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  Title

  Dreams Come True

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  Dreams Come True

  By: Darline Joyce

  Dreams Come True

  What do you do when you are brought into the world with a silver spoon in your mouth just to the have it taken away and replaced by a plastic one that comes with your take-out? Pick yourself up, dust off your jean, and keep being you.

  Avery Johnson has to find that out. It isn’t always easy to make a name for yourself when you’re teaching children how to dance out of a little run-down studio in the big city. Sometimes you have to go that extra mile, have to take that extra chance. If you don’t go get it, who will?

  When Avery finds himself in the dilemma of chasing his heart and chasing his dream he will have to decide his next step. But it’s not just his heart on the lines. He has to think about his students and his school. No matter what, he will take life one plié at a time.

  I’ve wanted to dance since I could walk. My parents never much agreed with it. They preferred that I play piano or even go into painting. But, I wanted to dance so they reluctantly paid for my lessons. I took ballet as I found it the best form of dance. Occasionally I would do jazz or ballroom. Once I did tap just to see what all the fuss was about. Mother did not much like the tap shoes, so back to ballet for me. Much quieter.

  Through high school and even into college I was in any and every class relating to dance in addition to my daily dance lessons. Being one of the few boys in those classes and even in the studio I was constantly teased and called gay. I just enjoyed dancing.

  “Avery’s a queer!” the other kids would taunt.

  It didn’t really hurt me, more just annoyed really. Mostly because they were not wrong. I never wanted to admit that I did enjoy watching other boys dance and preferred to dance with the boys. Whenever they would taunt and tease I just stayed quiet, laughing on the inside.

  After high school the taunting lessened. In college no one really cares. Everyone is experimenting with everyone and everything. I was able to dance without being berated by other guys. In fact there were many more guys in my dance classes than there had been in the early years. Sometimes the classrooms would be all guys.

  But no story is without tragedy. I was in my third year of college and already on the lookout for a job being a professional dancer. I had many auditions and interviews, sometimes I even traveled for them. Not a big deal really, my parents paid for it all. After one of the auditions for a dance troupe that traveled the states putting on shows with music from Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and many others, I went with the dancers to a nearby bar. It was a pleasant evening with drinking and laughing.

  After a few hours and many drinks we started to leave and I was invited to one of the dancer’s apartments. We really hit it off and I thought this was my chance to sleep with an amazingly successful dancer. I went with him and we stumbled down the streets together, arms linked with one another in an attempt to remain standing. Some thugs came up on us and started the chanting.

  “Fag! Queer! Homo!”

  He ignored them so I ignored them as well. We were doing really well until they came up on us and physically pulled us apart. I was thrown to the ground as was he. The thugs started kicking him. I don’t know what came over me but I jumped on one of them and wrestled him to the ground. We tussled for a bit until I was kicked off by his friend. Then the dancer tripped one of them and the thug fell, right on my ankle.

  Everyone seemed to pause for a moment when we heard the snap. I let out a blood-curdling scream and we saw a few lights go on from the nearby houses. The thugs took off with their tails between their legs. Some nice couple ran out and took us to the hospital so a doctor could confirm that my ankle was broken.

  Normally a broken bone is not that big of a deal. This bone however was shattered. The doctor said I was lucky everything stayed under my skin. For a ballet dancer who twirls on pointe it means everything is over. I would have had that job but not anymore. Since I couldn’t dance and really I didn’t have any other skill sets I took up the only other thing I could think of, teaching.

  My parents didn’t see it as such a great thing. Teachers, after all, were subpar to the brilliant minds they train and create. They really didn’t appreciate the idea that I would be teaching children that society itself frowned upon as dancers.

  I started a school in the wonderful city of Los Angeles for children with special needs. Either a physical or mental disability had put these children in a box that society labeled as ‘defective’. Well, I was in the box too. I would never be able to dance professionally. They wanted to dance and they are the best students I could have ever asked for. Sure the occasional tantrum is had and it takes a bit longer to learn something, but I’ll take that time. They deserve to learn.

  Since I work with these wonderful children the government helps out because although society may see these children as unworthy, the ones with the money see them as just worthy as anyone else. I manage to pay for my studio with government funding and private donations. My parents barely give me any money now that I teach disabled children. Occasionally I’ll get a holiday card with a hundred or a few twenties, but that doesn’t pay for more than some groceries.

  Part of my job as the owner of the studio is to find the people with deep pockets to let me dive in. Most recently I have been in contact with the CEO of Clearwater Industries, a business that specializes in manufacturing and selling a variety of small household appliances. Samuel Clearwater has made it clear that if he likes my proposal that his donation would set me up for at least five years. It has been hard finding even enough money for a few months let alone a few years.

  I wanted to make a good impression on Mr. Clearwater. We set up to meet at a nearby hotel bar, one of those five star places with leather couches in the foyer. I got all dressed up with a lovely dark blue silk shirt, my only silk shirt really, and some nice black slacks. I even put on my best shoes, not the normal canvas ones I wear daily. I don’t have a car anymore so walking or public transit were my options. Luckily Los Angeles has a slew of public transit options. My car had recently been repossessed as I didn’t have enough money to pay for it and the studio. The studio comes first to me.

  I get to the hotel and walk on in, right up to the bar. The bartender greets me and asks what I’ll be having. I order an appletini and ask if Mr. Clearwater had shown up yet. He shakes his head, mixes my drink, and offers me a nice table.

  Nothing else to do but wait. One appletini down, then another. After almost forty minutes the bartender approaches me saying that Mr. Clearwater just called and won’t be showing up but he has a tab here at the bar and anything I want will be taken care of. I sit there in silence until the bartender feels awkward and leaves me be.

  In my head I am fuming. This money is very important to me and how dare he not show up. It may not mean as much to him, but I put on my nice shirt. A few more appletinis go on his tab along with some hors d’oeuvres, after all I’m not paying it. Finally after the fifth drink, or sixth I lost count, I get up to storm out and only barely make it to the bar entrance before having to lean on the doorway until my vision straightens out.

 
The bartender is nice enough to call me a cab, which is also put on Mr. Clearwater’s account. Once home I rip open my shirt, sending buttons across the apartment, I’ll have to find those later. I sit at my laptop and my fingers begin typing away. My blood boils angrily in my veins. I had to cancel a private lesson with a little girl who lost her hand to an infection caused by a dog bite to go out and be stood up by a pompous prick.

  ***

  Samuel wasn’t sure how to respond to this e-mail. He read it over and over again wondering where it went wrong. After the fourth reading he shuts his laptop and looks back over at his uncle, lying in the hospital bed with tubes and wires connected to almost every inch of him. He sits there with his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin against his hand.

  After dropping out of college to start a business his parents threw him out. They believed that the only way to make something of yourself was through higher education. He didn’t believe that and his uncle supported his ideas. So, he ignored his parents and went to live with Uncle John.

  Uncle John was and still is the only person to really know Samuel. After being thrown away by his parents and trashed by a few girlfriends who only wanted him for his money, he closed himself off. He only dated to keep up appearances. He never stayed the night though.

  He really did want to go meet with Avery Johnson about his dance studio for the disabled, but his uncle feinted. About a year ago Uncle John was diagnosed with stage three pancreatic cancer and was given about six months to live. Samuel got him this far by hiring the nest nutrient consultant and physical therapist he could find but when he feinted and went unresponsive for a few minutes before the paramedics got him stable, it hit Samuel hard. He felt like a freight train had run him over.

  He knew that cancelling on something like this would have repercussions but he thought that telling the bartender to mention it was for personal matters that Avery might understand. He could barely talk on the phone to the bartender.

  This was not right. Avery should understand and not get that angry. To call him a “pompous, egotistical asshole” and a “shatterer of children’s dreams”. That was just uncalled for. Does he get this angry when a student can’t come to class for personal reasons? He’s the ass here.

  ***

  The clock beeps at me until I finally get up. My laptop is in the living room and somehow I managed to get to the bed, but with only one shoe. My shirt is hanging on by one sleeve and I unzipped my pants but didn’t take them off.

  I heft myself up and grasp my head to keep it from splitting open. I stumble out to my laptop and the screen is paused on some movie that drunk me must have watched. Luckily it is not porn, again. I guess I didn’t send Mr. Clearwater that e-mail. I couldn’t have, wouldn’t have. I’m not that type of person.

  Sure, it was a bit rude to not show up to something as important as this, but that doesn’t mean I would go off on someone. Must have been a dream. Alcohol causes weird dreams some times.

  I get my morning coffee and get in a cold shower before heading out to the studio. Today is a dark sunglasses, neck scarf, and aspirin sort of day. I bike to work because it’s not that far, a little wobbly but I manage. A few students are already there and ready for their lessons.

  I greet them with high fives and hugs before unlocking the door and flipping on the lights. It always cheers me up seeing just how happy it makes them to run into the studio and twirl around in front of the floor length mirrors. Their smiles make this whole thing worth it.

  I start my lessons with the usual: a few pliés against the bar, followed by some jumps. After a while I turn on the music and let them free-style ballet. Always a favorite part of the lesson with the kids. They get to try out new moves, improve on ones they know, and do it in their own way.

  It is during this time that I can really get a one-on-one with my students. The can ask me a question about a move and I can give them advice. Sometimes I do a dance move or two, the students see me, and they try it out themselves. The dance move is usually an actual move, other times I just do something silly to show them that dance is anything you want it to be.

  A few moments after free-style time begins I notice someone sitting on the sidelines watching the class. It’s not a parent or one of the students. I turn my head with a smile, hoping it may be a prospective parent or student. It’s not.

  I remember the pictures I saw of him. That’s Samuel Clearwater. He does not have a smile on his face, in fact he looks like he wants to rip my head off. I stand straight and gracefully approach him with a big smile on my face.

  “Hello! Are you here for dance lesson?” I ask, trying to play it off as though I don’t know him. He doesn’t seem to fall for it.

  “No.”

  “Oh,” I pause, trying to think of something. “What can I help you with?”

  “Avery Johnson?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Samuel Clearwater. Mind if we go to lunch after your class?”

  I nod, keeping my smile as unfettered as possible. “Sure. We have about fifteen minutes left.”

  He nods and sits back down. I turn around, letting out a deep sigh. I strut across the dance floor and get up on my toes, lifting my hands to my chest. I bring my bad leg up and make two perfect pirouettes. The children cheer.

  I make sure he sees this. Mot just me but my student’s reactions. Then I start getting my students in a line to do a pirouette one at a time. Each child does one, sort of. His face doesn’t change but I know he saw my compassion.

  The class ends and the parents come to pick up their children who each give me a hug and a high five before trotting out to their cars. After the last child leaves, Mr. Clearwater gets up. I grab my dance bag, keys, and scarf.

  “Where would you like to eat?” I ask, sitting down to unlace my dance shoes and tie on my canvas street shoes.

  “I already have a table scheduled. I’ll drive. Get in.”

  I follow him out to his Mercedes-Benz and can’t help but let my jaw drop at the prospect that I will sitting in, let alone touching, a Mercedes. I get in the passenger seat and toss my bag in the back. He gets in the driver’s seat and we’re off.

  I chat about how long I’ve been at this studio. He doesn’t reply. I talk about my students and how much they love dancing. He occasionally nods. I crack a joke about dancing, not even a smile. I ask about his day and gives me a one word, “Fine.”

  We arrive at the restaurant, get out, and are almost immediately taken to a table in the back. We sit down and he orders us some wine to go with our meal. I look over the menu, he doesn’t. He’s been here before.

  Throughout the meal I try to steer the conversation in the direction I was going to last night. He just nods on occasion, sips his wine, and eats. Eventually he sets his glass down and pats his mouth with his fancy linen napkin in preparation to speak.

  “So that e-mail last night,” he begins.

  My face goes white as a sheet, “Oh my god. I’m so sorry! I- I didn’t-“

  He puts his hand up. “Look, I understand that there might have been a misunderstanding. I was unable to attend our previous meeting because my uncle was hospitalized. I didn’t know what to say on the phone with the bartender other than ‘personal reasons’. I hope you understand.”

  My heart sinks to my stomach. Now I’m the asshole. “I’m so sorry. If I had known, I surely would never have sent something like that to you.”

  “It’s alright.”

  A great cloud is lifted and he opens up to the conversation about my studio. He listens adamantly about each of my students and even smiles a bit. I make sure to tell him about their progress, always a winner with donors. He listens to my plan to renovate the studio to increase dance space and make the bathrooms better. We have bathrooms sure, but they are always clogged and are a mess to try and clean.

  Hours go by and I feel like I’ve talked his ear off. His face has softened and there is a small smile at the end
s of his lips. He adds a few words here and there but mostly just lets me talk and tell stories.

  We’ve gone through at least one full bottle of wine. Our salads and dinners have been consumed. The waiter brings out a decadent dessert for each of us. We begin eating and he talks, like more than a word or two. I am relieved that he starts the conversation.

  “Avery, I like what you’re doing for these kids. Have you always wanted to teach?”

  “No,” I shook my head with a sullen smile. He saw that.

  “What did you want to do?”

  “I was trying to be a professional dancer.”

  “What happened?”

  I gulp down the last bit of my wine and take a deep breath. “A friend and I were jumped after a show. I guess the gang-bangers didn’t like seeing two guys walking down the street together.”

  “Oh, you’re…”

  He was trying really hard not to say it, so I said it for him. “Gay? Yeah I am.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you. Glad you made it through and have found something you enjoy doing.”

  We talk a bit more, this time about ourselves. I open about my parents and how they cut me off after I broke my ankle, dropped out of school, and became a teacher. I told him about how they stayed in touch for a while until I came out as gay at one of the family holidays. He talks a bit about his uncle and that his parents kicked him to the curb too. He talks about Clearwater Industries and how that started. Eventually he comes back to the topic of the money and we agree that his company will donate the money for renovations as long as he can oversee the endeavor.

  Our desserts are finished and he pays for everything. We walk back out to the lovely Mercedes-Benz and I take the time to really look at him. He is a nice looking man with short, business-like brown hair, beautiful chocolate eyes, and a strong looking physique. I feel something for him, more than I think I should.