The Brandywine Prophet

3.3 Whitaker & Reid

Where is Hyde, Where is Hyde, Where is Hyde? Kayla gripped the newly installed barre and tightened her gluteous maximus. 

She couldn’t face Will alone. 

Hyde should be here. He was close with Will; they were friends! He was over on that porch three, sometimes four times a week, drinking tea and chitchatting. She dropped by on occasion to visit Sarah and Janie, but she always called first to make sure William wasn’t home. How could she face him without Hyde? Where was he?

It was ten-after-three in her spick-and-span brand-spanking-new studio. Twenty minutes left until her first lesson; five until dancers and parents showed up with their “Hi, how are you?”s and “So nice to meet you!”s. The four evenly spaced windows were wide open to filter out the smell of paint. She was on the second floor, so bars had to be bolted in front of the windows for the safety of the dancers. Cream paint on three walls; brown on the accent wall. Kayla liked the brown. That was a good decision. The wood floors were also new and very expensive. Kay relaxed her muscles and tested the bounce of the semi-sprung floor.

Where. Was. Hyde? He only worked a couple blocks down Boulevard and was supposed to take a break to help her. But this is how it was since Will’s comment about passion passion passion; that original dialogue that christened the problem, hinted at the man’s audacity and tethered Hyde to his store as if he had something to prove. With everything that was going on; with the tension and the notes nailed to the Carmel front door like Luther’s ninety-five theses and the way William spoke about that voice and plans to act on that voice... this man who deemed himself a prophet and made bets with innocent dance teachers threatening their lives if they didn’t teach well enough.

Kayla twirled. Then she twirled again. She anchored her spins on the wall of mirrors. Her form was flawed. Her form was always flawed. How could she teach if she couldn’t even spin? How could she look William in the face and say “I can teach your daughter,” when she couldn’t even spin with acceptable form? These are just teens, she told herself. They’re just kids! Most of them will be excited to be back with friends having fun.

Fun, Kayla, she told herself. 

You love your job, she told herself. 

And Hyde will be here soon.

But the thoughts of the voice came back; thoughts of a stage built on that hill. The town thought Will was crazy, that nothing would come of his speech. But Kayla knew better and it was driving her crazy. Nothing good could come from the piano-bar speech. There was a darkness... no, it was more physical than that... there was a monster hiding behind this talk of voices and visions and theaters. It was a real, living monster that was always with Kayla like a ribbon wrapped around her heart and tightening with every day that came and went with William and his craziness--because that’s what it was, his craziness--and Kayla wanted to slaughter that monster and cut the ribbon and feel human again.

Three-fifteen. The chime on the door jangled. Please, she thought, please Lord God up in Heaven, don’t let it be William Carmel.

*  *  *

“Hi, hi, hi!” Kayla shouted from across the room.

William whispered to Sarah, “I told you we’d be early.”

It was Janie’s first day of dance and Kayla was holding a meet-and-greet for the parents to show off her new space. Janie led the way from the first floor, up the stairs (”because it’s better for my legs than the elevator, Dad.”), through the door with the jingle bells and into the studio expanse.