Synchronization

Patrick Swayze dances a chassé across the screen. (I’ve Had) The Time of My Life sounds louder in the theater speakers than the rest of the movie. The audience hoots and hollers. Phoebe taps her feet to the song and focuses on Jennifer Grey’s footwork. This is the second time she sees the movie and rather than keeping her eyes on ‘Baby’ and Johnny, she watches the audience in the dance hall as they stand and join them in the end scene. It feels like something she would never do. Even though she has been a dancer since she was five. Dancing gives her a sense of connection to music and movement. Not necessarily other human beings.

Isaac takes her hand and leads her through the crowd as the movie ends. She is clutching on to the large popcorn bucket still half full. They take the back exit behind the screen. The cool California breeze gives her goose bumps. A couple of teenagers push past her and the bucket slips, spilling the kernels across the sidewalk. Phoebe pauses. She stares at the fluffy yellow butterfly and mushroom flakes as the wind catches them. They spring up slightly then some lift and move across the parking lot. The bucket is on its side, rolling itself into a bush. She lets go of Isaac’s hand for a moment. She grabs it and throws it in a nearby trashcan. Her fingers feel warm and slightly sticky as the butter cools on the tips. She rubs them together until the salt crystals disappear.

Phoebe sits awake obsessing over her spilled popcorn. She rubs her clean fingers expecting them to be sticky. They are smooth from the moisturizer she obsessively worked into them. Now her palms feel tacky and slick. She wipes them on her blanket. Then she lies on them to ground herself. The concealment calms her temporarily, then a car passes outside. A moving, sweeping beam of light transforms her dark room into moving shadows. She follows them until they disappear. Her clock blinks. She looks over and it blinks again. 5:45 am. The radio clicks on. The DJ sounds chipper than she prefers for 5:45 am.

“Good morning Los Angeles. The Santa Anas are brutal today. Make sure you wear a light sweater or jacket. Traffic on the 405 is looking good, but the 5 has an accident at Glendale Boulevard. Stay safe Angelenos. Here’s something to get your blood pumping.”

La Bamba by Los Lobos begins. She sits up, rubs her eyes, and takes the last sip of a warm soda. She showers and brushes her teeth, three brushes to the left, four up and down. Then she blows her hair dry. She sprays it with Aquanet and tips her head upside down to shake it. She scrunches it in sections with her fingers until it is wavy and tall. Then she stares at herself in the mirror. She applies some eye shadow and mascara to her eyes. Then some clear lip gloss to her lips. Then she removes the blue eye shadow and adds brown instead. Her favorite sweater is in her laundry hamper. She pulls clothes off hangers looking for it before she sees it wadded up with her dirty jeans. She shakes it out and sprays it with perfume then puts it on.

Isaac taps on the horn gently. She looks out the window. He taps his watch as he holds his arm up to the windshield. She grabs her backpack and runs down the stairs. As she steps outside the breeze tries to move her hair. It remains firm and in place. She opens the car door and slides into the passenger seat. Isaac leans over and kisses her. She runs her fingers through his hair. He used too much gel. She expects it to be crunchy but it’s slimy. It coats her hand with a glue-like film. She wipes it on her Levi’s. He backs up quickly and the wheels squeal loudly. Then he peels off.

“You know I hate that.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He puts his hand on her knee.

The hallways are crowded. Lockers open and close. Some groups are quietly talking in front of classrooms. Others are rough-housing. Phoebe skirts by them and takes her place in the back of her English class. She sits at a desk. It wobbles. She stands and switches the desk with the one next to it. It rests firmly on the linoleum. She starts to read a book while she waits. As the bell rings her teacher pulls the door shut. It makes a high-pitched squeak from its dry metal hinges. It slams shut against the door frame. Phoebe uses this as a signal to put her book away. She tries to follow the lecture. Her teacher talks too fast and gets easily distracted by random questions other students are using to derail the conversation. Phoebe slides down in her seat and plays with her hair.

The bell rings. This time the door makes an ascending, mechanical sound. She waits for the whoosh of air. She stands and swings her bag over her shoulder. Isaac is standing outside of the room. A group of their friends are with him. They are discussing tonight’s football game and the ‘hot’ cheerleaders. Phoebe tries to listen. The cacophony forces her to follow one stream. His voice. Everyone speaks over one another. She desperately wants to participate in the conversation but her brain won’t allow it. Words are spoken too quickly. Letters enter, far right. Scuttering forward like cattle to a cliff. When they arrive, they pile up face to rump, crumpling from the speed. Then, one by one, all 26, shift forward millimeters, but it’s enough to cascade over. Pulling with them everything she wished she could say. Phoebe opens her mouth then closes it quickly. A high-pitched ringing starts. It drowns out the sound.

The laughter amplifies. She takes a step back. Focuses on Isaac’s sleeve; black and red flannel. Each square in the pattern seems to vibrate. She tugs on the fabric. He looks over at her. Notices she is overwhelmed. Then he excuses himself and walks with her into the quieter end of the hallway. Lockers slam shut. She flinches as they do. She takes his hand and walks quickly until she pushes open the heavy exit doors and steps into the sunlight. The quad is quiet except for the passing cars. She sits down on the bench by the tall tree. The trunk has her initials carved into it. His are right below them. She traces both with her finger. She takes a deep breath in, holds it, releases the air slowly. The ringing subsides. A car radio replaces it. The bass thumping loudly. She plugs her ears. Isaac holds her hand as he waits for her to return.

Phoebe tightens the bun on her head. She sprays the loose strands until they stick. She uses bobby pins to secure them. Her uniform is stiff. She stretches the front of her jacket and fastens it to the waistband of her trousers. Stepping into the heavy, powerful, and slightly magical suit of armor instantly changes her focus. The wool jacket itches. She tugs at the collar. Then latches it at the neck. The heavy-soled shoes add a lot of weight and she lifts her legs into a marching step several times before she adjusts her stance. Every buckle tugs at her thoughts. Every zipper and snap pulls her into a persona she only inhabits at football games and competitions.

She looks identical to the person standing next to her. She takes a deep breath and trades her personal look for a sea of matching colors. The moment the shako goes on her head she feels a surge of sharp discipline and stage presence. The itching dissipates. The noise of the drums fades. Phoebe stands in the locker room surrounded by the rustle of synthetic fabric and the clink of instruments. The sound makes her feel temporarily a part of a massive, synchronized machine. She moistens her reed and plays a set of scales. She stands upright, cracks her neck, puts her shoulders back and joins the line.

She inhales slowly into her ribcage for four counts, then exhales completely for four counts using an open “O” vowel shape. She wiggles her fingers. She turns her head far left, then far right. Before she steps outside, she feels hot, itchy, and uncomfortable. She whistles softly to calm her nerves. Everyone around her is making similar noises. She feels a moment of relief. The line walks down the ramp and positions themselves along the field. Isaac runs past in his football uniform. He smiles at her. Nods gently. Then disappears into the tunnel. She marches forward. Raises her clarinet. She steps onto the turf and hears the crowd roar. The heavy, awkward feeling vanishes, replaced by pure adrenaline and focus.