Chapter 3
I practice for my delegated hour before going to get ready for school. I complete the routine my mother set me upon when I was a child and get in my 1965 bug, formerly my mother’s, before that her mother’s. No matter what I do I am forever in the shadow of my mother. I turn on my car and turn up the radio as I hear a loud noise come from the left of me. Being your stereotypic New Yorker I automatically think gun, and duck. After hearing no follow up shots I slowly lift my head.
No dead bodies on the ground, holy shit was the bullet meant for me? No, I don’t think even I could piss anyone off that bad. I look around for the source of the noise. I see it’s an old beat up truck in the parking lot and (guess who….) Ryan opening the hood as smoke comes out. “Stupid piece of crap…” He mutters as I get out of my car. In small towns doesn’t everyone know everyone (possibly be related to everyone, hey it is Alabama) and give them rides and stuff? Well they do in movies.
“Need help?” I ask walking over to the smoking death trap called that truck. He looks up at me coughing hard. He shakes his head pulling an inhaler out of his pocket and takes a hit of it before tucking it back in his pocket.
“No.” Ryan wheezes at me.
“Sure you don’t need a ride?” I lean against his truck looking into his green eyes.
“Actually could you give me a lift?” He relents.
“Well I didn’t offer to say no.” I say pulling on my sunglasses and walking to my car with Ryan following me. I climb in and put the top down. When he gets in I turn the car on again and turning up the music. Eminem blares out of the speakers as we pull out of the parking lot. As we speed up my hair flies out behind me, one pro for this town is that traffic isn’t bumper to bumper. I mutter along with the words as I drive and Ryan stares off into space.
“Um thanks, for the ride ya know.” He says over the wind, I slow down a bit so the wind stops roaring so loud.
“You’re welcome. So was that your truck?” I ask.
“Yeah, it was my dad’s. I’ve been working on her since I was five.”
“And I think you’ll be working till your ninety-five.” I say. He laughs hard at that. He has a pretty cute laugh, it’s a genuine laugh, and it comes from deep inside. But it sounds sort of rusty like he isn’t sure he can use it anymore. I take note of that and drive down the road.
“You know there’s a quicker way right?” Ryan says to me. I glance over at him, it’d be just my luck that a deer or some other animal jump in front of my car to commit suicide the second I look away.
“I just go the way GPS says to go.” I jerk a thumb at the metal and plastic box, which has been my lifeline since I moved here.
“Turn here.” He says pointing at the street that’s fast approaching us. I look at him. “Just turn, it’s quicker.” I think about it for a moment. He doesn’t look like a serial killer; I mean he has two younger sisters. I turn down the road.
We drive for a few minutes before I turn off the GPS begging me to turn around and follow it’s always (yeah right) correct route. I turn where Ryan tells me to and to my surprise we make it to school fifteen minutes earlier than my GPS would have had us here. “Looks like you were right…” I mutter. Typical me, I hate being wrong.
“Of course I was, I grew up here. I know everywhere around here.” Ryan says sort of smugly.
“Oh really? So is there a dance studio in town?” I ask knowing there isn’t. That was the second reason my dad detested moving. First was I would have to leave my instructor, my mom had danced with him when she worked for the Bolshoi Ballet. Second there was nowhere in this town for me to practice, it was bad enough that I had to move, but not even a rinky dink studio to practice in? Horrible, my dad almost turned down the offer.
“No. If you haven’t noticed not all of us are rich people from New York. We don’t waste time with dancing. Most of the kids in school here even work a job or two.”
“Wow if that didn’t sound like the most ignorant thing I’ve ever heard.” And for the first time I notice our difference in accents. Mine sounds like your stereotypic New Yorkers and his, a deep southern one. He rolls his eyes and climbs out of my car.
“Dancing is a waste of time. You can’t make a living with it.” I follow him. Dancing has been my life since I was born, I don’t let people insult it.
“No it’s not, it’s just like a sport. It takes dedication and a hell of a lot of work.” I pull his arm so he turns to face me, well he’s actually like five inches taller than me even in heels so more like me glaring up.
“Work? Ha all you do is dance across a stage.” Ryan sneers. I feel my anger rising as I say,
“You think that’s all you do? That’s if you’re a kid and your mom forced you into it. Like I said it’s just like sports. If it’s something you’ve wanted to do since you were a kid it’s hard work. I train for two hours in the morning and eight to nine hours at night. You think I don’t train just as hard as some thick headed jock?!?!” He glares down at me.
“Well you’re talking to one of those thick headed jocks. And you don’t.”
“You wanna bet?” I snap at him. I take a step towards him, challenging him. he takes a step towards me, not one to be outdone.
“Yeah I do.”
“Fine then. I’ll come to one of your football practices and you come over when I’m practicing dance. Then we’ll see. Deal?” I stick my hand out to him.
“Oh you’re on city girl. Don’t let the cows scare you.” He shakes my hand hard. Does he think he scares me? I have five older brothers. I don’t grace his comment with a response I just do what I do best. Bitch walk the fuck out of there. Thank god for heels, that just make the bitch walk the bitch walk.
No dead bodies on the ground, holy shit was the bullet meant for me? No, I don’t think even I could piss anyone off that bad. I look around for the source of the noise. I see it’s an old beat up truck in the parking lot and (guess who….) Ryan opening the hood as smoke comes out. “Stupid piece of crap…” He mutters as I get out of my car. In small towns doesn’t everyone know everyone (possibly be related to everyone, hey it is Alabama) and give them rides and stuff? Well they do in movies.
“Need help?” I ask walking over to the smoking death trap called that truck. He looks up at me coughing hard. He shakes his head pulling an inhaler out of his pocket and takes a hit of it before tucking it back in his pocket.
“No.” Ryan wheezes at me.
“Sure you don’t need a ride?” I lean against his truck looking into his green eyes.
“Actually could you give me a lift?” He relents.
“Well I didn’t offer to say no.” I say pulling on my sunglasses and walking to my car with Ryan following me. I climb in and put the top down. When he gets in I turn the car on again and turning up the music. Eminem blares out of the speakers as we pull out of the parking lot. As we speed up my hair flies out behind me, one pro for this town is that traffic isn’t bumper to bumper. I mutter along with the words as I drive and Ryan stares off into space.
“Um thanks, for the ride ya know.” He says over the wind, I slow down a bit so the wind stops roaring so loud.
“You’re welcome. So was that your truck?” I ask.
“Yeah, it was my dad’s. I’ve been working on her since I was five.”
“And I think you’ll be working till your ninety-five.” I say. He laughs hard at that. He has a pretty cute laugh, it’s a genuine laugh, and it comes from deep inside. But it sounds sort of rusty like he isn’t sure he can use it anymore. I take note of that and drive down the road.
“You know there’s a quicker way right?” Ryan says to me. I glance over at him, it’d be just my luck that a deer or some other animal jump in front of my car to commit suicide the second I look away.
“I just go the way GPS says to go.” I jerk a thumb at the metal and plastic box, which has been my lifeline since I moved here.
“Turn here.” He says pointing at the street that’s fast approaching us. I look at him. “Just turn, it’s quicker.” I think about it for a moment. He doesn’t look like a serial killer; I mean he has two younger sisters. I turn down the road.
We drive for a few minutes before I turn off the GPS begging me to turn around and follow it’s always (yeah right) correct route. I turn where Ryan tells me to and to my surprise we make it to school fifteen minutes earlier than my GPS would have had us here. “Looks like you were right…” I mutter. Typical me, I hate being wrong.
“Of course I was, I grew up here. I know everywhere around here.” Ryan says sort of smugly.
“Oh really? So is there a dance studio in town?” I ask knowing there isn’t. That was the second reason my dad detested moving. First was I would have to leave my instructor, my mom had danced with him when she worked for the Bolshoi Ballet. Second there was nowhere in this town for me to practice, it was bad enough that I had to move, but not even a rinky dink studio to practice in? Horrible, my dad almost turned down the offer.
“No. If you haven’t noticed not all of us are rich people from New York. We don’t waste time with dancing. Most of the kids in school here even work a job or two.”
“Wow if that didn’t sound like the most ignorant thing I’ve ever heard.” And for the first time I notice our difference in accents. Mine sounds like your stereotypic New Yorkers and his, a deep southern one. He rolls his eyes and climbs out of my car.
“Dancing is a waste of time. You can’t make a living with it.” I follow him. Dancing has been my life since I was born, I don’t let people insult it.
“No it’s not, it’s just like a sport. It takes dedication and a hell of a lot of work.” I pull his arm so he turns to face me, well he’s actually like five inches taller than me even in heels so more like me glaring up.
“Work? Ha all you do is dance across a stage.” Ryan sneers. I feel my anger rising as I say,
“You think that’s all you do? That’s if you’re a kid and your mom forced you into it. Like I said it’s just like sports. If it’s something you’ve wanted to do since you were a kid it’s hard work. I train for two hours in the morning and eight to nine hours at night. You think I don’t train just as hard as some thick headed jock?!?!” He glares down at me.
“Well you’re talking to one of those thick headed jocks. And you don’t.”
“You wanna bet?” I snap at him. I take a step towards him, challenging him. he takes a step towards me, not one to be outdone.
“Yeah I do.”
“Fine then. I’ll come to one of your football practices and you come over when I’m practicing dance. Then we’ll see. Deal?” I stick my hand out to him.
“Oh you’re on city girl. Don’t let the cows scare you.” He shakes my hand hard. Does he think he scares me? I have five older brothers. I don’t grace his comment with a response I just do what I do best. Bitch walk the fuck out of there. Thank god for heels, that just make the bitch walk the bitch walk.