And with sore feelings out of the way, the four pals settled into a pattern in their high school lives. A couple times a month, Jeff, Jack and Eric spent a day or two as wolves or dogs or eagles or occasionally exotic species. And Tony joined them about half those times. Their friendships were stronger than ever, cemented by their experiences as eagles gliding gloriously on thermal updrafts from the mall parking lot and as wolves hunting down the coyotes that had been killing cats and small dogs on one side of town and as four greyhounds, shitting and pissing all over vice principal Morton's property.
It was months before Tony had that feeling, a feeling of anxiety because somehow things looked completely different for a moment. It was also a feeling that there was something he should recognize, almost as though he'd forgotten something important. It was a feeling that something was out of place. But every time it came over Tony, it faded away quickly enough and his life seemed to return to its pleasant momentum.
The first time he'd had it was at ballet class. Ms. Klein was having Tony demonstrate some leaping steps for some parents who were considering enrolling their sons and daughters in ballet school. She loved having her star, the straight, super athlete show how athletic ballet could be and Tony didn't mind at all obliging her. But he finished leaping as high as he could and landing as though standing casually beside a throne and as Ms. Klein spoke about what an education in dance could do for their sons and daughters, Tony was consumed by what seemed a wave of panic. He felt dizzy for a moment.
"What am I doing here?!" He wondered. He couldn't breathe. He looked down at his "clothes". White ballet tights over some queer kind of ridiculous jock and a skin tight white top. What's with my equipment in a ball like this?! What the hell is going on?! He only stopped short of saying something because he didn't want to attract attention to himself dressed like that with all those people right there.
It all felt completely foreign. Yet he was there. He was dressed like that in front of a few dozen people. He backed away slowly from the edge of the raised hardwood floor. He was now over by a wood paneled wall with some laminated newspaper clippings. In his state of disorientation, he looked about and, to his amazement, saw "Tony St. Martin" in the large text captioning a picture. He examined it more closely. It was, indeed a picture of him. That was his own striking face though about 4 years younger. It couldn't be anyone else and there he was, all decked out in a similar outfit, white tights and top with his equipment so conspicuously yanked up into a hemisphere. He was smiling at the camera and holding a trophy. The caption read:
"TONY ST. MARTIN WINS REGIONAL BALLET COMPETITION AMONG 11-12 YEAR OLDS".
Tony stared and stared. How can that be? I don't remember that. I'm not a ballet dancer. I . . . He looked at his slender, sweaty body in white tights in the mirror. He sighed, wondering what to think and felt a pat on his buns from behind.
"Hey! Don't-"
It was Jack.
"Don't what? Don't interrupt you while you go over your press clippings again?"
Tony stammered, unsure what to say. Jack was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, not ballet clothes, but the gym bag he was carrying over his shoulder was partly opened and Tony could see a sweaty, crumpled pair of white tights.
"Come on, man, hit the showers. Enough showing off for the parents. Save it for the New York City Ballet school guy in two weeks. Get changed so we can walk home together and protect each other. You remember? The ballet buddy system?"
"Um, yeah, sure Jack"
Tony still felt uncertain but as he made his way to the doorway over which a sign read "Garcons", a half dozen boys of varying age emerged from it. A couple shouted "Tony!". A couple patted his shoulder. One gave him a slap on the ass and ran giggling away. A girl near the entrance complimented him on his partnering. Tony said thank you and made his way into the cramped mini locker room.
No other boys were in there, so Tony had the opportunity to examine his outfit. He was especially curious about the jock. Wait, he realized it was called a dance belt. The term just popped into his head. He let out a sigh then casually disrobed and showered. He was changed back into his usual dress pants and white shirt and black oxfords in just a few minutes. After all, he knew his way around the place. He and Jack walked out the door a minute after that and down the street. They faced the usual volleys of fag jokes, from the boys at the basketball courts on the other side of the street, fag this and sissy-boy that for a few minutes till they were out of sight, but nobody was up for fighting this particular night. Tony and Jack glanced at each other and smiled furtively when the danger was past.
Back at home in his room, Tony looked up from his homework and stretched his neck, taking in his Rudolf Nureyev and Peter Martins posters in the process. "What the hell was that, stage fright at the end of performing in front of the parents? At the end?!" He wondered, thinking of his brief panic. "And how could I forget beating that Cuban boy who was practically trash talking beforehand?" Tony remembered a feeling of great pride and he looked over at the shelf on the wall. There it was, his regional competition 11 and 12 year olds division championship trophy.
He shook his head as he went back to his homework, all doubts gone.