Page 6 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Jean rolls his eyes but says softly, “You deserve better than that Gen.”

And while some part of me knows he’s right, there’s a shadow spilling across it, the one that my mom and Will and all the whispers of “bitch” or “ice queen” continue to cast. No matter how hard I try, I feel like it always creeps back in, engulfing any other possible perception of me.

“So when is baby’s first ever booty call ,” Jean changes topics, coming back up to the bar, and the thought of Grant stops the darkness that just took root in me from spreading.

Because he wasn’t looking at me the way people usually do—like I’m tainted, like I’m not measuring up, like I’ve either done something wrong or I’m about to.

It was like he was looking at me for the first time.

Remembering that has me fighting a grin I definitely don’t need Jean seeing.

“He said he’d text me the details,” I say just as my phone lights up with a text message.

From him.

An overly shrill squeal comes from Jean’s body and I lose the fight against my grin. He uses his eyes alone to force me to check the message.

Grant

Friday at 7?

I tilt my phone screen for Jean to see, so grateful I have someone to confide in about this.

“We love a man who keeps his word!” he says, throwing his head and hands back in excitement. “I told you he’d be perfect.”

Clicking my phone shut, I toss it onto my bag and roll my shoulders back, willing my anticipation to take a backseat.

“Okay, enough procrastinating. We have work to do.”

Six years ago

I pull, once again, at the light pink spandex, trying to get the fabric to stretch up past my shoulders. I feel the start of a cramp as I attempt to free myself from the garment, sweat forming at my hairline as I, again, try to suck my body into itself.

The ballet top from last year’s showcase is my safety net, the one I wear anytime I have my period or eat too much the night before since it’s always slightly loose, but right now, I can barely get it back over my head.

Over the past few months, my body has… changed .

Like it was fueled by this summer’s intolerable heat, my childlike frame softly started curving its way into womanhood.

My jaw grinds as I see the dips and curves in the mirror, the way I’ve seen my mother’s do a thousand times, as if her femininity, the plushness of her body, is a curse to ward off.

The pale skin of my stomach peeks out beneath my uniform and what was a straight line—perfect for ballet— now dips in and out, exposing newly found hips and breasts, a softness that the women around me have fought against ever since I was aware enough to notice.

I press my eyes closed, pulling as hard as I can against the garment still clinging to my sweat.

Tears prick my eyes as I’m unable to rid myself of the tight fabric, panic and shame gripping me like a vise.

I gently open my door, listening for the pad of footsteps downstairs, and hear nothing.

My heart rate steadies slightly, knowing Gary isn’t down there.

Gary—my mother’s newest husband, my stepdad .

But I’ve had two of those already, so is it really a valuable label?

He seems to think so. I can tell it gets under his skin, the way I barely acknowledge his existence.

And maybe I would if being in his presence didn’t feel like being stalked by a predator, me the prey.

I pull the top back down to uncover my face, the baby hairs now peeking out from the carefully laid bun that managed to stay in place after my eight-hour studio day. I smooth them down with my fingers, displeased with how disheveled I look.

I make it into the stainless steel kitchen, my steps echoing.

Our entire New York City apartment could have fit in this kitchen, and I think I preferred the tiny shoebox with our counter microwave to this monstrosity.

I swallow, pushing the thought away as I begin scouring the drawers for something I can use to cut myself out.

Finally, out of desperation, I grab a steak knife from the rack above my head.

I pull the fabric taut away from my skin, my heart rate returning to normal more and more after each exaggerated tear.

Just as I’m about to make the last cut, the door to the garage opens and in comes my mother.

Her eyes squint, taking in the situation before her.

I feel the lump in my throat form as she stills.

“What are you doing?” Her thick French accent shakes with quiet fury.

“It was too small, maman. I was stuck.” I gesture to the now shredded fabric draped over my exposed midriff, my face burning with embarrassment. She slowly shakes her head, her face morphing into something venomous.

It’s only then that I notice Gary, a leathery hand resting on her shoulder.

“You’ve really blossomed this summer, haven’t you, Genevieve?” The way he says my name has bile creeping up the back of my throat. My mom’s laugh is bitter, full of resentment.

“A perfectly plump flower, no?” she says, looking up at her geriatric husband with the same false charm he always buys.

“She’s becoming a woman, Aurélie,” he says, his eyes greedily roaming over me as he says my mother’s name with no effort at all, and I focus on my breath. “Soon, people might think you’re sisters.”

I catch the way her eyes slant up at him, see the way they sharpen just before they soften, her hand deftly landing on his chest. And I know it bothered her, but she won’t say anything. She never does.

“Ma crevette,” she chirps, so certain he’ll never find out she’s calling him a shrimp, “take my bags upstairs, yes? You can pick out my dress for tonight.”

He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to leave, some sick fantasy no doubt spinning in his age-addled mind.

But mother artfully smooths her hand down his shirt, letting her fingers trail, and I’m reminded of the way husband hunting has become a sport for her.

The older, the wealthier, the better. And after a quick elopement, she’ll take her time either waiting for them to die or for the terms of the prenup she insisted on to allow her to divorce with a hefty alimony.

“Of course, cherie,” he says, his lack of an accent making my skin crawl.

She stares at me for a moment, waiting until the coast is clear, her hands flexing as she grips the edge of the island counter.

“How dare you walk around like this, oozing out of this expensive chemise ,” she spits, her gaze flicking down to my stomach.

“Throwing yourself at him—at men ,” she continues, like she has evidence of this.

“You disgust me,” she sneers, her body trembling as she quickly walks toward me and tears away the rest of the shirt, her fist clenching the pink fabric as she takes in my now vulnerable body.

“ Grosse .” Her voice is little more than a whisper, but I recognize the French word for fat, an insult that, to her, beats all the rest. I feel my lip wobble, tears clouding my vision as she throws the shirt back in my face.

“Couvre-toi,” she snaps, grabbing her handbag off the counter and storming off.

I’m left frozen, gripping the mess of fabric tightly against my body in an attempt to cover up like she demanded.

I breathe in through my nose, trying to stop the sob now threatening to rack through me.

I slowly make my way back to my room, making myself as silent and small as possible as my feet pad against the hardwood floors.

Once inside, I shut the door and pull out an old Columbia sweatshirt that belonged to my dad, wrapping myself inside it, curling up on the large plush bed funded by my mother’s previous husband.

My body feels tired and sore and not mine .

I sit up so that I can see myself in my vanity mirror, observing the angles of my face glistening with my tears. The girlhood seems to have been erased—my cheekbones are more prominent and the pinkness in my expression is less, like all the suppleness has sharpened into the face of a woman.

My mother’s words ring in my ears. Grosse . Grosse. Grosse.

I inhale a deep breath and smell the familiar musky undertones of my father. That scent of burnt coffee beans, cheap cigarettes, and aftershave that takes me home. My thumb traces the frayed hem of the sleeve just as I hear tapping at my window.

I squint towards it, butterflies erupting in my stomach when I see Will crouched on the sparse ledge. I jump up, sniffing back my tears and shove the frame up. He ambles in, so much taller and longer than he was back in May.

“I thought you didn’t get home until next week?” Rain drops fall from the messier than usual ends of his blonde strands, his eyes peering at me with something that makes my heart ache, and I catch the shadows beginning to spread on the skin around his mossy gaze. “Oh my god, what happened?”

He glances away, a mischievous smile on his face. “They kicked me out for fighting.”

Worry falls like a heavy weight in my stomach, and I wonder if he’ll ever stop. It’s the third summer intensive he’s been kicked out of since we met in seventh grade, but it doesn’t seem like he cares. And it’s always for something like this—fighting.

“Is that how you got this?” I reach out and touch the bruise forming, and he winces beneath my touch, his smile forlorn as he avoids my gaze .

“No,” is all he says before looking back at me, but I know.

“So Ben just let it happen?” I ask him incredulously.

“He wasn’t home. It’s not a big deal.” I furrow my brows, my head dipping slightly, because it is a big deal and he knows it.

“He only got one hit in before I left. I was worried you wouldn’t be home.

” His hands come up to my face, and I feel it heat before I even feel him.

Fingers softly brushing at my half dried tears, I see his eyes crinkle with worry. “Why were you crying, Genny?”

I shake my head furiously, more concerned with his abusive father than my narcissistic mother.

“Nothing I’m… probably getting my period,” I brush it off.

He tilts his head, not taking that for an answer.

“She just…called me fat?” I laugh at the absurdity of it, expecting him to play it off like just another crazy thing Aurélie said.

Instead, he steps back, searing me with his gaze as he traces the new outline of me.

“She’s crazy,” he murmurs, and a chill spreads down my arms.

“Is she?” I say, shifting to look back in my mirror. “There’s just so much…more of me. Like what is this?” I smooth my hand down my stomach over my sweatshirt, trying hard to remember the way I used to be able to count my ribs.

When he comes up behind me, I finally notice just how much he grew while we were apart.

His chin rests firmly on top of my head, the heat from his body radiating through me—that’s how close we are.

I steady my breathing, reminding myself that this is Will , that he is just being my best friend, that there is nothing different about the way he’s watching me in the mirror.

“What’s what?” he asks, a subtle smirk on his lips, and it makes my heart skip a beat.

His hands skate over mine, touching me by proxy.

“So you don’t look like a choir boy anymore.

I’d hardly say that’s a bad thing,” he grins, and I go to swat him just as his fingers dig into the rib cage I was looking for, tickling me with relentless determination.

I spin around and press my palms against him, my laugh more of a screech than a howl, and he tumbles back and down on to my bed, pulling me with him.

“I’m going to pee ,” I plead, trying to wrap my arms around him to tickle that one spot on his back.

I shove myself closer to him, everything about him broader than I remember, and I’m acutely aware of the lack of space between us.

It seems he is, too, as his gaze flicks down to our chests, pressing into each other.

His eyes flit to my lips, and I feel them part without my permission. And then he’s kissing me, and I’ve never kissed anyone before, but I’m kissing him back, the warmth and pressure of his lips on mine exactly like I’ve always imagined it—perfect, like they belong there.

“I don’t need them. You’re my home, Genny.” His nose grazes mine, his whispered breath skimming my cheek.

All I can think is that this is how it’s supposed to feel, like I’m all his and he’s all mine.

I tuck my hands under my head and he does the same, both turned inward, eye to eye.

I watch his brain work, taking in every centimeter of my face and I let him.

Relish the feeling of his eyes on me, let him claim every part of me, every limb, every cell.

“Promise me.” He bites his lip, a seriousness filtering into his expression as he searches my eyes for something.

“Promise me I can always come back to you. That no matter what, we’ll always be us.

” There’s something layered in his tone, and I feel it in the subtle dip of my stomach, the slight retraction of his face from mine—this deep understanding that that kiss came too early, that neither of us can possibly be ready at fourteen for this amorphous thing tethering us.

I fight the urge to cry for the second time tonight.

Not because he doesn’t want me the way I hoped he did, but because anything beyond what we already are to each other puts us in dangerous territory.

A gray area where someone could easily get hurt.

The only thing that’s become clear to me tonight is that I almost ruined the best thing I have left.