hangs long and straight. Still, I have her soft round cheeks and small chin. I run a finger over her face. I don’t remember her at all.
Dressing as warmly as possible, I pull on my parka and gloves over everything else. I step onto the porch and fumble in my bag for the car keys I haven’t needed in two years.
We live on a fairly empty stretch of road. The view from our porch shows a spattering of trees, the highway, and then acres and acres of abandoned farmland. The old Miller place sits to the east, and a mile or so beyond is the Stratus cemetery. There’s also a road leading back to the interstate. The rest of the town sits to the west.
With an anxious sigh I climb into my hand-me-down Volkswagen Beetle. She’s a 1967, black with a rack on top, and we call her Slugger. Slugger was Mom’s, so Dad’s always taken good care of her, but she’s not allowed out of town. Too old, Dad says. Too slow, I say. Either way, Slugger’s a piece of Mom, and I love her.
Stratus High isn’t far: just a short drive up the highway and across Main Street. Almost everything in Stratus involves a drive across Main. When you see the neon grape jelly jar towering above, you know you’ve arrived. Jelly’s, the closest thing Stratus has to a café. Across the street is the small theatre. An old-fashioned clock sits out front, surrounded by metal benches. We call this the town square. A quick glance at the clock tells me I’ve still not reacclimated to small-town life. Everything here starts so much later than in Portland.
I’m twenty-five minutes early.
The stoplight marking the center of Main turns red, and I consider flipping a U-turn. A cup of something hot from Jelly’s doesn’t sound half bad and would kill some time. But there on the corner, just past the stoplight, is Miss Macy’s. The dance studio I all but lived in until two years ago.
I danced there. I taught.
I sweated.
It’d be nice to sweat again.
The windows are dark, but I’ve still got my key. It rattles against my steering column with a handful of others. By the time the light turns green, I’ve decided. Slugger putts through the intersection, and I park in front of the studio.
My hands are safe inside my gloves, but they tremble. It’s been a long time since I danced just for myself.
The glass door is clean. I imagine the teacher who closed last night sprayed all the tiny fingerprints away. I unlock it and step inside. Leaning against the door, I breathe deep, expecting familiarity, but it smells different than I remember. New paint maybe?
The reception area is small and mostly unchanged. A small wooden desk, blue binders stacked on one corner, a white vase with plastic roses on the other. Eight folding chairs line the front window and the adjoining wall in a tidy L-shape. Pictures of students, past and present, fill the room, on shelves and in cases. Younger, warmer versions of myself smile back from many of them. It’s like walking into a scrapbook of my life.
I step through the connecting doorway and into the studio. There’s just the one. The wintry daylight outside does little to brighten the room as it trickles through the wall of windows looking out onto the street. I flip the switch to my right, and the studio fills with warm, yellow brightness. It spills across the wood floors and reflects off the mirror on the far wall.
Beyond the window, beyond my car parked at the curb and across the street, three old men sit outside a doughnut shop. They’re bundled in flannels, jackets, and scarves—coffee mugs fogging the air, but still they sit.
Same thing they were doing when I left two years ago.
One of them, a thin stick of a man wearing an aviator cap—Bob, I think—catches me staring and waves. I wave back, but he’s already turned back to his friends. I shake my head and crouch at the CD player sitting just inside the door. Against it leans a white CD sleeve. Purple writing loops across the front.
B RIELLE , it says. W ELCOME H OME
Dressing as warmly as possible, I pull on my parka and gloves over everything else. I step onto the porch and fumble in my bag for the car keys I haven’t needed in two years.
We live on a fairly empty stretch of road. The view from our porch shows a spattering of trees, the highway, and then acres and acres of abandoned farmland. The old Miller place sits to the east, and a mile or so beyond is the Stratus cemetery. There’s also a road leading back to the interstate. The rest of the town sits to the west.
With an anxious sigh I climb into my hand-me-down Volkswagen Beetle. She’s a 1967, black with a rack on top, and we call her Slugger. Slugger was Mom’s, so Dad’s always taken good care of her, but she’s not allowed out of town. Too old, Dad says. Too slow, I say. Either way, Slugger’s a piece of Mom, and I love her.
Stratus High isn’t far: just a short drive up the highway and across Main Street. Almost everything in Stratus involves a drive across Main. When you see the neon grape jelly jar towering above, you know you’ve arrived. Jelly’s, the closest thing Stratus has to a café. Across the street is the small theatre. An old-fashioned clock sits out front, surrounded by metal benches. We call this the town square. A quick glance at the clock tells me I’ve still not reacclimated to small-town life. Everything here starts so much later than in Portland.
I’m twenty-five minutes early.
The stoplight marking the center of Main turns red, and I consider flipping a U-turn. A cup of something hot from Jelly’s doesn’t sound half bad and would kill some time. But there on the corner, just past the stoplight, is Miss Macy’s. The dance studio I all but lived in until two years ago.
I danced there. I taught.
I sweated.
It’d be nice to sweat again.
The windows are dark, but I’ve still got my key. It rattles against my steering column with a handful of others. By the time the light turns green, I’ve decided. Slugger putts through the intersection, and I park in front of the studio.
My hands are safe inside my gloves, but they tremble. It’s been a long time since I danced just for myself.
The glass door is clean. I imagine the teacher who closed last night sprayed all the tiny fingerprints away. I unlock it and step inside. Leaning against the door, I breathe deep, expecting familiarity, but it smells different than I remember. New paint maybe?
The reception area is small and mostly unchanged. A small wooden desk, blue binders stacked on one corner, a white vase with plastic roses on the other. Eight folding chairs line the front window and the adjoining wall in a tidy L-shape. Pictures of students, past and present, fill the room, on shelves and in cases. Younger, warmer versions of myself smile back from many of them. It’s like walking into a scrapbook of my life.
I step through the connecting doorway and into the studio. There’s just the one. The wintry daylight outside does little to brighten the room as it trickles through the wall of windows looking out onto the street. I flip the switch to my right, and the studio fills with warm, yellow brightness. It spills across the wood floors and reflects off the mirror on the far wall.
Beyond the window, beyond my car parked at the curb and across the street, three old men sit outside a doughnut shop. They’re bundled in flannels, jackets, and scarves—coffee mugs fogging the air, but still they sit.
Same thing they were doing when I left two years ago.
One of them, a thin stick of a man wearing an aviator cap—Bob, I think—catches me staring and waves. I wave back, but he’s already turned back to his friends. I shake my head and crouch at the CD player sitting just inside the door. Against it leans a white CD sleeve. Purple writing loops across the front.
B RIELLE , it says. W ELCOME H OME
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