Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series) Read Free

me
driving with a newly licensed driver…’
    ‘But I’ve had my license two months already!’ Jenne
complains.
    I direct a rueful smile toward the ceiling, wishing for
the millionth time that I too, was old enough to drive myself. There are benefits
to starting school early and matriculating before my friends, but this is
definitely one of the drawbacks.  
    ‘Yeah - maybe she’ll let me drive with you in like another
five years or so…’
    ‘Jeepers! That’s a bit extreme don’t you think?’
    ‘Hey, I just live here, remember? I don’t make the
rules.’
    Jenne sighs on the other end of the line and agrees to
meet me at the food court entrance. We say goodbye, I drop the phone on the
unmade bed beside me, and force my body through the morning routine. After I’ve
donned my usual black leotard and tights, I pause before the full-length mirror
to examine the dark bruises beneath my eyes. They’re a lighter shade already, but
I apply the thin layer of foundation I have on hand for days like these.
    I don’t bother to check the rest of my reflection; I know
what I’ll see: an athletic figure, too short with sharp, angular lines. The
lack of curves doesn’t bother me; I’m not interested in the kind of attention Jenne
attracts with her sultry looks and voluptuous figure but the height, I long for.
Perhaps if I were taller, I wouldn’t seem so fragile and everyone would stop treating
me like some sliver-thin glassware.
    I slip one of my favorite crochet dresses, a cream colored
creation I managed to procure during one of my regular flea-market prowls, over
my leotard. I turn from the mirror, sling my tog-bag over one shoulder and let
my eyes skim over the rest of my bedroom as I head for the door. The chair is
still strewn with yesterday’s clothing, the bed is unmade and the desk in the
corner is covered with bits of acid-free scrapbook-paper and cropped photo edges
that have spilled over my MacBook and onto the floor.  
    There are three copies of the same edition of Seventeen magazines on the rug beside my
bed, with dog-ears marking the pages on which my short story submission has
been published.  
    Mom will freak if
she sees this mess , I think. I shrug and pull the
door firmly shut behind me.   
    My mother is waiting in the kitchen and she frowns when
she sees my leotard.  
    ‘I don’t think you should be going to dance, baby.
You’re not -’
    ‘I’m fine and I’m going,’ I reply firmly.
    For a moment she stares at me and I think she’s about to
argue, but then she lets her shoulders drop with a sigh.
    ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift.’
    I start to shake my head but that bowling ball is still
in there, rattling from side to side, so I say: ‘Fine.’
    I grab an apple from the glass fruit-bowl on the counter,
rub its smooth skin against the leg of my tights and head toward the
inter-leading door to the garage. It’s
just a short ride , I tell myself, but I know that time moves much slower
anywhere my mother and I occupy the same space.
    ‘How’s the practice going?’ mom asked as she slips into
the driver’s seat beside me and shifts the Merc into gear. Her tone is guarded
and I keep my response short, already knowing what she’s leading up to.
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘You’ve spent a lot of hours practicing, is it really
necessary?’
    I feel my blood pressure spike, but I keep my tone even.
    ‘It’s an important competition, mom.’
    ‘But -’
    ‘Don’t go there,’ I say in a rigid voice. ‘I know you
think it’s a waste of time.’ I turn my face away toward the window, and add tiredly,
mostly to myself: ‘I just wish you could support me.’
    ‘I do support you!’ Mom responds.
    ‘Yeah, sure,’ I snort, glaring back at her, ‘just as
long as I don’t expect to make a career out of dancing, right?’
    ‘I’m just being realistic, baby. Dancers in this country
don’t -’
    ‘- make a lot of money. Yeah, I know the speech, mom.
Maybe it isn’t always about