Page 106 of Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 1)
As soon as class is over, I bolt. I've biked or walked home by myself for years. I don't need to be babysat every single day. On my way out, I spot Callum heading down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, his black bag slung over one shoulder. Where it is he always disappears to, I don't know.
But I'm curious.
I check my phone. I have several hours until Heather gets home, so I change my direction and start off after him. He surprises me by skipping the bus station and walking all the way past Main Street with its shops and restaurants, an area that used to be deadly to traverse at night but that's slowly been improving as hipster millennials snatch up all the cheap houses on our side of the tracks.
He keeps going, disappearing into the bottom floor of a large industrial building near the warehouse district. I pause outside to read the letters on the glass. Southside Dreams Dance Company.
Huh.
I try the door and find it unlocked, moving down a red-painted hallway with various dance troupes featured in framed photos on either side. Once I get to the end, there's a sign that points toward a locker room and another that says Studios. I follow that one, ending up in another hallway with glass windows on either side. Studio A and B are empty, but when I get to Studio C, I find a single dancer, stretching his leg on the barre across from the window.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
My mouth drops open as I find Callum in black leggings, black ballet slippers, and a loose tank that shows off all of his ink. He stretches for a while, unhurried, unconcerned, and then moves over to turn on a stereo. I can't hear the music from out here, but I find myself glued to the glass, fingertips pressed against the cool surface as Cal starts to dance.
What the hell am I looking at right now? I wonder as he does a series of impressive spins, and then balances on one foot, lifting the other leg up so high that I imagine he could touch the back of his head with his toes if he wanted. Callum Park … is a ballerina?!
Only men aren’t called ballerinas, are they? But I know literally nothing about the dance other than the basics that permeate common culture. Mom once had aspirations that I’d be a ballerina, forcing me into classes that I hated from moment one. But then Dad killed himself, and we were too poor for her to entertain her vicarious fantasies.
My breath fogs the glass as Cal fills the room with his presence, claiming the drafty warehouse room like it’s a stage in Paris. My eyes are locked on his lithe form as he moves; I’m paralyzed. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.
The way he moves, it makes so much more sense now. He floats through life like he's underwater, weightless and fluid. And that dancer's body … well, I guess it really is a dancer's body, huh?
What a beautiful hypocrisy, I think as I watch his scarred, tattooed form move through space like he's commanding it, the black silken shoes on his feet carrying him up to the sky and then grounding him in the same breath. I've been watching the Havoc Boys since second grade, and yet I never knew about any of this.
“Excuse me,” a little girl says, smiling as she scoots past and opens the door to the studio. She's dressed in a plain gray leotard and pink shoes, and I figure she's probably around Heather's age. Callum doesn't stop dancing when she comes in, but he does smile, and gesture for her to start warming up at the barre.
Within a few minutes, there are a dozen little kids in there, stretching and prepping for class. Callum fiddles with the stereo for a minute, dries the sweat from his forehead with a white towel, and then gets to teaching.
The girls run through first position with Cal correcting their form, offering murmured words and gentle adjustments. I should probably leave, but … I check the time and see that I've still got another hour to kill. If I take the bus from here, it'll take ten minutes to get home, tops. I settle in to watch, loving the contrast of Callum, with the ropey muscles in his arms, his ink, his scars … teaching these little girls how to dance.
Something in my chest shifts, and I realize that I know little to nothing about him. Nothing at all. “I felt that way, too, at first. Once you surrender to the dark, it gets easier.” I can't even imagine what he might've been talking about. Clearly, I'm not the only member of Havoc who has unresolved trauma.
After class, the girls (and two awesome little boys) take turns giving Callum hugs, and then slip out of the room, smiling shyly at me as they skip past and head for the locker room.
