to put in a bun as all ballerinas do, paint my face with lipstick, rouge, eyeliner, and everything adding to the magic of these supreme dancers. Mostly I wanted the grace. I knew I could have the beauty ballerinas have.

But I’m a boy dancer. I have to try to be happy with it. When I went to my first ballet class, I knew ballet would save me. But will it?

Estrella smiled her award-winning smile and said, “Oh, mijito, tu tio y yo—excuse me, your uncle and I—have a wonderful studio chosen for you. You will love it there.”

Sarge broke in, “Yeah, bud. I really like your new teacher. I think ya will too. She really knows what she’s doing. Ya start lessons right after Christmas holidays. She, Ms. Crouch, is anxious to see ya strut your stuff. Estrella’ll be transportin’ ya to your lessons from your school. She’ll be stayin’ and watchin out for ya, bud, since she knows all about ballet, and I got other things I’m committed to.” He didn’t say what the other things were—I figured he worked during the day. I was happy, though, to have a world-famous ballerina escort me to class.

Two minutes ago, I was never dancing again. And now, what? I’m happy? No. I’m not supposed to be happy.

“As for your school school, you’ll be startin’ on Monday. I tried to talk ol’ Stern out of it, but he was insistent. He found a school over in Summerlin—which is good because the ballet studio’s there too. As he put it, it’s ‘a good Christian boys’ academy.’ I didn’t want ya to start until after the holidays, but Stern declared it would be good for ya to jump back into the swing of things. He even got your sizes from your mom’s housekeeper, and the school sent over a uniform for ya already. Sorry, bud. If ya don’t like the place, we can fight that battle later, okay?”

So, you and Mr. Stern have my life all planned out for me now, huh? Ballet school, school school. I will be the good little nephew who is a good little school student and a good little ballet student. Thank you very much, Sergeant Sheldon Sheridan and Mr. Three-Piece Suit Stern.

“Okay,” I said to Sarge.

He didn’t react. I don’t think he caught my tone of voice in that okay.

Pushing away from the table, Sarge stood. “Ah, my surprise.” He looked at Will and then Estrella, and they gave him smiles that said this is going to be good. I didn’t care, but I got up.

“I bought this house when I mustered out of the Marines.” He kept talking as he motioned for me to follow him as he talked. Will and Estrella trailed us. “Wanted somethin’ away from everythin’ but close enough to get to the Strip. I work there—at night, by the way. With tourists. I knew I wanted a pool and definitely a pool house for my Estrella. We met in Mexico City, and I always promised ‘er a retirement home. And I knew I wanted a nice bedroom because I never, ever wanted to stay single. And luckily, I found Will before movin’ to Vegas.” He looked so lovingly over his shoulder at Will I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could be happy here. “And a workout room. A must have. What I got was more than I ever expected.”

Just get on with it. Talk, talk—talk, talk, talk.

He stopped at the winding staircase. Will and Estrella went ahead of him. I followed the still-talking Sarge. The man really liked to talk. A light went on upstairs after Will disappeared.

“The woman I bought the place from was gettin’ older and couldn’t take care a this big old house. She was movin’ to a small apartment, and she liked me, I guess, because she sold me the place for a song. It may of been she had trouble findin’ buyers because of the room upstairs. She’d made a giant space out of three bedrooms, so I had my workout room. But she had made the room so she could engage in her passion. She’d been a showgirl in old Vegas—a dancer.”

At the top of the stairs, I stepped into something I never expected. A huge dance studio, with mountain views, and a barre and mirrors and a glistening wooden floor.