Finding Your Feet Read online

  Amazing enough to buy a two-week trip across the Atlantic.

  Maybe he should rethink the nightmare aspect of it.

  They gathered their things and left as the next class piled in. In the hall, Evie hesitated. “I was wondering if there are showers here?”

  “Down the hall.” He pointed. “You got everything you need?”

  “Yes.” Her face lit up in a smile. “Today was really fun. Thank you.”

  What was she thanking him for? He had a sudden urge to shuffle his feet in embarrassment, but forced himself to look her in the face instead. “I had fun too. Enjoy the island.”

  “Will do. See you tomorrow.” She turned and walked down the hall.

  Tyler moved away in the other direction, his feet suddenly heavy. He wished his schedule wasn’t full. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on the island. It was a glorious day, perfect for exploring. She was going to walk around by herself, and he honestly would kind of like to walk with her, and he literally couldn’t afford to think like that because he needed the money that teaching this next class would give him.

  He sighed and kept going. At the Marketing/Finance sign, he knocked and waited for the requisite “Come in” before entering.

  Jean smiled at him. “Tyler! Take a seat, please.” She gestured at the chair in front of her desk.

  He sat. “What’s up?”

  She fished an envelope from a drawer. “Pride sent this for you.”

  “What is it?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno. Also, here.” She pushed a few Post-its towards him. “People called us looking for you.”

  “Huh? Why?”

  “Pride released details of the competition on their website, and it seems there’s quite a few people interested in speaking to you.”

  Tyler picked up the Post-its. Nikki Johnson, the TDOT Blog. Chell Houseman, the Dance Ontario Association. Jules Mitchell, the Globe and Mail. “About what, exactly?”

  Jean shrugged. “I’m your employer, not your agent.”

  Oh God. Jean or Derek representing him to outside parties. They were good people, but she was definitely more suited to the numbers side of things. “I’m always grateful for that.”

  Jean leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and fixing him with her usual insightful frown. “How are things going?”

  Was she talking about the competition or generally? He hedged his bets. “Good.”

  “Evie doing all right?”

  “Yeah. She’s picking the routine up okay.” He thought back to the way she twisted and moved fluidly. How she responded to him, how she anticipated his own movements, how she concentrated. “She really is a natural.”

  Jean nodded. “Katie showed me her interview. Evie’s full of surprises, isn’t she?”

  Surprises? Oh right, her asexuality. “You mean her orientation?”

  “That too. She’s an interesting person. I was thinking of offering her a year’s free membership here as compensation for doing this competition. You know, so she could do classes and things. What do you think?”

  Huh? Membership? Why the hell would she want that when she was leaving in ten days’ time? “I don’t know, Jean.” He smirked. “Maybe she’d prefer a key ring.”

  Jean laughed. “Good one.” She pulled a notepad filled with crossed-out scrawl towards her and wrote something down. “I’ll ask her.”

  “Was that it?”

  “Just one more thing.” She sat up. “I know Derek pushed you into this, but I hope it opens up more opportunities for you. I think you’ve had a rough year, and I’d like to see more good things happening for you.”

  He could tell she meant well, and he appreciated the sentiment, but given how competitive the dance world was, he could hear an unspoken criticism of him not taking opportunities when he should’ve. Maybe that was Luce’s voice in his head, but he still straightened in his seat. “Jean, if I haven’t been doing my job—”

  She frowned. “No, that’s not what I mean. Your work is fine. You were one of the first dancers we scouted for this company, and I hope you consider Derek and me friends as well as bosses.” She pierced him with a serious yet caring look that reminded him of his mother. “I noticed you tucked yourself away after breaking up with Lucette. I think you’re out of it now, and it’s good to see. Keep it up. Okay?”

  He nodded, throat thick.

  She waved him out. “Get going. Thanks, Tyler.”

  “Bye, Jean.”

  He closed the office door behind him and glanced at the Post-its in his hand. Tyler had been dancing at gigs and performances and live events for a few years now, and none of it had generated interest like this. Typical: do all the artistic and boundary-breaking stuff for years and get nowhere, but the moment he was in a shticky dance-off between QS and Cherry Studios as very obvious rainbow representation, everyone was all over him. He wanted to scrunch up the papers in his hands and throw them in the trash. Sure, he was trans and black, but he was also a dancer, for fuck’s sake.

  But everyone had their spiel. If working in the creative industries had taught him anything, it was that you had to exploit who and what you were if you wanted to get ahead.

  People had looked at him all his life and seen his skin first. Derek and Jean, much as they said they hired him for his dancing, knew that they needed people of colour if they wanted QS Dance to be the diverse place they’d dreamed of. Not that he begrudged them that. People like them were part of the solution. But this is what life was like: being good just wasn’t enough; he had to be better than the cis white competition. And if he wanted to be known, he’d have to work as many angles as he could.

  It still felt like selling out.

  He stuffed the Post-its into his pocket for later. He’d consider contacting these people over lunch.

  As he headed to the canteen, another thing Jean had said returned to him, and he pulled out his phone to message Evie: Jean wants to see you whenever you’re free.

  That done, he went over to the canteen’s microwave to heat up his homemade rice and peas with a side of veggie frittata. Food of the health-conscious dancing gods, he mused sardonically as he waited in line for the microwave.

  Someone cleared their throat behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder.

  Brock stood there, looking pained and awkward. “Uh. Hey.”

  Oh hell no. Tyler held up his hand. “Nope. I do not want to be involved.”

  “Please, Tyler, just a few minutes.”

  The girl ahead of him took her food from the microwave, and he shoved his in. Punched in three minutes, Brock hovering at his elbow like an anxious puppy.

  “I mean it, man.” Tyler glowered at Brock. “Get lost.” If he was still there three minutes later . . .

  Brock didn’t seem to get the message, because he straightened his shoulders and stood his ground. “I’m serious about him.”

  “Tell him that, because I don’t care.”

  “You know him best.”

  “I really don’t care.”

  “And I’m desperate.”

  “Talk to Gigi, because I. Don’t. Care.”

  Brock blanched. “Why? Isn’t he your friend?”

  “Yeah. But his relationships aren’t my problem until he gets hurt.” Tyler glared at him. “Actually, you already hurt him. Years ago. You’re the real reason for my fucking hangover today. Get the hell out of my face. And talk to him.” When Brock opened his mouth, Tyler leaned in. “Not. Today.”

  Brock shut his mouth, nodded, and walked away.

  Tyler rubbed the bridge of his nose. After way too many shots of tequila, he was done with Gigi’s love problems. For fuck’s sake, he’d just gotten over his own. That was it: he was done with everyone’s love problems, period. The microwave beeped food readiness, and he pulled his Tupperware out.

  Settling at a chair, he drizzled hot sauce—which he kept in his bag for precisely this purpose—over it and dug in.

  Of course his phone rang. He checked it to
see it was Shana, sighed at the timing, then answered.

  “And where the hell have you been?” she demanded.

  “Hey, sis.” He continued forking food into his mouth.

  “I have been calling you all day.”

  “I was asleep, then I had rehearsal. Cut me some fucking slack, seriously.”

  “Jesus. Would it kill you to call me more?”

  “Would it kill you to not call me so much?”

  She sighed straight into the receiver, and he jerked the phone from his ear.

  “Look, Ty, it’s just that it’s hard up here, you know? Darrell has his shitty friends and life on the other side of Calgary, and Mom’s busy with all her clubs and things. Sometimes I feel like you’re the only one who gives a shit about what’s going on with me. And Mom misses you. We all miss you. Why aren’t you here?”

  “Shana, what do you want me to say?” Ugh, that probably wasn’t what she needed to hear. He should kick himself after saying that. “Look, you know I miss you too. And Dar.” He really did miss his siblings, but there wasn’t much of a dance scene in Calgary. There was barely one in Toronto . . . Wait, that niggly feeling in his gut was back. “What is going on with you?”

  The silence at the end of the phone said it all.

  “Shana Davis, you’re never like this and you’ve been calling me for days. Talk.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  His fork fell into his food as his entire body went numb. His jaw dropped open like a goddamned cartoon. “Oh wow.”

  “I’m pregnant, but Ray doesn’t want it.”

  He exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair. Big freaking surprise there. He’d only met the guy twice, and twice was enough. Shana had been with Ray for just under a year, and while they’d hit it off at first, Ray had turned out to be a nonstarter and Shana had been complaining about him a lot lately. He and Darrell had been waiting for one of them to kick the other to the curb. Had thought it was only a matter of time, actually.

  Guess again.

  “Screw Ray,” he said. “What do you want?”

  Shana hesitated. “I want it. I definitely want it. I want to keep it and raise it and be a mom.” She paused and Tyler waited for the but. “The thing is, I want it to have a dad. And Ray doesn’t want to be that dad.”

  Tyler closed his eyes, hating what he had to say next. “Seems pretty cut-and-dry, Shana.”

  “I know.” She exhaled, a low, sad sound. “I’ve been trying to decide what to do, and I can’t make my mind up. I have a good job and savings, but I don’t know what the maternity leave is like, and Mom is here, but you know how her health is, and what if I can’t provide for it, and Dar is being a dick about it all, and I just really want you to be here but you’re not, so . . .” She broke off. “I went to the clinic and had it checked out. I’m six weeks. Six weeks.”

  Six weeks seemed like forever. No wonder she’d been anxious on the phone. Tyler pushed his food around with his fork. “Sounds like you need to do more thinking. You gotta decide, Shana. But whatever you decide, I’ll help you out. Even if I’m not in Calgary, you know I have your back.”

  She sighed. “Thanks, bro. I knew you’d get it.”

  “For the record, there’s no wrong decision, all right?”

  “I know. Thanks. I love you.” She sounded better.

  “Love you too.” He mashed his fork into his frittata, which was going cold. The clock on the wall told him he had ten minutes before class. “I have to go, okay? Call me if anything comes up with Ray.”

  “Okay.”

  She hung up, and Tyler shovelled the food in.

  He paused.

  He might become an uncle.

  And what was he doing? Who was he and where was he going? Tyler was twenty-five and maybe about to become an uncle, and all he had to show for it was a ruined relationship, a bunch of batshit friends, and a stalled dance career.

  At least he could work on one of those things. Out came the Post-its and his cell. Several calls later, he had a few interviews scheduled. Once that was done, he imagined life with a miniature Davis in the family—maybe with Shana’s big dark eyes and Ray’s jaw—put his face down on the table, and groaned.

  “Chill out, man.” Eddie patted his shoulder as she passed by. “It’s only a competition.”

  Once her business with Jean was done, Evie headed to the waterfront and took the ferry to Centre Island. It was a pleasant Sunday, so the crowds were out in force. She walked through the amusement park and took pictures of the antique rides. She petted the animals in the farm. She even considered paying for tickets to go on the rides, but decided against it because they would have been more fun with other people.

  Finally, she found herself on the pier on the other side of the island, facing out onto Lake Ontario, which extended to the far horizon. From here, it was like being on an island in the ocean rather than a lake. Lake Ontario was so huge it probably qualified as a sea.

  The peace of the landscape jarred with the chaos inside her. Her head chattered at her in circular threads of dance moves, job settlements, a new city, moving in sync with a boy, Canadian friendliness, food, her friends, the ace Tumblrites, Tyler’s smile. Tyler’s patience. Tyler’s humour. His laugh. The cues she thought were maybe there, but maybe weren’t. The way his face had clouded after that messy start. The way he’d grinned when she’d sent him to the floor.

  She meandered down the pier onto Manitou Beach—or Centre Island Beach, the signs weren’t consistent—took off her shoes, and revelled in the sand under her feet and the fresh breeze off the lake. She walked and walked, letting her thoughts drain from her head and the aches fade from her body. The quiet and relative solitude eased her while the unfamiliar scenery distracted her. When the weather turned, clouds curling towards the city with dark purpose, she made her way back to the ferry terminal. By the time she reached it, rain had begun spitting, and when she was back in the city centre, the weather had completed a total one-eighty into a storm.

  As she had an hour to kill before meeting Sarah and Bailey for dinner with the aces, she found a nearby café with wi-fi and settled in with a cup of tea. She answered Mum’s message with a simple, Hope Shep’s okay. Holiday is going great. Love to you all, then scrolled Facebook. The cream of her friends’ lives spilled across her screen: parties and babies and exotic locations and new jobs. She’d never noticed before, but it was the same stuff, just from different people, over and over again.

  She lifted her head to survey the café interior. People dressed in suits hunched over laptops. A couple snuggled each other on a sofa. It could have been York, but for the little differences that made the scene foreign: the dollar signs, the local wording in the ads for soup and breakfast foods, the accents in the conversational buzz. The people and experiences foremost in her mind.

  For the first time in far too long, Evie felt something close to content. Like this direction, new and intriguing, was a good one.

  She turned off her phone, opened her diary to the back pages—the notes section that no one ever used—and started drawing.

  Tyler woke up refreshed. He rose and stretched, feeling out the kinks in his body. Checking the weather outside brought a smile to his face: the sky was a washed-out blue, promising a beautiful day after the previous evening’s rain. Glorious. He went through his morning routine with a sense of cheerful purpose, smiling at himself in the mirror as he lathered for a shave. He was so full of energy, he almost bounced on his way to meet Gigi for coffee near QS Dance.

  Gigi, on the other hand, showed up with bags under his eyes and wearing black and grey. Only rainbow earrings brightened his outfit, which was worrying.

  “Morning!” Tyler greeted him as they joined the queue.

  “Good morning, sunshine.” Gigi yawned.

  “You look like you slept . . . well.”

  “Who says I didn’t?” Gigi stared longingly at the pastries on display.

  He was in a pastry mood. Underslept. Tetchy. Tyler p
ut two and two together. “Something happened with Brock.”

  Gigi closed his eyes. “I got dinner and the best fucking blowjob of my life.”

  “Next,” the barista called. Tyler stepped forward and ordered his usual black filter. Gigi requested a large syrup-laden frothy monstrosity, and Tyler wondered (as always) how he handled training with that amount of milk sloshing in him.

  At the hand-off point, Gigi slumped against the wall, a dreamy expression on his face. “Seriously, he’s good.”

  Oh, ew. “I don’t care.”

  “You should, because fuck I needed it.”

  “I really don’t want to know.” There was one thing he did want to know. “How did dinner happen in the first place? I thought you were gunning for revenge.”

  The dreaminess dropped from Gigi’s face. “He apologized. He begged for forgiveness. He actually got on his knees in the fucking street and begged. Fantasy brought to life.” He didn’t sound happy about it, though. Tyler thought Gigi was trying to be gleeful, but he couldn’t carry it off. It took Tyler a while to decipher the expression on Gigi’s face because he’d never seen it there before, but once he figured it out, he knew what the problem was.

  Gigi felt guilty.

  “You let him buy you food, blow you, and then you ran out,” Tyler realized.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a chickenshit dick.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Black filter, up!”

  Tyler retrieved his coffee. When he came back, Gigi seemed to be fluctuating between desperate justification and misery.

  “Look, it’s the least he fucking deserves after what he did. I don’t feel guilty about running off.” Gigi scowled. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t, okay? At least,” he relented, “not much.”

  Tyler rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee.

  “It’s just . . . He was in the street.” Gigi wrung his hands. “He said he was still crazy about me. That he was totally gay and out of the closet now and was never going back into it. Everyone was looking at him, and he didn’t care.”

  That had to be nice. Tyler couldn’t exactly relate. “Good for him.”