Читать книгу Sing - Vivi Greene - Страница 12

THE SATURDAY MORNING yoga class was Sammy’s idea. She had seen a flier on the community board in the supermarket, and dragged us out of bed for it. Tess wanted to stay home—she’s more inclined to beat out aggression in kickboxing than breathe it out at yoga—but after my little mishap with the Pree, she’s refusing to let anybody else drive. I bet Sammy twenty bucks that Tess wouldn’t last through the first sun salutation.

“Let’s start with our hands on our hearts.” The teacher, Maya, is around our age. She has an easy smile and seems genuine, not pretentious like a lot of the teachers I’ve had in New York and LA

The room is packed, a cozy attic space above the island’s only hardware store. Every so often I hear the electronic chime of the door below as it swings open, or the thud of the cash register slamming shut. I chose a spot near the wall, with Sammy to one side and an older woman in tie-dyed leggings to the other. Tess is as close as she can be to the exit.

“Let your breath be your guide,” Maya says. She sits at the front of the class with her eyes closed, a thick beam of dusty sunlight caught in her long, braided hair. She is tall and toned, and dressed comfortably in a gray thermal shirt and worn, wide-legged pants.

Every so often I sneak glances at Tess, who gradually stops pouting and at one point even seems to be enjoying herself. The class feels great—calming and slow—and I make a mental note to grab a schedule on the way out.

In savasana, we lie on our backs. Maya sprays a lavender mist around our heads, and my limbs sink heavily into my mat. She asks us to set an intention for the rest of our day. I close my eyes and think about the people I’ve been watching in the mirror, the middle-aged women with frizzy hair and baggy T-shirts, a few rugged men lightheartedly grunting as they attempted to touch their toes. I wonder what their lives are like, if this is their Saturday-morning routine. Breakfast. Yoga. A trip downstairs for supplies to finish a project around the house.

There’s an unpleasant fluttering in my chest—I’m jealous. There’s a part of me that would give anything for every Saturday to be like this one. I know it sounds absurd, and if I ever said it out loud I’d be immediately branded as ungrateful. A lot of people—my whole family, Terry, even my friends—have made sacrifices over the years so that I could be where I am today. And “where I am today,” most days, feels like on top of the world. What kind of a person would throw all that away for tie-dye and a chore list? I breathe deeply, trying to reclaim the temporary peace I’d found, but it seems I’ve already lost it.

There’s shuffling beside me and I look up to see Sammy rolling her mat. She holds a finger to her lips and nods to Tess across the room. She’s still sprawled out on the ground, and I can tell by the steady rise and fall of her chest, the heavy, outward tilt of her feet, that she’s sleeping.

“Well, that sucked,” Tess grumbles, her yoga mat folded sloppily under her arm.

Across the street from the yoga studio is Fresh, a vegan café. We’re staring at the chalkboard menu, deciding between shots of wheatgrass and house-brewed kombucha.

“Yeah, you looked like you were really struggling,” Sammy jokes, closing her eyes and lolling her head to one side, before breaking out in a fake snore.

“My point exactly. If I wanted to pay fifteen dollars to take a nap I could have gone to the movies. I don’t need a guru for that.”

Tess leans her mat against the counter and pushes in front of us to squint at the menu. As she’s looking, the line shifts and I see that Maya, our serenely smiling instructor, has walked in behind us. She greets a few familiar faces and falls into line.

“Fire cider?” Tess asks, making a face. “Kombucha? Is it a requirement for there to be at least one insufferable hippie establishment within a hundred feet of every yoga studio on the planet?”

I clear my throat as Sammy looks pointedly over Tess’s shoulder. “What?” Tess asks. She turns around and Maya wiggles her fingers in a teasing wave.

Tess’s face, still pink from the heat of the studio, flushes an even deeper crimson. “Oh,” she says. “Hey. I didn’t mean …”

“No, it’s a really good question.” Maya nods, a spirited sparkle in her big green eyes. “I’ll have to take it up with my guru.”

Sammy and I laugh while Tess fidgets uncomfortably. It’s not very often that she’s put on the receiving end of this kind of banter, and it’s entertaining to watch.

“I’m only teasing,” Maya says, touching Tess lightly on the shoulder. “But you really should try the fire cider. It’s life-changing.”

As a peace offering, I insist on treating Maya to a cider shot, and she suggests that I get a round for the rest of us, too.

“What’s in it?” Sammy asks as the barista hands over the squat glasses. She leans in and crinkles her nose at the pungent smell.

“It’s vinegar infused with horseradish and a bunch of other stuff,” Maya explains. “It’s like a power-washing for your insides.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Tess asks quietly, clearly still recovering from the taste of her own foot in her mouth.

Maya smiles. “It’s never a bad idea to start over,” she says, holding up her shot glass. It may be something in her eye, but I swear she winks at me as we clink glasses. For a paranoid second, I wonder if she was actually reading my mind in class.

We knock back our ciders—it’s like a mix between mouthwash and a Bloody Mary, in a not entirely unpleasant way—and say good-bye to Maya, promising to come back to class next weekend.

There’s a small corner table in the back of the café and I duck toward it. A freckled girl with pigtails stops me on the way to ask for a photo, and I oblige. It’s only happened a handful of times since we’ve been here, and everyone has been so polite that I haven’t minded, but today, it gives me a little shock. It’s been amazingly easy to forget that I’m famous. I sort of expect that everyone else has forgotten, too.

“What’s up?” Tess asks, apparently reading a new shadow on my face.

“I just don’t know what the point is anymore.” I sigh, nibbling at the corner of my sunflower seed muffin.

“The point of what?” Sam asks.

“Why am I even trying to pretend like I can escape?” I ask. “Everyone in this room knows that I’ve just had my heart broken. If they’re not talking about it, they’re thinking about it. And we’re on an island with no chain restaurants and a video rental store that still carries actual videos. Do you have any idea how messed up that feels?”

Sammy opens her mouth and I know she’s going to say something to cheer me up, the way she always does, but I keep talking. It feels like if I don’t get it all out, the way I’ve been feeling, the uneasy sensation in my chest might get stuck, swelling and spreading until it crushes me completely.

“I’m so sick of the drama. And I hate that everyone expects me to roll over and turn every crappy thing that happens to me into a song. What if I don’t want to write about getting my heart broken for the fifteenth time? What if I don’t want to write a love song at all?”

We’re all quiet for a few moments, until Sammy clears her throat. “Are you saying you want to stop singing?”

“No,” I huff. “I just wish I could figure out a way to write about something that isn’t Jed.”

“So do it,” Tess says simply. She’s always doing this, making me feel like I’m overcomplicating things, like if I didn’t spend so much time in my head, if I could get out of my own way, everything would be so much easier. I watch her stir sugar into her coffee. I watch Sammy break her scone into tiny, uniform pieces. I feel a sudden, empty sadness. These are my best friends, the people who know me better than anyone else in the universe. If they don’t understand how hard this is, how can I ever expect anyone else to?

My phone buzzes on the table. I lean over to glance at the caller ID. Tess and Sammy do, too. It’s Jed.

My stomach drops, and I snatch the phone up. “Don’t answer it,” Sammy blurts.

It’s the first time he’s called since I left. The first time that I know about, anyway. I received the FedExed phone from Terry almost immediately, but I waited a day before activating it, and now I can’t stop staring at it, willing every vibrating alert to mean a message from Jed. I quickly scan my memory of his schedule, wondering where he is. London? Spain? What time is it there? Is he alone?

“She’s right,” Tess says. “What could he possibly say that would make you feel better?”

I think about it, my fingers clutching the phone’s smooth sides. Even if he says he was wrong, that he’s made a mistake, he wants me back, it won’t change the fact that he talked to the press and made me look like a whiny, needy, lovesick little girl.

I drop the phone and watch as it shudders across the table. It finally stops its tortuous buzzing and we wait to see if he leaves a message. The screen goes dark. He doesn’t.

I swallow, my jaw clenched, a throbbing pressure behind my eyes. Every part of me wishes I could hear his voice, ask him about his shows, tell him all about the island and how much he’d love it. It’s like my brain has been reprogrammed, but my body, my heart, are still stuck. Even after the way things ended, all I can think about is the way we used to be, a time—not so long ago—when my days weren’t complete until I shared them with him. There’s a tiny part of me that feels like this whole thing is truly just vacation, and when I get back to New York, I’ll return to my old life, my old routine. And Jed.

I feel Sammy’s and Tess’s eyes on me as I stare at the phone. Tess pulls her own out of her pocket and checks the time. “We’re late,” she says quickly, heading outside as she makes a call.

I glance up at Sammy. “Late?” I ask. “Late for what?”

Sammy stands, gathering our plates. “Didn’t she tell you?” she asks, glancing through the wall of windows. Outside, Tess paces a stretch of the sidewalk, smiling into the phone. “She ran into a bunch of guys she used to hang out with. They offered to take us fishing.”

“Guys?” I ask suspiciously. “What guys? When?”

Sammy shrugs. “At the bar the other night. Some guys she used to play with when she was little. They seemed nice. I thought she told you.” She walks briskly toward the trash.

“No, she didn’t tell me,” I say, hurrying to catch up. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember hearing about a post-yoga fishing date. Nice try.”

Sammy smiles sheepishly. “Tess thought you wouldn’t go unless we bribed you with snacks,” she says, tossing the rest of my muffin into the compost bin.

I can’t help but laugh. They may not understand every aspect of what I do, the impossible balance of life and career—but they know me. We walk outside and I stop short in front of the big window. “I haven’t showered,” I say, catching sight of my reflection. My hair is flat and sweaty, the straps of my halter are twisted in the back. “I’m supposed to wear this?”

“You’re the one who wants to be normal,” Tess says, linking her arm in mine as she drags me toward the car.

“Hop in,” she orders. “I’m driving.”