“One, two! Three four! Five six! Jump, Maria!” Maria jumps, a high, graceful, arc and spins unswervingly through the air. “Dominic!” I yell. He nods and sprints forward to catch her. He does, about 6” before she hits the floor. “Very good, Dominic, Maria. Nice jump. But honestly, Dominic, she nearly broke her neck, so try to catch her earlier next time. Maria grins at my (totally accurate) statement and playfully nudges Dominic. Dominic rolls his eyes and nudges her back. I grin at my class. They’ve worked very hard and you can tell: everyone’s flushed and sweaty, and they’re all panting. Many are sipping, no, gulping from water bottles. My students vary in ages from 10 to 18, yet I, only 15, am the instructor. Little do they know it, but I am doing so much more than teaching them to dance. In Room 643 of Fine Arts Dance Studio, so much more is happening then dancing. I am carrying out my role as a matchmaker. Nobody appointed me matchmaker or anything. I’m just good at it. You know, like how some people can strum a guitar without trying? Or do a perfect back flip? Or pitch a softball at right over the plate? That’s how it is with me. Maria and Dominic are just the latest in a long, long, long, line of projects. They just click. Maria is petite, fiery haired, and shy and gentle as a deer. Dominic is tall, black haired, and outgoing and adventurous. But, they both do Jr. Theater, play baseball, and take my dance class. You see? It fits. They are utterly different, yet completely alike. So I merely prompt them and show them how they feel. They do the rest. “Okay, kiddos! Good work today!” the elder ones grouse about me calling them kiddos, then good naturedly wave good bye. The younger ones say thank you and dash out, trying to catch up with friends or siblings. I follow them out. I exit the building. Dang! It’s cold for November. I pull on my hoodie and walk to the bus stop. There I find Joseph Rodriguez, a bright little 8-year old I had in my class last season, when I taught the younger kids. “Hey, Joe!” I say. “How’s life?” “Very well, thanks,” He says. “Can I come with you today?” he asks. “Sure. Your moms okay with it though, right?” “Oh, yeah. She loves you.” “cool.” I say. He slips his hand into mine. It’s warm and sticky. He’s such a cute kid. I wonder if I was like this when I was his age. The bus pulls up. We step aside to let people out. So then, this woman dashes out of the bus, knocking into me full- on, and her purse goes flying, contents everywhere. She’s strangely beautiful. Like a temptress. Or as I imagine a temptress would look. She’s got long, white blond hair, perfectly strait, like a sheet of ice. Her features are perfect, chiseled and angular, like a sculpture by Michelangelo. It’s her eyes that captivate me. The pupil seem to change colors: red to violet, to amber, to coal black. I bend down to help her pick up everything that has scattered across the sidewalk. “Thanks, sweetheart,” she says. It’s the voice of an angel. She gives me one last thankful glance before sprinting at break neck speed down the street. I look down, and see a crisp, neat manila envelope. I pick it up and find it’s heavier than expected. I turn around to yell to that strange lady that she dropped something, but she’s gone. “Don’t worry,” Joseph says. “Her name’s probably in it, and you can Google her, or look her up on Facebook.” Ahh, the wired times we live in. “yeah, you’re right,” I reply, and shove it in my tote bag. We get on the bus and sit down. I stare out the window and ponder what I just saw. Who was that extraordinary lady? Why was she in such a hurry? And what was in this envelope? Oh well. I’ll figure it out later, I concluded as we got off the bus. We strode down the boardwalk towards my house. I am blessed enough to live by the beach. I wake up to waves crashing and dolphins clicking every morning. Just down the block is a pier, that I go to in times of reflection, or just when my cousins want to go fishing, when they visit. A lot of mornings you’ll see me down there, painting, writing poetry, or with my sister’s old keyboard, playing my favorite songs. I walk with Joseph up to the door and unlock it. We step in and I thank god for that the heater is on, because I am frozen. He takes off his coat and very neatly hangs it on a hook. The exact opposite of his brother, I might add. Jesse, Joseph’s brother, has one purpose in life: to torment me. Even when we were in diapers, he chucked tinker-toys at my head. Then in 2nd grade, he told everyone that I had a third eye in the back of my head, which my hair covered up. That led to weeks of being poked in the back of the head. In 5th grade, he snitched one of his sister’s bras, and shoved it in my backpack, with a note saying “get a chest!” if that is not perverted, I don’t know what is. The final straw was 8th grade. He took my purse, and stole my wallet, pads, and my planner containing all of my homework assignments, phone numbers, email addresses, and my social calendar. So hit him where it hurt the most. I whipped his butt at soccer. Boys and girls practice together at my school, and every Friday we have a boys vs. girls scrimmage. That day I was picked to play forward. I beat him to every ball, I knocked him over (legally, of course) and I scored three goals on him. The star goalie. I had him truly beaten. There is nothing like the taste of sweet revenge. From then on he has been officially out of my hair. So, Joseph hangs up his coat and sits at the kitchen table. “So,” I say. “Why did you want to visit?” “How do you know there’s a reason?” he says, averting his eyes. “I know you to well,” I smile. He rolls his eyes, sighs and says, “It’s about Jesse.” Instinctively, I narrow my eyes and clench my fists. “What does the twerp want with me?” I say coldly. “He doesn’t,” Joseph replies. “I need to talk to you about him.” “I don’t want anything to do with that lowly little bit of scum,” I snap. “He made my life miserable.” “I know,” Joseph says, hanging his head. “but he listens to you cuz he knows you’re smart.” I loosen up after this. “Okay, squirt. Spit it out.” He sits up strait, takes a deep breath, and begins. “Ever since you got him back for everything bad he did to you, his life has been a downward spiral. He lost your advice, your good sense and directions, and wisdom. He made a lot of bad choices.” “Like what ? Drugs? Alcohol? Smoking?” “No,” Joseph says. “He got *shudder* a girlfriend.” Whew. Nothing too bad. “So? that’s great for him. Who is it?” I say. “it’s Ali Jones, but, Mara, they don’t, ya know, fit. And she’s an airhead. You, know, Mara, I think Jesse’s in love with you. He just doesn’t want to admit it.” “WHAT?!?! ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?!” I scream. “Mara, be reasonable about this. That’s the entire reason he did all that stupid stuff to you,” Joseph says. Different emotions swirl in my head. “Why, the little…” I can’t think of a word bad enough, and black out. “Meeka! Suki! Come here! Mara passed out!” “ha! Good one, Joe!” “no, Suki, this could be serious!” dang, who’s talking? I get up and I’m seeing double. “owww…” I moan and clutch my forehead. Meeka, my older sister, an Suki, my younger sister are kneeling beside me on the linoleum. “Dang, Asmara! You scared me!” Meeka says. “Not me!” Suki says proudly. “I thought Joe was kidding when he said you blacked out.” “Thank you for your concern,” I grumble. Suki, (short for Sucre) is about 5’2” feet tall and very skinny. Meeka (short for Meekatharra) is 5’8” and really curvy. They both have the same alabaster skin, dark brown hair, and bottle green eyes, like me, but all of our similarities end there. Suki is athletic. She plays lacrosse, hockey, soccer, and softball. She made all stars in every single one of them. Meeka, however, is extremely popular and is involved in every extracurricular on the face of the earth. Me, I’m an introvert. They’re outgoing. I kinda fade into the background when they’re around. “Now, Mara. How did you manage to do this to yourself?” Meeka says, smiling. “I didn’t’,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Joe did.” “Oohhh, Joe, did she swoon at the sight of your eight pack?” Suki grins, batting her eyelashes and making googly eyes. “Shuttup, punk.” I hiss. Joseph smiles at Suki. A big, full smile that reaches his eyes. “Ha! I wish, Suki.” He says. “No I just told her-““that’s quite enough info, Joe. Now why don’t you run to the bathroom to get me some water? That’s a good boy, run along.” Meeka stares at me. “What are you keeping from us, Mara?” “Nothing,” I say quickly, and my stomach churns. I feel terrible keeping these things from my sisters. “Okay well, take it easy.” Suki glances at me warily and goes back to the living room where I here singing in the rain blasting from the speakers. It’s her favorite movie. Joe returns from the bathroom, wearing a reproachful look. “I thought sisters didn’t keep secrets,” he says. “this is different,” I groan. “I can’t tell them this! Suki thinks that Jesse is hot, and Meeka thinks he is a respectable, polite guy.” “I see where this might get complicated,” he says evenly. “but you should tell them.” I groan and put my head on the table. Just then I hear a car horn. “That’s mom!” Joe shouts, looking relieved for an excuse to leave. He pulls on a coat and dashes off. I watch him get into his mom’s car. She waves at me then leaves. I clamber up the stairs to my room. I can’ focus right now. I need to breathe. I put in my earbuds and turn up the music way loud. “FAME! I’m gonna live forever. I’m gonna learn how to fly! FLY! I feel it coming together, people will see me and cry, FAME! I’m gonna live forever, baby remember my name.” the thing that gets me about this song is that the person singing it, Carmen Diaz, wants this so bad, that she’s gonna be famous, and that she’s gonna be a legend, like Michael Jackson. But in a year or two, she’s gonna die of a drug overdose. So sad. But, I didn’t write the story. On life goes, with nobody caring about little things like Fame, the musical. I hear a knock on my bedroom door. “who is it?” I call. “It’s your mother. Open up!” my mother’s amused and slightly exasperated voice calls. I pause and say, “it’s open!” she comes in. my mother is the best sort of mother, cool and collected, always knowing what to do. Nothing stops her. But, I suppose that teaching a rowdy bunch of 8th graders English and Literature does that to you. She’s gotten the Golden Apple Award for teaching three times, and, every holiday, she comes home with gifts from her students: chocolates, poems, gift cards, scarves, gloves, and every other thing on the face of the earth. Everybody loves my mom’s class. She can rock all of the latest looks, and she’s not utterly clueless. She knows all the words to “Only Girl”, “Firework”, “Bottoms Up”, and “Grenade”. “Suki tells me you fainted.” Little snitch. “Yes,” I say shortly. “Well?” my mom says, digging for details. “What happened?” “Honestly, I don’t want to talk about it,” I say. My mother sighs and shakes her head. “Okay, but you really should let it out.” “Shrinking me won’t help. I thank you for your concern, but its fine. I was just dehydrated when I fainted.” I can tell she doesn’t believe me, but she nods and leaves. I lie back down, then bolt upright. I completely forgot! The envelope that I had found that morning! Oh, my god, I had to see what it was. I grab my eco-friendly tote bag and rummage through it till I find the envelope. I hold my breath and open it. there’s a small box inside, along with a note that says:
