Free Life Among Giants by Bill Roorbach Page B

just as awkward as I, her bare feet barely escaping my brutish steps. She turned me this way, led me that, leaned at me confidingly in all the noise, perfectly pleasant smile, those green eyes, that pocked skin. Th e air of the room grew close with the smell of Linsey’s pee, and jasmine, jasmine. I leaned down to hear whatever she would say, but she said nothing.
    â€œLinsey must miss Katy,” I said conversationally, but with the same impulse as my mother: bring the source of our guilt into the room.
    Th e greatest ballerina of her time slid her hand up my back, gripped my neck, pulled me down so she could speak in my ear: “Let us not be talking of Kate.”
    We made a turn in front of Linsey, who lunged at us ungainly; we swept past my mother, who gave a needy wave. I leaned to the dancer’s ear, flood of loyalty in my breast: “She says it’s you who’s trouble.”
    â€œ Ja, well. I am forgiving her for that, too.”
    We lurched past the blank spot on the wall. Sylphide’s pelvis was at my thigh, her face no higher than my chest. She pulled me close as the song reached its pinnacle, a crisis of black keys and white, Georges’s hands sure and powerful, effortless crescendo. Th en bang, it was done, steep silence. Th e dancer didn’t let go of my fingers, didn’t take her hand off my back—we stood there frozen like one of my mother’s porcelain scenes, all these quaint and comical couples with no troubles of any kind. Except perhaps proportion: a giant and a nymph.
    I was trying to form my words—poor Kate, battling such a personage—when one of Linsey’s attendants appeared, a sleek Asian woman in a nurse’s uniform. She pointed him out of the room, ignoring his protests, tough as slate, impassive. He butted her chest; she tugged him harder. He kicked off his piss-soaked loafers; she pulled his shirt over his head to subdue him. His belly was soft and white as bread dough, and his pants were soaked through. She gathered his shirttails in one little fist, expertly retrieved his shoes, led him away like a blindfolded prisoner.
    â€œKaty was the only one who could control him,” said Sylphide, but not to me. She let me go, almost thrust me away from her.
    Mom worked to layer a look of pride over her frustration: I’d hogged our host just as Kate had done.
    â€œWe were very fond of her,” said the dancer, no trace of irony, and taking my mother’s arm as the Chopin began once again.
    â€œFond as soda pop,” said my mother, ambiguous as always. Th e two of them sat close in the Queen Anne chairs, finally the intimate chat my mother had dreamed of.
    â€œ ‘Let’s not be talking of Kate,’ ” I said unheard, almost happy to know that my sister and Sylphide had had some kind of falling out, that there really had been rancor between them and not only Kate’s delusions. I slipped over near the piano and watched Georges closely, that famous craggy face, that rheumy gaze, the expressive hands, the presence of genius. Noticing me he bent harder to the keys, played with selfless attention, pure emotion: his heart had been broken, too.
    M ARK N USSBAUM’S LITTLE friend Dwight rushed up to me as I ducked off the ignominious school bus. I mean, Dwight Leonard charged up to me like a hobbit, pimples first.
    â€œMark fucked up!” he hissed.
    Emily!
    I hustled to the student parking lot, found her slumped over the steering wheel of her nice little car, a boxy BMW her father’s employer had loaned her as a reward for good grades. I waited till she’d finished crying, tapped on her window.
    She turned angrily to see who, wiped at her eyes. I pointed at my wrist: time for homeroom. She shook her head, looked bitten. I twirled my fist to say open the window. But no.
    Later I looked for her in the lunchroom, scanned the crowd. I could have any girl in that school, my mother was fond of saying. Th ere was