Someone I Used to Know - By Blakney Francis Page 0,36

the weight and pounds of things I wanted to forget.

I left the loft for the first time and stood in front of a dance studio for an hour before I realized that ballet was another thing I’d unknowingly given away forever. I punished myself with harsh,vomit-inducing runs, and eventually, when I no longer saw the fat nor the perfectly thin girl I’d been before, I punished myself again by getting my very first job working as a hostess in the city.

May came, Cam graduated, and when he left for New York with the internship of a lifetime waiting for him there, he signed over the deed to his loft to me. It didn’t even feel like a break-up. In all the important ways, we could never really leave each other. ‘Break-up’ implies the end of something, and whatever had ended between Cam and I had happened months ago, in a hospital room that I kept closely locked up in my mind.

The row of clothing in front of me split open, like Moses parting the Red Sea, and Fran entered my jungle, sitting cross-legged to stare me right in the eye.

“How did you find me?” I asked, picking at a section of my hair that badly needed a trim.

“Madeline had me download an app on your phone that tracks your location.” She shrugged, like she hadn’t just admitted to violating one of my basic human rights.

“What is wrong with you people?” I was flabbergasted, and my tone accusing.

“A bevy of emotional handicaps that we over-pay our shrinks to over-medicate.” This time she smiled, and her dark eyes sparkled with humor. “Luckily, I think what’s wrong with you can be solved with a little fun. Why don’t you go out on the town tonight? We’ve wrapped for the day so you’re free.”

Fun? What insane notion was that?

“Sounds great, except that I haven’t really met anyone since I’ve been here, and going out alone would just be even more depressing.”

“Nonsense. You’ve met me.”

“You’ll go?” Surprise and doubt danced in my question.

“I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman whose life revolves around an eighteen-year-old girl. The only other thing I have to talk about besides Madeline Little is my eight-year-old daughter, who thinks she’s a mermaid. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor by not going.” She paused to give me a calculating look that reminded me of Cam, and for a second, I was convinced she was about to call me ‘Adds’ or ‘Addy’. “Madeline could use a little fun too though.”

“No way.”

But my mind had already buzzed through every alternative I could think of and come up blank. A fun night away from the set, where I could be anonymous sounded painfully perfect…And I could dance.

Ballet was gone. I would never again feel the weightless flight of a saut de basque or the kiss of forever in a fouette, but I could still lose myself in the consuming beat of a song. I used to love that kind of dancing, too. My friends and I would drink just enough to numb the corners of our minds, and then we’d twirl and gyrate until the lights came on. I didn’t know those friends anymore though, and they wouldn’t have recognized me, even if I did know where to find them.

And that realization led to Madeline’s door, selling a night out together as a way of ‘bonding’ that would help her further her understanding of Adley Adair. She’d agreed for the “good of the film”, and then dragged me back to the wardrobe department. Apparently my rubber ducky shorts left her untrustworthy of my ability to properly dress myself.

She and Fran explained our plans to the eccentric man and woman manning the racks, and while the lean, chocolate-skinned man headed into the clothing jungle, the woman eyed me critically.

“Strip,” she ordered finally, when her eyes had feasted on every inch of my body they could inspect.

Fran gave me a severe look, which not-so-subtly suggested that I not argue with the lady who was about to do me a favor. Finding Alfred’s shadow outside the door, I quickly shimmied out of my shorts and t-shirt, leaving me in nothing but my underwear. They were plain, black, uncomplicated, but they could have been a lot worse. The matching set were far more sophisticated than the mismatched floral panties and worn out sports bra I’d almost worn.

I’d never been modest. When you spend half your life in a skintight leotard and rushing through five minute costume changes in front of