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“Fuck!”
I think I’m going to cry. I can’t afford to cry, though, because that would ruin my make-up and who knows if I’ll have time to fix it now. I still feel the tears trying to burn their way out of my eyes, so I shut them tight before they get any ideas.
It’s my toe — well, my toe and everything else. I check my wrist for the time. I still have almost four hours. I can just about make it if anyone headed in the right direction passes through this god forsaken, motherfucking, dirt trail of a road in the next thirty minutes. Arrg!! With my luck, they’ll probably be some red-neck, racist bigot and I’ll end up in a ditch instead of a dance studio in downtown LA. Some days I think a ditch is the better destination.
Bigot or no bigot, it doesn’t look like I have any luck. The road coming from Vegas sways before me in the heat as empty as that hole in my trunk that was supposed to have the spare tire. I’m gonna kill Troy. I knew I should have never let him borrow my car. Kinda glad I finally kicked him out, that good-for-nothing, parasitic… fuck! Why do I always end up with these useless men? Just the thought of that asshole boils my blood and I almost kick the flat again, but I catch myself just in time — I can’t be damaging my body like that. Gotta keep myself fresh if I want to land a place in this dance company.
I sigh, resigning myself to this disaster of a day. I slip back into the driver’s seat and rummage through the glove compartment for my map. There’s a gas station about 3 miles up the road. Maybe I’ll have better luck finding a ride there. I take my bag and keys, lock the car and start walking.
There's always a risk in hitchhiking — I know that. But I also know I need this audition. I need to do something with my life. Something other than what I’m doing. Something that might actually make me happy. I know this isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing, who I’m supposed to be. And if hitchhiking is the way to get there, so be it — I’ll take that risk.
I’m nervous I’m going to miss it if anyone drives by, so I keep glancing over my shoulder. It takes a solid fifteen minutes of walking before I finally spot a vehicle approaching. A pick-up truck — because my luck wasn’t shitty enough already. I wave at it anyway; this is still my best shot.
As the truck slows down I try to assess the driver. I think it’s a young man at first — white but tanned with gentle features. It’s only when the truck stops next to me and the person removes their cap that I see it’s a woman. Her long blonde hair tumbles down her shoulders. She looks like a fucking angel sent to help me out. Maybe that’s just the heat talking.
“Hey there sugar, was that your car I saw abandoned ‘bout a mile back?” she asks with a smile that puts me at ease.
“Yeah, flat tire. Didn’t have a spare. Any chance I can ride with you somewhere? I’m trying to catch an audition in LA in about three hours. I have real bad luck with these things,” I giggle and blush with embarrassment. I should have driven down yesterday, but I preferred taking another shift in the evening so I could actually afford the gas for this trip. I don’t know why I feel the need to apologize to this stranger for my incompetence.
“Well, it’s your lucky day! That’s exactly where I’m headed. Hop in.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I thank her as if she just saved my life, run to the other door and get in the passenger seat.
It does feel that way — like she saved my life. I can’t believe my luck. It’s rare that a woman stops for you when you hitchhike, and even rarer when you’re black. She seems nice though — kind. It makes it easy for me to talk to her.
“I was relieved when you let your hair down. I was worried for a moment there that you were a guy and you’d, you know, want something,” I confess.
She makes a bit of a face but then smiles and winks at me. “I thought you’d appreciate it. I get a lot of confused looks driving this thing.”
I giggle. I don’t know why she makes me feel like a schoolgirl again, hanging out with my friends behind the dance studio, making each other laugh, feeling high on nothing.
“I can imagine. I guess not a lot of women drive pickup trucks.” Her smile drops and she clears her throat but she doesn't say anything. The awkwardness makes me shift around in my seat. I’m not sure what I said exactly that cast a cloud over our small talk and I rack my brain trying to find some way to correct it. Spending the next few hours in uncomfortable silence is not something I look forward to.
I settle on, “How did you end up driving this thing then?”
Something in her body language eases. “I work on a farm, just outside Vegas? It kind of comes with the job,” she replies, and there’s a hint of pride in her voice.
“That’s so cool! How’d you find yourself doing that?” I’m genuinely in awe. I think about my shitty bar job and my city upbringing. “I have no clue what it's like to work on a farm.”
“Oh, I grew up on one, so I’m kind of used to it. It’s hard work, but it’s really rewarding. Especially when you work with animals.”
Everything I know about farms comes from watching tv, so I ask the first thing that comes to mind. “How come you don’t work on your family’s farm anymore?” I know it’s the wrong question the minute I finish asking. Normally when I misstep with someone more than once, it makes me reluctant to try, but somehow with her… I want to do better.
“I had to leave,” she says in a tone that makes it clear that conversation is over.
“Sorry,” I mumble. The awkward silence that follows stretches longer than I’d like.
“Erm, what about you? What do you do for work?” She eventually breaks it with her own question.
“Oh I, I just work at a bar.” I don’t tell her I dance at a bar. That usually doesn’t go down well. Instead I say, “But my real passion is dancing. I’m trying to get into a professional dance company — that’s what my audition is for. It’s hard though, when you don’t have the right credentials.” Or the right skin color. But that’s not something you tell white people. Especially strangers.
“They’ll be fools not to offer you a place.” Her words catch me off-guard.
“You hardly know me!” I cry in protest.
She breaks into a wide smile. “I’m Darcy. Darcy Olsson. What do they call you?”
“I’m Tara. Jones.” I let the words fall awkwardly out of my mouth as I stare at her in confusion.
“Pleasure to meet you, Tara.” She offers me a hand to shake, but has to switch gears before I cotton on and take it. “Now that we’re acquainted I’m qualified to say they’d be lucky to have you.” She smiles at me briefly and brings her eyes back to the road.
Her words make me flush. It’s nice getting a compliment from a stranger, even if she doesn’t know a thing about me.
***
“I just need to make a quick phone call,” Darcy says as she takes an exit to a service station.
I get out of the car to stretch my legs for a moment, but climb back in, not knowing what type of people I might meet ‘round here. She comes back pretty quickly and we ride on.
We drift in and out of conversation after that. I end up telling her things I didn’t think I would. She now knows I dance for a living, and that I just kicked my (ex)boyfriend out of my apartment (even if I don’t tell her why). And she ends up telling me that she’s originally from Texas, but that she cut off her family because of “a clash of values.” I don’t know what that means, but I grew up with people who needed to run away from their families, and I’ve seen what happened to those who made themselves stay.
She puts some music on — some white girl shit with a lot of screaming and no real rhythm, but not too bad. I rummage through my bag and find my Whitney Houston tape. She lets me put it on when her tape reaches the end and smiles to herself when I start singing.
“Darcy! Are you laughing at me?” I ask with mock-indignation.
“No, Jones! Never!” She laughs, but then her face turns serious. “You’re uhhh… you have a nice voice.”
I giggle and shift in my seat again, feeling like her tone changed the mood but not entirely sure how. I worry for a moment that I shouldn’t have laughed, but then she starts singing along to Whitney all of a sudden and it’s so bad we both descend into a fit of giggles.
***
When we reach LA, I begin to fidget, my nerves getting the better of me.
“You’re worried about the audition?” she asks without looking at me.
I don’t know what it is about her that makes me want to open up to her. Maybe it’s because of what we shared on our way here. “Yeah. I feel like I’m just gonna fall on my face and make a mess of this entire thing.”
“You’re gonna be great. And even if you’re not great, I’ll still think you’re great ‘cause I just know you’re great.” Her tone is light but earnest and it warms me up inside in a way I can’t look at too closely. Maybe that’s why I feel the need to contradict her.
“Darcy! You know me for five minutes!” I tease.
“More like five hours I’d reckon, and it don’t matter. I’m rootin’ for ya.” She winks at me again and I’m flattered, so I smile back. I spend the rest of the ride navigating. It gives me something better to do than worry.
“Can I contact you somehow? I’d like to buy you lunch,” I say as she pulls up next to the dance studio. She hesitates. “As a thank you,” I hurry to explain, blushing at my social ineptitude.
Something in her expression softens. “How about I wait right here for you to finish and we can go after? I know a really good taco place somewhere ‘round here.”
“Oh, no, it might take me hours. I don’t think I’ll be done before six.” I worry she won’t let me repay her in some way. “I was thinking maybe back in Vegas?”
She smiles broadly. “I wouldn’t mind that. But how will you get back?”
“Oh, I’ll just take the bus or something.” I force a smile on my face. I hate taking the bus. It’s the sole reason I have a car I can barely afford in the first place.
“Well I could meet you back here at six if you’d like. I have to go help my friend Charlie move some furniture. I think I should be done by then, then we can have a bite to eat and make our way back to Vegas together.”
“No, you’re way too kind. I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that,” I say, crossing my fingers she won’t take my word for it. But I find that I actually really want her to stay, so much that I shove my manners aside. “Could I?” It doesn’t stop me blushing with embarrassment.
She smiles brightly. “Absolutely! See you at six.”
I leave her car with so much bounce in my step that it feels like I’m dancing to the studio. I put my name down and go find a spot to stretch, saying hello to some people I recognize from previous auditions. There isn’t too much chatter, but I find it so easy to be sociable, my face hurting from how big my smile is. It feels so nice to have made a new friend.
It’s nearly six when I make my way out and Darcy is already waiting for me.
“How did it go? I want to hear everything!”
Any worry I may have had that this will be awkward evaporates. “I think I did good. I danced my ass off, you know? Gave it everything. I don’t know if it’s good enough for them, but I don’t think I could have possibly done a better job today. So, it’s up to the universe now.”
Something soft and bright is playing on her face but she doesn’t say anything. I’m caught in her eyes — blue and shining. I forget how to speak for a minute. I keep thinking, fuck, you’re gorgeous , and of course, objectively she is, even if she doesn’t have the type of femininity they sell on magazine covers. I shake my head and huff out an embarrassed laugh.
“They’ll be fools to say no to you,” she says, her voice light but quiet.
“I have you to thank for it if I get it.” It comes out more earnest than I intended.
Darcy is quick to dismiss me. “I was only being a Good Samaritan. Anyone would have done the same.”
But I’m in an earnest mood, so instead of laughing it off, I insist, “No, it’s not that. You believed in me without question. Without even knowing me. It gave me the courage I needed. So, thank you.”
Darcy nods and we have another quiet moment that feels a bit too intimate for new friends, but then she smiles again. “So… tacos?”
And I’m suddenly reminded of how hungry I am. “Yes, please! I'm so ready for tacos.”
Darcy chuckles and turns the key.
We ride in silence and I can't stop looking at her. I hope she doesn't notice my stolen glances.
By the time we buy our tacos and settle with them on a blanket at the back of the truck, the sun is beginning to set. Luckily, we can watch the sunset from where we parked.
I tell Darcy about my audition, how I did, what I thought about the other people, what I thought about the panel.
“I just hope they actually looked at how I danced,” I finally say, taking the risk of saying something white people don't always want to hear. If she's one of those, I'd rather know now.
Darcy looks at me thoughtfully for a 4-count. “Because you's not white, you mean?”
I know I'm setting a low bar, but god, it feels good to be seen — understood. “Yeah. I've been told before that they're ‘not looking for a diversity hire’, or that I ‘don't fit the visual profile of the company’, so I try to keep my expectations low.”
“Those fucking idiots. They're not worthy of you,” Darcy says, and sounds like she means it.
“I wish it was that simple. I know it's not as bad as it was when my mum was young, but it's still so much harder for me than it is for the white girls who trained with me, even when I'm better than them. I just want to get a fair chance.”
Darcy’s gaze turns soft. “Hey, you're allowed to be angry or sad or however you're feeling about this. It don't matter if things used to be worse. They're still no good. You deserve better.”
I get the sudden urge to run my hand through her hair. My hand twitches, but instead I shove it under my head.
We finished the tacos a while ago, the sky is a carpet of pinks and oranges and it makes me smile.
“Thank you,” I whisper, though what I feel isn’t exactly gratitude. Maybe it’s relief that she responded the way I hoped rather than the way I’ve gotten used to.
We lie there quietly for a while, looking at the sky. Our conversation picks up again and meanders. Darcy tells me about the farm — stories about unruly animals and unhinged people. It sounds like fun. The people — they sound accepting in a way that people around me really aren't.
“You like it there, don't you?”
Darcy pauses for a moment, thinking. “It's the first place that ever felt like home, where I can be who I am, you know?”
“I'm really glad you found it.”
I let the silence linger until she talks again. “It’s a collective, for erm, like, gays and lesbians and other misfits.” I feel the tension in her words.
I turn my head so I can smile at her. “Thank you for trusting me with that.” Her vulnerability makes me want to hold her hand, but fear twists my stomach. It doesn't feel safe to be holding Darcy’s hand; it feels like admitting something. I don’t want it to be about what she just told me, but I can’t help feeling like it is.
Darcy returns a shy smile and then looks up at the sky that's getting dark now.
The darkness makes me want to be brave — take a risk, admit things I’ve never told anyone — but the best I manage to acknowledge is my curiosity.
“What’s it like, kissing another woman?”
Darcy’s gaze falls on me, heavy, considering, mouth opening and closing again.
“I don’t… I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t really feel like a woman. It’s not… I don’t feel like a man either, I just feel like… myself.”
I can tell it took a lot of guts to tell me that, a lot of trust, that I don’t know when I earned or if I deserve, because I don’t really understand what it means to be neither. But I don’t want to betray that trust. I don’t want to make Darcy think I don’t deserve it. Knowing where I've misstepped, I want to do better.
Bravery breeds bravery. I slip my hand into Darcy’s, hoping it says what I need it to.
“We have a lot of people coming through the farm. We do a lot of activism, and there are all sorts, academics and such, who come for a bit and move on, so I’ve erm… I’ve met others. Others like me, I mean. And that’s made me feel less like I’m some freak, you know?” I give Darcy’s hand a little squeeze. “Not everyone gets it, though. Some people… they don’t like what they can’t understand.”
It weighs heavy on my chest. I know that feeling very well — of being misunderstood and feared. I’d have thought everyone in a community like that would.
“You don’t always have to understand something to have empathy for it.” My words feel strangled in my throat, anger and frustration disrupting their passage. I turn my head and find Darcy looking back at me, face tangled with disbelief and hope. “I’d like to understand, if you’d let me,” I whisper.
Darcy nods, and lets a few tears tumble down those pale cheeks that I suddenly find difficult not to touch or kiss. No, not suddenly. There’s nothing sudden about this. I can be brave enough to admit that, can’t I?
Bravery breeds bravery. I want to take the risk.
My hand reaches out, wiping away tears from a tanned cheek.
I’ve only kissed men before. But inching close to Darcy and letting our lips touch feels better, more right, than any kiss I’ve ever had. My stomach makes a complicated somersault at the touch of those soft, slightly cracked, lips, and I realize I’ve wanted to do that for hours. That I want to do that again. I pull back and open my eyes.
“I was hoping you'd do that,” Darcy says, blushing, and it feels like the same blush covers my cheeks. It’s scary, and there’s a persistent voice in the back of my mind that tells me this isn’t safe for me to behave like that — isn’t right. But there’s an excited kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach that fights against all those scared thoughts.
“I don’t…” I try to say. “I’ve never…”
Darcy’s hand cups the side of my neck, rubbing soothing lines along my jaw.
“It’s okay, Jones. Did it feel right to you?”
I nod, feeling tears stinging my eyes, holding my breath so they don’t fall.
“It felt right to me too.” Darcy’s smile is reassuring. “Come ‘ere.” I get pulled down, my head against Darcy’s shoulder. “It’s okay if you want to cry. I won’t tell anyone.”
As if I was waiting for permission, I let my tears fall. We lie there ‘til they stop, Darcy’s arms comforting me, letting my feelings settle in my chest.
***
Darcy’s yawn is so big it makes me giggle.
“Do you want to come inside? You can stay here, drive home in the morning.”
“What exactly are you suggesting, Jonsey?”
My heart rate rises, and for a moment I feel flustered, but as Darcy winks at me the tension breaks and I burst out laughing. “Nothing like that, you mischief maker! I just want you to get a good night’s sleep.”
My powers of persuasion seem to work, because an hour later we are lying in my bed, in the dark, like we did at the back of the pickup truck. For now, the darkness is comforting — I was brave enough for one day. But I hope that in the morning I will find a way to be brave again.