Macrame would have made the most sense. Anyone would agree. Crafts were the longtime
hammock for my hummingbird heart, the only cat\u2019s cradle where my breathing slowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Russian Literature Discussion Group was a muscular option. My spleen would soften in Rose
Parlor chairs. My Grand Inquisitor would accept samovars of conversation in lieu of answers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Easy Salsa kept shouting across the Student Center.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was surprising to find myself there at all, my goosey legs wobbling from one booth to another.
Vassar\u2019s premier introvert was not looking for the camaraderie of a \u201cMini-Course\u201d taught by a
fellow student. The girl who kept her dorm door shut was not open to intramural extroversion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But some unbidden heartburn hurtled me into the open. Some trickster angel smashed me like an
avocado. And there I was, gushing and grinning at Louis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou want to learn Salsa!\u201d A tiny man of laughing colors, Louis was brilliant enough to taste the
hilarity. \u201cYes! Oh Lord, yes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We had met in Italian 101, the language requirement that I chose for my grandmother and Louis
chose for music. I knew he lived for the cherub he\u2019d fathered at seventeen. He knew I was all
anxious A\u2019s and underweight pastels. He plucked the barrettes out of my hair while
Professoressa was pontificating, and he had the most ecstatic accent in class. I prayed for his
family and earned his accolade, \u201cSicily\u2019s sweetest, just too skinny!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And now I was handing him twelve dollars to learn Easy Salsa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou won\u2019t regret this.\u201d Louis feigned salesman smarm, shaking my hand as though I\u2019d just
signed up for a reverse mortgage. \u201cI will take care of you, good girl.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Although I was bewildered by my own existence most of the time, I regretted this particular
decision instantly. What was I thinking, make-believing I could inhabit a body for eight
Thursdays? I was all disembodied head and Diet Coke, earthless empathy pressed like a leaf
between pages. I was a Type 1 diabetic with no background boyfriends. I did not join. I did not
dance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat dumbstruck, listening to my cola fizz and scold me at Christian Fellowship that night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou OK?\u201d Vanessa crashed onto the couch beside me, linguini legs flying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI did something ridiculous today.\u201d I took a gulp of soda, scalding my throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I laughed. Of course, Vanessa would need no context to approve. Her hair was long enough to sit
on, and her eyes were as enormous as any Byzantine icon\u2019s. She loved Jesus and women and
cackling mid-sentence. She could turn tempera paints into liturgy, and she could give me
permission for anything with an eyebrow flourish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She asked the campus chaplain why God had doled out Type 1 diabetes to \u201cthe two most
beautiful girls at Vassar.\u201d She elbowed me when my freckles \u201cgot weird,\u201d hers the only eyes to
recognize low blood sugar draining my color. She grabbed glucose tablets while giving her
\u201ctestimony,\u201d saving herself without apology.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was the first one I told. \u201cI signed up for dance lessons.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh my God.\u201d Vanessa shook my knees. \u201cWhat kind?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEasy Salsa. No way it\u2019s easy enough, but\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGIANNA!\u201d She bubbled over. \u201cI DID TOO!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cognitive dissonance knocked over my soda. \u201cBut you already know how to dance.\u201d More
accurately, dance knew how to Vanessa. Her every movement was droll and delicate at the same
time, conscious comedy and Eden\u2019s first elegance. I loved to watch her walk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, not formally.\u201d She shrugged. \u201cBesides, eight weeks with Louis.\u201d She wiggled her
eyebrows. I snickered my blood sugar out of place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re going to be sensational. I\u2019m going to be lucky if I can stay upright.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll blow us all away.\u201d Vanessa shook her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t understand. I once gave myself a concussion by opening the freezer. My Varsity
sport was \u2018remaining generally ambulatory.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSalsa is different.\u201d Vanessa had decided my fate. \u201cIt will take care of you. Besides\u2014\u201d she
grabbed my knee \u201c\u2014you have it in your blood.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re Hispanic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We had been through this before. I was a mashed potato with one drop of marinara. I was named
for my grandmother but as clumped as clotted cream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI am one quarter Italian. That\u2019s not even\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a formidable Latina woman.\u201d Vanessa waved her magic hand over me. \u201cSalsa will
recognize you. Anyway, you\u2019ll have me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We crossed the quad together that first night, following the sound of Louis\u2019s laughter to Main
Building. The Yellow Parlor was proud of its identity, a staid host for seminars on neutrinos or
the redistribution of wealth. The world\u2019s earnests and eminents spoke here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Louis was his own sovereign nation, and he had exiled the velveteen chairs. The Yellow
Parlor would feel its brightness again. I would feel around in my pocket for a tube of glucose
tablets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou low?\u201d Vanessa always knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pulled out a strawberry discus. \u201cJust a little.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll be fine.\u201d She pointed into my palm. \u201cDon\u2019t you love how they smoke?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I watched the sugary haze rise like the O\u2019s of Alice\u2019s caterpillar. \u201cI love how they save my life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour life is fine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWelcome to my life!\u201d Louis had spotted us. \u201cLadies, ladies, welcome! Pick a partner! Pick a
place! Tonight\u2026we dance!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGod help us.\u201d I giggled and chewed as fast as I could.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe always does. Blow us all away, lady.\u201d Vanessa wiggled off to attend to another curve of her
infinity of friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Louis was full hibiscus, fluorescing in colors no one could name. \u201cMy people!\u201d He clapped his
hands overhead. \u201cAttention! We are dancing now! Salsa waits for no one!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This would become endlessly evident, a madcap joke that punched me in and out of line. \u201cEasy\u201d
Salsa was subjective. My feet seized like opossums, pale and lost. The music hurtled hymnic,
fast as an honest prayer, and I froze. I contemplated telling Louis my body was an atheist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was not necessary. My body was telling Louis secrets without my signature.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMiss Gianna!\u201d Louis crowed, pausing to keep other birds in air. \u201cKeep dancing, keep dancing!\u201d
He put his feet on mine. \u201cYou have these lovely feet like skis. You have these long legs. Why do
you not dance?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI am\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, you are.\u201d He scrunched solemn. \u201cYou are. You are\u2026\u201d he shook my shoulders, some sort of
shamanic CPR \u201c\u2026a ballerina.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A snort shot out my face. \u201cThat\u2019s hilarious. I wanted to be a ballerina desperately as a kid, but I
was so awful at it they kicked me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell today, you are our ballerina.\u201d Louis stiffened his body like a corpse, lurching side to side
until his laughter loosened him. \u201cEveryone look at Gianna!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh God, Louis.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All the birds landed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLook at this lovely lady!\u201d Louis winked at me. \u201cSo serious. So careful. She is doing the ballet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMinus the grace,\u201d I added. A tall man laughed loudly three dancers over. Vanessa arabesqued
her arms overhead and nodded confidence in my direction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy lady is following instructions,\u201d Louis acknowledged. \u201cShe is obeying the rules. Alas\u2014\u201d he
crumpled to the floor \u201c\u2014my lady has no blood.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The tall man frowned sympathetically. I shrugged at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBallet or blood?\u201d Louis asked. \u201cIn Salsa, you choose. Bleed music.\u201d He shook his fists. \u201cBleed
sadness. Bleed passion. You have passion, my lady.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf you say so. I also have low blood sugar.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen bleed all over. Bleed badly. Bleed life! Red, not pink!\u201d Louis mercifully abandoned me
and returned to giving flight instructions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I could not read his directions. But I grasped for good, steadying my sugars and scribbling flash
cards and reporting for dervish duty every Thursday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Vanessa and I debriefed before Christian Fellowship meetings. \u201cAre you loving this, or what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m surviving.\u201d There was something quite lovable in that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s the highlight of my week,\u201d Vanessa insisted. \u201cI hope he makes us a mix CD of all the
music. I hope he offers Slightly Less Easy Salsa next semester.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI hope you know I want to be you when I grow up.\u201d These are the things a good girl says when
she finds another diabetic with icon eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m serious. I watch you dance, and I thank God for inventing dance. I\u2019m hopeless, but you
move like the Holy Spirit exists.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy maple syrup girl.\u201d Vanessa put her head on my shoulder. \u201cGod\u2019s girl. Prima ballerina. You
don\u2019t know what you\u2019re talking about.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We did not expect Louis\u2019s mischief in Week Five. \u201cThere is no passion alone!\u201d He clapped his
hands overhead, which caused his visiting toddler to shriek from her stroller. \u201cThere are no
bodies alone!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt is not good for man to be alone,\u201d I whispered to Vanessa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOr woman.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTonight, we find our lovers.\u201d Louis wiggled his fingers, florid fairy dust filling the room. \u201cPair
up. Do it. Pronto!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Vanessa looked at me. Louis swept her into his arms. The tall man looked at me. He had John
Lennon glasses and a nose like a tuber.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDance?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBadly,\u201d I nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His name was Steven, Film Studies with a minor in German. He was writing a thesis on Gene
Hackman. He joined Easy Salsa for a friend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMe too, kind of.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He danced better than me, but so would an electrocuted mollusk. I stepped on his feet and
swooped hypoglycemic. Louis and Vanessa stunned the seraphs with their art.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t feel well,\u201d Vanessa admitted on the walk back to the dorm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLow? High?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJust off. I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She worried aloud about her major \u2013 \u201cchoose early, choose often doesn\u2019t seem to be working\u201d \u2013
and coughed about Christian Fellowship. \u201cEver feel like they\u2019re trying to whip us into a frenzy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI mean it can feel almost manipulative. Just chanting the same chorus seventeen times until we
all FEEEEEEEEEL things. OHHH Jesus Jesus Jesus\u2026like they work us into a trance and say it\u2019s
the Spirit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She had a point. \u201cI\u2019m the wrong one to ask,\u201d I admitted. \u201cMy body kind of checks out during
\u2018worship.\u2019 I grew up with all these stodgy old hymns that I loved, old English kinda\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c\u2014maybe they\u2019re not stodgy. Maybe they\u2019re great. Also, Sarah \u2013 that little pixie thing that prays
loud \u2013 put a note under my door the week I skipped out. Some crap about \u2018do not give up
meeting together.\u2019 Don\u2019t tell me how to do God. I talked to God this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her electric wires sizzled, and my spirit knotted up when we reached her door. \u201cYou sure you\u2019re
ok, Vanessa?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah. Love you, dancing girl.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was only a week left of Easy Salsa, and I was more relieved than wistful. My legs were
sore, and my pride was pickled. It has always been my way to be little-girl grateful for memories,
but ghoulishly grateful that the actual memory-making is over. For once, I had been a ballerina
and danced with a tall man. That was enough. Now I could return to Russian literature and
Italian verbs and the London rain of my closed room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Vanessa swung feral, dripping tragedy. \u201cThis feels like an ending,\u201d she lamented. \u201cThis feels
like some turning point. We\u2019re going to be juniors next year.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe have a lot to look forward to,\u201d I promised.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou do.\u201d Vanessa\u2019s dark eyes stomped the rest of her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have no idea. I just want to feel alive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My opossum feet nearly fell off. \u201cVanessa, you\u2019re the liveliest music I know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stopped and smiled loudly. \u201cYou\u2019re music, you know. You\u2019ll always have somewhere to
turn. You dance in words.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt almost makes up for the balderdash body.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut the body is on borrowed time. Especially ours.\u201d She wrinkled her nose. \u201cWhat comes
after\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere is no after.\u201d I flailed. \u201cThere will always be something. There will always be an Easy
Salsa. Or a Hard Salsa.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d She picked her cuticles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t do that. You\u2019ll make yourself bleed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI want to.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Louis did make mix CDs, \u201csix dollars unless you write me a review,\u201d which we all did. I rated
him five out of five stars but noted that the appropriate metric was full constellations. Steven
vanished with all the other boys whose fingertips I\u2019d touched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah asked if I would take the role of Prayer Coordinator in junior year, but the title tasted so
weird I declined. I signed up to offer a Mini-Course on C.S. Lewis and the Inklings, but no one
joined.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Vanessa declared Art History and cut her hair. \u201cI\u2019m applying for a semester abroad,\u201d she
announced the last time she came to Christian Fellowship.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSiena.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut you don\u2019t speak\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c\u2014I\u2019ll learn. It\u2019ll be an adventure. I\u2019ll call you if I get stuck.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re incandescently brave.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI want that needlepointed on a pillow.\u201d Vanessa jabbed me. \u201cI just know to stay moving. Like a
shark, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t help myself. \u201cIt\u2019s actually a myth that they die if they stop\u2014\u201d
\u201c\u2014well, I hear there are sharks in the Mediterranean, and then all speak Italian, and we\u2019re going
to talk trash about you, ballerina.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m going to miss you terribly.\u201d It was true. I was happiest on my hermit nights alone, which
made my scarce dance partners as precious as powdered sugar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll be fine.\u201d She shook her head, then pointed at my chest. \u201cJust bleeeeeeed, OK?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan\u2019t stop, won\u2019t stop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd convince Louis he\u2019s in love with me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t need my help there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, and take over the damn Fellowship.\u201d She curled her legs under her ferociously. \u201cI want to
come back and sing some stodgy hymns.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou just grab the Spirit with both hands.\u201d I was preaching to myself more than Vanessa. \u201cNo
one can tell you that you\u2019re doing that wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey\u2019d regret it if they tried.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Vanessa went to Siena, and I went home to poetry and prose. She packed enough insulin, and I found a new power source now that I was at least part ballerina. We would never be close again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
College is four years of intricate knots, meshwork over black holes. We fall through our best intentions and land on our own feet. If we\u2019ve loved anyone, we are not alone. If we\u2019ve forgotten ourselves in a yellow room, the Spirit will remember how to move us. The right paths will shout until we obey. Macrame would have been the wrong choice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Macrame would have made the most sense. Anyone would agree. Crafts were the longtimehammock for my hummingbird heart, the only cat\u2019s cradle where my breathing slowed. Russian Literature Discussion Group was a muscular option. My spleen would soften in RoseParlor chairs. My Grand Inquisitor would accept samovars of conversation in lieu of answers. But Easy […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":35,"featured_media":4853,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_editorskit_title_hidden":false,"_editorskit_reading_time":0,"_editorskit_is_block_options_detached":false,"_editorskit_block_options_position":"{}","_themeisle_gutenberg_block_has_review":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"art_contributors":[],"literary_contributors":[338],"class_list":["post-4647","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","literary_contributors-townsend-angela"],"acf":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-content\/uploads\/Lucid.jpg","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4647","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/35"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4647"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4647\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4652,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4647\/revisions\/4652"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4853"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4647"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4647"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4647"},{"taxonomy":"art_contributors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/art_contributors?post=4647"},{"taxonomy":"literary_contributors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2024-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/literary_contributors?post=4647"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}