Swing Out of the Blue

By Brian Gottheil

You’re not as messed up as you think.

At least, that’s what her friend Zack always says. Sophia isn’t so sure. She is sure, though, that swing dancing helps as she struggles through depression in her final year at Queen’s University.

Then she breaks her ankle. Her defence is gone.

Zack seems to believe people can change, even the bullies who almost broke him, and Sophia has to hope he’s right as she spirals toward despair. But any challenge can be a blessing as well as a curse. In this modern coming-of-age tale, against the backdrop of bullying, mental illness and even darker threats, Swing Out of the Blue is a story of vulnerability, friendship, courage and personal growth, and of recognizing, above all, that we are not alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Gottheil
• Release date: Jan 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005019242

Brian Gottheil

I’ve been writing as a hobby since, at the age of four, I penned an epic about my then-favourite sport, the charmingly mis-spelled “baceball.” I’m more of a basketball fan these days, but I have kept up my love for writing throughout.I live in Toronto, Canada, or as we Torontonians like to call it, “the centre of the universe.” I’m just joking about that ... mostly. I’m writing a novel at the moment in which the main character hates Toronto, so that’s been a bit of a challenge. At one point she describes it as a “frenetic smogscape.” To each her own, I suppose.In my day job, I work as a labour and employment lawyer with Bernardi Human Resource Law (visit us at www.hrlawyers.ca). I practice labour and employment law, which I think is fascinating and covers everything from union certifications to human rights issues, employment contracts to severance packages, and court and tribunal work to harassment investigations.Outside of work, while I'm less enamoured than I once was with "baceball," I've replaced it with a hobby and passion that I find even more creative, exciting, and easy to spell: swing dancing. In addition to the joy of dancing itself, I also serve as President of Toronto Lindy Hop, a not-for-profit swing dance organization, which I find incredibly rewarding (www.torontolindyhop.com).

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Content Note

Swing Out of the Blue explores several issues, concerns and perspectives related to mental health and mental health challenges.

The novel gets quite dark at times, though it is ultimately hopeful.

Some content may be disturbing, so please prepare yourself emotionally. If you need the support of a mental health professional in Ontario, call ConnexOntario at 1-866-531-2600. Many other jurisdictions have similar help lines that can connect you with appropriate supports.

Specific content warnings appear at the bottom of this page. Readers who don’t want spoilers can skip to the next page for the start of the novel.

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Specific content warnings: this novel includes descriptions or depictions of suicide attempts; gun violence; Islamophobia and an honour killing in the last chapter of Part III; and homophobic slurs.

SWING OUT OF THE BLUE

A woman’s voice echoed over the tapping of the snare drum. It was haunted, soft but piercing. Why do I do it?

Black dissolved into colour. A piano joined the drum. The dancers were young, scarcely more than twenty. He wore brown pleated pants, suspenders, a bow tie, two-tone shoes in brown and white. Her dress was a dark blue, her lipstick a striking red, her hair tied in tight rolls. She spun, her eyes returning to him after each turn, and he tracked her, entranced. A trumpet blasted as his arms found her, and she laughed.

The camera zoomed in on her face. The music had fallen silent. She was frozen in that moment of joy.

Zack was jarred by the sudden silence as Tima paused the video. Why’d you do that? Andy asked.

Tima didn’t look at him. She, like Zack, was captivated by the face on the screen. We shouldn’t watch it without her.

Why not? Andy shifted on the bed, jostling Tima and Zack beside him. Zack was uncomfortably aware of his size, sitting so close to them. It’s not private, Andy added. She shared it with half the club. Zack’s seen it, what, twelve, thirteen times?

Zack flushed. He hated the others looking at him. Something like that.

It feels wrong. Tima tucked a loose strand of hair into her headscarf and added, as much to the computer screen as to the others, It’s like she’s in a zoo.

She chose—

I know. Tima’s eyes were far away. What you choose isn’t always what you want.

Zack opened his mouth and scowled in frustration when nothing came out. Talk to them, Zack urged himself. Sophia needs her friends to see this. They’re your friends, too ... sort of. Andy was intimidating with his easy confidence, good looks and habit of talking as though he knew everything. Tima had never wanted much to do with Zack; everyone said she was shy, but he couldn’t help wondering whether she secretly hated him.

Tima, you’re her roommate, Andy pressed. She’d want you to see it.

I don’t think so. What if Sophia walks in on us watching her depression video? Tima argued. She’ll go ballistic.

She won’t, Andy said dismissively. She’ll just do that dignified pretending-not-to-be-upset thing.

But that’s the point, Tima said. Will she be upset or not?

Why don’t you ask her? said a voice from the doorway.

Sophia slipped into the room, looking nothing like the Sophia on the screen. She was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and her wavy brown hair fell haphazardly to her shoulder blades. Her face was the real difference, though. Melancholy touched it even behind her smile.

Where were you today? Andy asked.

I wasn’t feeling it.

Zack recognized the understatement. His eyes flitted back to the Sophia on the screen. She was still laughing.

The real Sophia asked him, Have you actually watched that a dozen times?

He had, but he couldn’t admit it. He managed to say, It’s very good. Then embarrassment forced him to turn away.

It’s brave, too, Tima said. Sharing it.

No. It was a stupid mistake, but you guys are being good about it. Sophia sighed. So, don’t let me stop your viewing party.

Are you sure? Tima asked.

No point making a video if nobody watches it. Sophia’s face was a perfect mask, and each movement she made was deliberate. Dignified, Andy had said, and something about pretending.

I don’t need to see it again, Zack said. You want to head downstairs, Sophie?

Sophia gave him a genuine smile, though a hint of sadness still came through in her voice. That’s sweet, but no, thank you. This is who I am. I’ve got to face it. Play it, Tima.

Why do I do it? Sophia’s voice-over said hauntingly. The dancers whirled, and the camera zoomed in on her laughing, but as the music started again, her features dissolved. The dancers became animations with the brown of his suit and the blue of her dress. Why do I dance? The trumpet blared and the saxophone wailed as the figures soared across the screen. Then, the brown one peeled away, and the music slowed, and animated Sophia was sitting alone, shivering, her arms folded around her knees, blue, blue, all blue.

In the stillness, Zack caught the real Sophia mouthing the next line along with the video: To escape.

PART I: NOT ALONE

Monday, October 19

Sophia

Sophia locked eyes with the boy seated across from her. She allowed her lips to curl into something that wasn’t quite a smile. She slid out two chips.

You’ve got to be kidding me, he said.

Sophia shrugged.

Earl searched her eyes for a hint, and Sophia stared back impassively. She had perfected that talent years ago. Don’t let them see what you’re thinking, her mother often said. Sophia had discarded the advice this week. She’d only shared her video with a handful of dancers at Queen’s University, but that was enough. Her friends had seen her secrets. It was too late to take them back.

Earl deliberated over his cards. Sophia didn’t know him terribly well, but they’d shared classes and now some study groups. He seemed too trusting for poker with his baby face and an almost perpetual smile. His hair was brown and untidy, and he wore a plaid shirt unbuttoned over a black t-shirt. Sophia raised her eyebrows and folded her hands into her lap.

Earl dropped his cards onto the table. It’s yours.

Sophia kept her face blank. Don’t let them see what you’re thinking. She kept up the act a moment longer. Then she threw her cards face-up onto the table and grinned.

Pair of tens? You pushed me that far on a pair of tens?

Next time let’s play for money, Sophia said, teasing.

Maybe I’ll skip a few steps and write you a cheque.

She paused, pretending to consider. Then she said, Nah, I prefer beating you. I like the faces you make.

Earl made a face in response, and Sophia grinned again. She liked that Earl was good-natured about getting a rough time. Sophia had been relentless when she learned that he lived, of all places, on Earl Street, but he had taken her teasing in stride.

The clock on the wall caught her eye. Sorry, guys, I’ve got to get to campus.

One more hand first? another player asked.

Sophia hesitated. Swing dancing would no longer be an escape. Would the friends who’d seen the video greet her with curiosity? Pity? Condescension? Judgment? Sophia would need her poker-face strong tonight. She could use the practice.

One hand, Sophia agreed. Then I’m due at the dance.

Wait, Earl said. It’s tonight? I can join you.

Here’s your chance to practice your poker-face. Part of her was eager to dance with Earl. He was built like a runner, lean but strong, and his smile was contagious. Still, they barely knew each other, and Sophia had enough to worry about tonight without entertaining a novice.

Carefully, Sophia said, You’re interested in swing dancing?

Last study group, you said it changed your life the moment you walked through the door. I’ll try anything once.

It’s not like that anymore. Melancholy threatened to pierce her façade. Keeping her expression neutral, Sophia lied, I’m on door duty tonight. Come next week instead? She sensed Earl’s disappointment, so she added, Hey, I’ll give you a crash course now.

Sophia slipped her right hand into Earl’s left, enjoying the sensation of his hand closing around hers. Facing him, Sophia bent her arm at the elbow and guided Earl to do the same. Your arm always stays in the same place, she said. It moves with your body, and my arm moves with your arm. So if you step forward … He did, and Sophia moved with him, backing away a step. They took another step together, their joined arms keeping them in sync. Then, Earl smiled and stepped backward, bringing Sophia toward him.

How’s that for a first lesson?

I get it, Earl teased. Always keep Sophie at arm’s length.

Not always. She hugged him. Come next week. I’m serious.

I just might.

Once the door shut behind her, Sophia broke into a run. She skidded to a halt beside her bike and fumbled with the lock. She kicked off and rode hard into the dusk.

It followed, as she knew it would.

Her burden was doubt and unease, a vague, shapeless thing. Sophia pumped the pedals faster. Campus emerged on her left, its limestone buildings pale as ghosts. She could feel the darkness giving chase.

Sophia leaned into the wind, her hair sweeping behind her. Her heart was pounding. She turned left and scrambled up the hill. The clock tower emerged, then faded into the distance. Still her burden dogged her. She gritted her teeth, but there was no point in trying to fight. Sophia Peretz had never been a fighter.

The darkness was inside her now, seeping through her veins, burrowing into her bones. It was a pulsing in her temples, a stifling of her mind. She was weary. Empty. Hollow.

She would feel better once she got there. Sophia was terrified of the dancers’ reactions, but she usually did better with people around. She had to remember that.

Sophia slipped off her bike. As she locked it, the shadow remained with her, hovering beneath the streetlamps and the stars. She took the stairs to the student centre two at a time, then yanked the door open. The depression’s grip lessened while she was moving, but in an instant it was back smothering her.

Sophia stood in the hallway catching her breath. She thought about bounding up the next flight of stairs, but she knew what the ride must have done to her hair. She trudged to the bathroom instead, fished in her purse for a brush and wrenched it through the waves and tangles. Sophia touched up her make-up and added an extra coat of lipstick.

Heading back to the staircase, exhaustion dragged on her steps. You do better with people around. This is going to help. She hoped that was true. Too many dancers had seen the video, and she was about to face them. Sophia paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked wistfully over her shoulder. The doors of Wallace Hall were closed and the lights were off, but she couldn’t resist a glance. You said it changed your life the moment you walked through the door, Earl had said. Could she recapture that feeling from three years ago? Had dancing changed so much?

Nerves had mixed with anticipation that September night during Sophia’s first year at Queen’s University. Wallace Hall was resplendent with its vaulted ceiling, large windows and panelled wood extending halfway up the walls. The wood floors stretched from the raised stage at one end to the stone fireplace at the other. Beneath the lamps suspended overhead were portraits of the past university principals gazing serenely at the dancers below.

More than a hundred students packed the room, and their energy was palpable. A few students practiced complicated spins that made Sophia dizzy just watching. On the stage, people fiddled with laptops and sound equipment. Some students stood by the walls, nervous and excited. More chatted in groups, and many were searching for crannies to store backpacks and extra shoes. Most of the boys were dressed in jeans or khakis and t-shirts, the girls in slacks or summer skirts with t-shirts or tank tops, but some wore buttoned shirts and blouses, and at least one boy sported a full three-piece suit. Two girls were discussing vintage-dress shopping; one had found something decent at Phase 2, the local second-hand store, which made her the winner in Sophia’s books.

The girl in the centre of the room wore a black fedora with a white feather above a white tank top, black skirt and white Converse shoes. The headset of her wireless microphone lodged in her jet-black hair, only partially obscured by the fedora. Welcome to the Kingston Swing Syndicate!

After that, Sophia’s memories of the night were a blur. The lesson had rotated her through so many different dance partners that she gave up trying to learn anybody’s name. She remembered stumbling over steps and turning the wrong direction more often than not, and she remembered the teachers teasing each other and cracking stupid jokes. After the lesson, Sophia sat on a table, listening to the music and watching the intricate patterns the dancers wove. Every so often, somebody would ask her to dance, and she would slide off her table self-consciously and weave through the maze of bodies to claim precious space on the floor.

The crowd thinned as the night wore on, but even as the DJ announced the last song, thirty students remained beneath the lamps and the portraits. Sophia was about to leave when the girl with the fedora approached. After a quick introduction, they were together on the emptying dance floor, the girl leading Sophia through increasingly complicated slides, spins and stops. Elated, Sophia realized her feet were miraculously keeping up.

That was more than three years ago. Now Sophia had only a few months of university left. Then would come the real world.

Sophia turned away from the darkened Wallace Hall to hear faint music from above. She started toward the staircase, toward the plucking of a bass, the pounding of a drum. You can do this. One step, then the next, the shadow on her mind growing lighter as it ran up against the barrier the notes were weaving. The saxophone reached for her, the piano guided her steps, the trombone beckoned her onward.

Sophia Peretz stood taller and opened the door.

Welcome to the Kingston Swing Syndicate!

Today it was Andy’s voice reaching the thin crowd. I’m Andy Liu, your club president. With me is Fatima Haddad, and we’re going to teach you a dance called the lindy hop. Neither needed a microphone to be heard by only twenty students. Grand and gorgeous as Wallace Hall was, Andy had called it a blessing in disguise when the university shoved them into a smaller room upstairs. There’s nothing more depressing than a huge room that feels empty, he had said.

Except a small room that feels empty, Sophia had thought.

She sat by the doorway and pulled out her dance shoes. Andy was shouting instructions to the gathered students. They’re lindy hoppers. That meant something, even if she couldn’t describe why. She would never have shared the video otherwise. They’re my people.

We’re just going to walk, Andy shouted. Step, step, step, step. If you can walk, you can dance.

The video problem was Andy’s fault, really. Sophia couldn’t deny him a video that he appeared in, but it felt wrong to send it to Andy without first sharing it with her roommate, Tima. Of course, she couldn’t ask Tima to keep the video secret from Ahmed, and once Ahmed had it, Zack would be the only club executive member left out. But if even Zack saw it, then why not Linh, and Ilya and Kirsten, and Jaime, and Carly, and ...

By the time Sophia finished tying her shoes, the students had mastered the basic footwork, and Andy was teaching them how to connect with their partners. Leaders, you want your hand on her back.

"Or his back," someone shouted from the circle.

Or his back, Andy agreed. Just beneath the shoulder blades. Lindy hop required a leader and a follower: one partner to initiate the moves and another to carry them through. Traditionally, men led and women followed, but nowadays it didn’t matter which partner did what. Sophia preferred to follow, but only because she hated spending an entire dance thinking about what moves to lead next. The whole point of dancing was to get away from thinking.

Followers, drape your left arm over your leader’s. Tima’s voice sounded small next to Andy’s. Nice and relaxed.

Tima’s boyfriend, Ahmed, didn’t have a partner, so Sophia walked over to him. He placed his arm around her. Glad you made it. Fatima wants your feedback on her lesson. Sophia liked how Ahmed always called his girlfriend by her full name. Fatima disliked nicknames, but the girls at her high school had insisted on calling her by the first part of her name, which they had twisted to sound like Fatty, so she was determined to establish her own nickname, Tima, at university.

Everybody listen up! Andy shouted. This will be the hardest part of the entire lesson! Leaders, raise your hands high in the air so the followers can see you. Followers, rotate one partner clockwise. He walked around the circle, pointing. I know, we’ve all been raised on digital clocks. Clockwise is this way, people.

Sophia thanked Ahmed and skipped to the next leader in the circle, a newcomer she hadn’t seen before. He was galloping on his triple-steps, the signature lindy hop footwork where the first step was slower and the next two caught up. Sophia galloped alongside him as best she could.

Two rotations later she reached Zack. He was finishing a conversation with his previous follower, a short, skinny girl with long hair that couldn’t decide whether it was blonde or a very light brown. After the girl had moved on, Sophia nudged Zack. Making friends?

He blushed furiously. Sh—she’s a good dancer, he stammered. Will be, I mean. A good dancer. Soon.

Come on, Zack, I tease everybody.

I know.

He still looked hurt. Zack had become a surprisingly good friend, but even so, Sophia often didn’t know how to deal with him. He took everything so personally.

That was really nice last night, when you offered to go downstairs with me. Her reassurance wasn’t enough. Zack bit his lip, and Sophia could guess what he was thinking: Then why didn’t you come? I mean it, she added.

That seemed to get through to him, and he offered her a nervous smile. Thanks, Sophie.

The lessons had a rhythm. Starting from walking and triple-steps, the teachers built step on step until the students were dancing. They weren’t just stumbling over new moves. They were flowing one step into the next as the music carried them. It was transformation, and after three years, it still amazed Sophia to see it.

When the lesson ended, Sophia scanned the room for a beginner to dance with. Now was the critical time when students either retreated to their dorms or remained and became dancers. She spotted a likely partner, but mental exhaustion flooded her so quickly that she had to lean against the wall for balance. Somebody else could play ambassador today. Sophia needed a real dance.

She didn’t realize how stressed she was until she relaxed into Zack’s arms and the tension drained from her. The music was slow, and Sophia stepped deliberately, emphasizing each movement in her arms, her centre, her hips. Zack was more confident in dancing than in conversation. He stepped forward and led Sophia to spin once and then twice. Already she was starting to forget. He caught her, redirected her, dug into the ground to anchor her as she crossed in front of him, her feet tapping an intricate pattern. He tried to copy her, but she let go of his hand and spun away, forcing him to abandon his attempt at the fancy footwork and chase after her. They were both laughing by the time he had her in his arms, spinning rapidly one around the other and sinking together into the music.

Swing dancing became athletic as the music grew faster, and after a few dances, Sophia was panting. She found her water bottle and gulped from it between shortened breaths. She loved the feeling of her heart pounding. She felt alive here, with the heightened senses, the bright colours and the floor glistening beneath her feet. Lindy hop was the blur of a room whirling around her. It was connecting with a partner, locking eyes and opening arms.

It didn’t last. An hour after the lesson ended, only six diehards remained. They were standing on the sidelines when Andy came over from the DJ table. Anyone still dancing?

I am!

It was the skinny girl Sophia had noticed during the lesson. The newcomer had potential, and her enthusiasm was encouraging, but Sophia felt forlorn watching them take the dance floor alone. A small room that feels empty.

Tima and Ahmed were whispering in a corner. Zack was preparing to leave. Sophia stepped toward him, but something stopped her. The emptiness was returning, a loneliness leeching her energy.

She had to dance now, before she fell too far.

Sophia raced to the DJ table and scanned Andy’s laptop. She needed a fast song with a beat that would drive her. She needed a song that would engulf her so she couldn’t think, so she could get away.

Andy barely had time to thank his last partner before Sophia swept in to claim him, her chosen song pounding in their ears. Everything was fluid motion, clarinets and horns and the floor sweeping beneath her. She felt a rush of adrenaline, an ache in her quads and abs and Andy’s strong frame holding her. There was nothing in the world but her and Andy and the music, moment by precious moment.

When the song ended, her surroundings once again took shape. Zack had left. So had the skinny beginner. So quickly, the high faded. Let’s wrap this up, she said.

They packed up the sound system and rearranged the chairs and tables. When they were done, Sophia flicked off the lights, and they took the stairs together. As they approached the exit from the building, Sophia glanced down the corridor at the room where she had first learned to relax and release, but Wallace Hall was still locked and dark. Sophia’s temples throbbed, and she shook her head to clear it.

She and Tima said goodbye to the boys on the steps of the student centre. Sophia unlocked her bike and wheeled it along the sidewalk. She wished Tima would ride with her, but her roommate hadn’t been on a bicycle in years and was scared to try again. Where’s your helmet? Tima asked.

You sound like my mother.

I’m not nagging. Tima’s voice was soft but forceful. Just making sure you didn’t leave it at the dance.

It’s in a drawer somewhere.

You really should—

"Now you are nagging, Sophia complained, but playfully. They had become fast friends when Tima joined the dance club two years ago, and living together hadn’t dampened their connection. Check this out." Sophia pulled out her phone. She noticed with dismay a text message praising her video. The half-hearted compliment was well-meant, but Sophia also heard smug superiority: Now I know your problems, and you don’t know mine. Sophia ignored the text and searched through her e-mails. My mom, she said, passing the phone to Tima, is trying to scare me into wearing a helmet by sending me gruesome photos of bike accidents. She smiled at the mixture of amusement and horror on Tima’s face. That’s a fun one. Sophia pointed at a photo. See those bits of brain on the street?

Tima shuddered and handed the phone back. Why would she send you these?

Why motivate someone through positive reinforcement when you can do it through fear and brain-bits? Sophia asked.

So, you don’t wear a helmet because you prefer risking brain-bits on the street to admitting she’s right?

Sure, Sophia grumbled. Take her side.

They turned onto Barrie Street and walked southward along the edge of campus. Your mom was great when I met her, Tima said. I was worried, you know, what she would think of ... She gestured at her headscarf. It was patterned with saxophones for the swing dance lesson she had taught tonight. But she was lovely.

My mom cares about appearances.

Don’t we all? I don’t show the world everything I’m feeling. That’s why your video—

Tima paused, as though afraid of saying too much. Sophia didn’t want to discuss the video either, but for Tima’s sake, she said, What about it?

It’s just—we live together, and you were going through so much, and I had no idea.

I don’t talk about it.

Isn’t that lonely?

Not really. Sophia could say little more. She had chosen to share the video, but it was still disconcerting that Tima knew about her depression. Sophia turned her eyes to the sidewalk, gripped the handlebars of her bicycle and wheeled it forward. Tima followed.

They passed the university’s Biosciences Complex, where Sophia spent most of her days, then the medical school and a row of old houses. They were almost at King Street before Tima said shyly, Have I told you where I volunteer? Sophia shook her head. It’s called MHAC. Mental Health Alliance on Campus.

That startled Sophia. Tima, do you—

No, Fatima said quickly, not me, I just— She froze, embarrassed. That was the problem with people trying to help. Sophia had no doubts about her roommate’s intentions, but nobody wanted to be branded. I didn’t mean that.

I know, but it goes to show—

No, it doesn’t, Tima replied. Just how I was raised, I guess.

How’s that? Tima looked uncomfortable, so Sophia added, You know everything about my mom. Your family lives right here in Kingston, and I never hear about them. Sophia knew the basics, of course. Tima’s parents were immigrants from North Africa who’d moved to Canada before Tima was born. Her mother was a professor at Queen’s University. Her father worked in corrections, which was a euphemism for prisons, the town’s other major industry. Fatima had a sister, too, who was still in high school. Yet beyond those facts, Tima rarely spoke about her family, and it was weird. Sophia knew the life stories of her previous roommates, and they weren’t even dancers.

This time, Tima ignored Sophia’s question altogether. I found out about MHAC during a psych elective. They brought in this kid who had one of the conditions we were learning about. I couldn’t believe it—the way I was raised, you would never talk about it—but he got up in front of a hundred students and told us what it was like.

Sophia’s stomach turned as she realized where this was going. I can’t do that.

You already have. MHAC is about peer outreach. They train students as speakers, so other students can hear stories from people like them. Exactly like your video.

Sophia kept her face carefully neutral to hide her dread. I can’t.

You created one of the best pieces of advocacy I’ve ever seen. You’re a natural.

Sophia had been called a natural dancer, too. That was enough. If you’re not ... you know, Sophia said, still unable to say the word depressed, why are you helping them?

Tima avoided the question again. They’re not scary. They’re just like any other student club. We’re the Queen’s chapter of a national group, and every March, there’s a massive summit in Toronto. It’s bigger than Festival. She paused. You can start smaller. Little talks to groups of ten or fifteen, so students feel more comfortable getting help. Isn’t that worth it?

Nothing’s worth this, Sophia snapped. That video was the worst mistake of my life.

I don’t believe you, Tima said, but I like you angry. It means you’re taking off the mask.

What mask?

You know what mask.

There was a difference, Sophia reflected, between quiet and shy. Fatima might be the former, but she wasn’t the latter.

Fatima sighed and continued. "I don’t get this stuff. I know it’s important, but I don’t really understand. We need your wasps."

The wasps were one of the better moments in the video. Sophia had animated a swarm of them, darting and stinging, draining hope. Suddenly, the buzzing stopped. The wasps retired meekly to their nest. The nest was inside Sophia’s head.

Sophia felt them buzzing now, and she gritted her teeth, wiped her face blank and grasped for another excuse to turn Tima down. She finally settled on, I’ve got my hands full with dancing.

The darkness was gathering. Her dance with Andy burned in her mind, but instead of the adrenaline and the music, Sophia remembered her desperation waiting for his previous dance to end, wondering whether she would make it. Once she and Andy graduated, who would keep swing dancing alive at Queen’s? Tima was a great friend and roommate, but she had too many other commitments. Andy had already asked her to be president next year, and she had refused.

As mildly as she could, Sophia said, I don’t want the club to fold.

It wasn’t mild enough. Tima’s face went from frustrated to exasperated. Neither do I, but why does it matter so much to you? It’s a student club that you’ll never see again once this school year is over. You’re not going to stay in this town. Nobody does.

Strangely, Sophia hadn’t thought about it that way before. She knew why she needed to dance, but Fatima was right. Kingston was a university town, and Sophia could dance anywhere, so why did she care? She couldn’t explain it, but when Sophia imagined Wallace Hall locked and dark, knowing that she and Andy had been the club’s last, best chance, pain blossomed inside her and thought was drowned out. It would simply be one failure too many.

Andy’s been after me all month, Tima said. They were almost at their doorstep. I don’t have time. Between MHAC and my courses and applying to law schools and Ahmed and everything else—

It’s fine, Sophia said, faking confidence she didn’t feel. I’ll deal with Andy. It doesn’t have to be you.

Who, then? Fatima asked, but before Sophia could answer, they were interrupted by a bicycle careening toward them, its lights blinking and flashing. The bike pulled up in front of them, narrowly avoiding a collision. The rider was tall, panting and close to tears. She ripped the helmet off her head and shouted at Tima, "I can’t take it anymore, I can’t, I can’t take them—" The girl froze, and her eyes went wide. She looked Sophia up and down. When the girl spoke again, she was quiet, almost shy. Like Tima.

Fatima, the girl said, with a certain amount of awe, is that her? Your roommate who made the—

Looks like you get to learn about my family after all, Fatima said quietly. Sophia, meet my little sister.

*

Zachary

"You never talk."

Summer job, factory, owned by family friends. Their sons here, and the girl.

A picnic table bolted into concrete. A sky that threatens rain. Lunchboxes, sandwiches. One table for the lifers, another for the kids.

A boy sniggers. Another reaches for Zack’s sandwich. Zack swats him away, grunting.

"Isn’t that weird? the girl asks. Why doesn’t he talk?"

Zack is straining, reaching, begging to speak. Laughter around him.

"Come on, the girl says. Say something."

Nothing to say.

"Anything."

Willing the vocal cords to function. Mouth opening. Closing. Like a fish.

Nothing to say.

Cheeks blushing, mouth dry, sweat beading. Looking away. Anywhere but her.

If only she weren’t putting him on the spot, he might think of something. He might be better.

If only ...

*

Memories often came to Zack in the darkness. They did not creep up gradually like a tide encroaching in the night. They swept in like waves from a rough ocean, drenching him before receding and catching him in their undertow. That factory job had been four summers ago. It felt like yesterday.

Why doesn’t he talk? Well, Zack did talk sometimes. He talked in classes and with his sisters. He talked with close friends now that he finally had some. He had made progress, and progress was everything.

Zack leaned over a railing in the gazebo and watched the starlight reflecting on his lake. Lake Ontario would never truly be his, of course, but he felt that way when they were alone together, when he saw it stretch before him and heard the waves lapping against the stones. Zack had grown up in Rochester, New York, on the opposite shore of Lake Ontario. When he wandered the Kingston waterfront, he sometimes imagined his family looking back at him.

Kingston, the home of Queen’s University, stood at the lake’s northeastern edge where its waters emptied into the St. Lawrence River, halfway along the highway that linked Toronto to Montreal. Home to more than a hundred thousand people, the city extended westward for miles—kilometres, he was in Canada now—and suburbs had sprung up around strip malls and plastic playgrounds, but downtown Kingston was a community, a college area with a small-town feel, almost, but not quite, a home.

For a time, Zack stared over the shoreline without word or thought. The lake took you outside yourself, and watching the rippling water was meditation. It was hard to be stuck in your own head when you were in tune with the vastness.

Then the trance ended, and memory returned. Why doesn’t he talk? Say something. Anything. How could you possibly think of something to say under that pressure? If she had just let him get comfortable, he would have joined their conversation eventually. It was her fault.

No. Never blame someone else. There’s always something you could have done better. Those were his father’s words, repeated throughout Zack’s childhood. Every single day, there’s something you can learn.

Zack took the steps down from the gazebo and walked along the trail that followed the waterfront. He had done well tonight. He’d asked girls for dances and had a great one with Sophia. His own dancing was improving, slowly but surely. He had stayed nearly till the end of the night, done his duties for the club executive and earned thanks from Andy. There’s always something you could have done better. Zack racked his brain. There was that moment when Sophia started toward him only to race to the DJ table instead. Zack didn’t think he had done anything to offend her, but it was hard to tell. Everything felt different after her video, like he had never really known her at all.

He had watched it so many times that he could almost recite it by heart, yet the ending still choked him up. A blue figure hugging its knees was joined by others, side by side. You are not alone. Each figure stared in a different direction, as if its fellows didn’t exist. "We are not alone. The figures multiplied, blue on blue, until they melded and it was impossible to tell one from the next. They blurred and faded until the screen was black, and the voice-over said, Now help us believe it."

It was not a call to arms, an affirmation of power, a statement of hope. Not the way Sophia said it.

That was the thought distracting him when he nearly smashed into the girl.

He noticed her just in time. Zack spun out of her way to avoid a head-on collision, and his elbow only glanced against her shoulder. Zack said, I’m so sorry, just as she was saying, I know you, and the boy beside her said, Watch where you’re going!

The girl responded to that before Zack could. Hey, we didn’t see him, either.

The guy was shorter than Zack, but he was lean and muscular with an attitude that told you he knew it. He wore jeans and a loose-fitting shirt. Not sure how I missed him, he snorted.

Zack was so used to digs about his weight that he barely minded, but the girl stepped between them. Danny! Calm down, nothing happened. To Zack, she said, I know you, don’t I?

Now that she was directly in front of him, Zack realized she was right. She was the freshman he had met during the beginner dance lesson, before Sophia nudged him in the ribs and started teasing him. We danced together, Zack said.

Yes! You’re really good.

That made him blush again; he was glad there was no moon tonight. In the distance he heard muffled voices. The stillness was evaporating, and Zack started to sweat even in the cool autumn air. He extended a hand for the girl to shake. Somehow it was easier than usual. Zachary.

Rhea.

A goddess? Where had that come from?

Mother of goddesses, Rhea said. I’m not Greek, though. My parents just liked the name.

It’s a great name, Zack agreed. He felt a strange instant comfort with Rhea. It was unfamiliar and scary, and of course, once his brain remarked on it, he clammed up and no more words would come.

Rhea was short, barely five feet, and skinnier than Zack usually found attractive. She had long sandy hair and wore huge glasses that took up most of her face. The only intimidating thing about her was that he hadn’t felt intimidated before.

He pushed aside his frustration and distracted himself with the voices of three or four boys down the waterfront. They were shouting angrily now, though at least one was laughing. When Zack still couldn’t think of anything to say to Rhea, he turned to the boyfriend. You’re Danny? he asked, extending his hand again.

The boy shook it. D-A-N-I. He glared at Zack as though daring him to challenge his spelling. When Zack didn’t, Dani relaxed, but only slightly. I didn’t mean what I said before. Just got carried away. He cleared his throat. I was at the dance, too.

Zack startled. He didn’t recognize Dani, but Zack wouldn’t have danced with a fellow leader. Rhea drag you there? Zack asked.

I dragged her.

Zack turned away. He had judged Dani on first glance, exactly as Dani had done to him. Another screw-up to add to the list. Zack heard a splash and shouting. He looked at Rhea, whose hands were on her hips. I will have it known that I have never been dragged anywhere.

Dani wasn’t listening. His attention focused down the waterfront. He muttered, Idiots, and broke into a run.

Rhea called Dani’s name, but he didn’t answer. She started after him before turning back to Zack and shouting, Come on!

Zack realized he wasn’t like Rhea. He could be dragged places.

He didn’t run—it was humiliating bouncing around—but he quickened his pace as he followed Rhea along the path. Slowly, the figures came into view. Dani stood on a rise, powerful and confident. Two boys tried to stare him down. Behind them, closer to the water, a smaller boy was struggling to hold back a larger one.

... so fucking cool, Dani was saying. Zack didn’t hear the response, but he saw Dani step forward angrily. Give that to me.

Zack caught up with Rhea, who whispered, You ever been in a fight?

Only once.

And?

Zack shuddered. I won, but I still kind of lost.

Rhea nodded sagely. I think that’s the way with most fights.

The ringleader was taller than Dani and just as well-built. His sidekick was lanky with shoulder-length hair. He looked almost bored. The other two boys were still wrestling behind them. They were all young, Zack realized. Freshmen, or even ...

High schoolers. Dani’s voice dripped with contempt. You think hanging out at Queen’s makes you all cool?

Queers University doesn’t make anybody cool, the ringleader retorted. His friend laughed.

Drop the bag, Dani said.

The ringleader didn’t drop anything. Instead, he shouted behind him, Hey, Kylie! Your lover wants me to drop your bag. The boy behind him struggled furiously. He was tall and gangly, and Zack wondered why he wasn’t overpowering the shorter boy until Zack noticed that he was shivering. Suddenly, it all connected: the splash, the shouting, the struggle to get at the ringleader. Zack paled. In Canada in October, the lake must be frigid, and they’d pushed him in.

Rhea inched forward, glancing at Zack to make sure he was following. Zack’s muscles were taut and his breathing shallow. He didn’t have the slightest clue what to do in a fight, and that meant he was about to embarrass himself in front of everyone.

The ringleader laughed as they approached. Look. More Queers.

You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing, Dani said mildly. That startled Zack from his fear for a moment. It was the right retort, but it seemed astonishingly out of place. You’ve already misjudged Dani once, he reminded himself.

What’s the fat kid going to do? the sidekick asked. Sit on me?

Zack searched his brain for a witty reply and found it empty. He almost screamed in frustration, but movement flashed, and everything started happening at once. The gangly kid had overpowered the shorter boy and was charging forward, his fist clenched around something Zack couldn’t see. Dani lunged. Rhea dove in front of him, shouting at him to stop. Dani and the ringleader stared daggers at each other over Rhea’s head. The sidekick stepped toward Zack. Nobody but Zack and Rhea had noticed the tall boy racing toward his tormentors. Rhea shot off like a bullet, darting around