Kind of Cursed Read online

  “Evie!” Tori shouts from the bottom of the stairs. “Where’s my Jazz Fest T-shirt?”

  I press my pencil into the seam of my open book and push myself off the bed. The Yamas & Niyamas will just have to wait.

  “It’s not in your closet?” I ask, calling down from my bedroom door. I can’t see my sister from here, but she can hear me better this way.

  She makes a noise in her throat, like a little cough. “If it were in my closet, why would I be asking you?”

  Any answer I give will only piss her off more, so I head downstairs. “I’ll help you look for it.”

  She’s standing there with her arms crossed over her pajamas, the beginnings of a sneer curling her lip. “Did you take it without asking me?”

  “No,” I say gently. “But maybe I washed it with my things.” I move past her, heading toward the direction of the laundry room, and she whirls on her heel to follow me.

  “Well, did you or didn’t you?” Her voice drips acid.

  Tori is in a bad mood. If I’m being honest, Tori has been in a bad mood for about three years. Only it’s gotten worse over the last month. For that, I blame Jason Watney.

  “I washed and dried a load yesterday morning, but I haven’t folded it yet.”

  She follows hard on my heels. “If you shrunk my shirt, I’m going to be so pissed,” she seethes.

  I seal my lips together, declining to point out that she’s always pissed. Instead, I force the slightest constriction in my throat and inhale through my nose, taking a barely audible ujjayi breath. I feel the balancing and calming effects of the yogic breathing almost immediately. My shoulders drop away from my ears, and I challenge myself to feel the wood floor beneath my bare feet as I make my way to the laundry room.

  Tori’s glower seems to burn through the back of my slouchy tank as I dig in the basket, but I concentrate on my breath, the crisp smell of Meyer’s geranium fabric softener, and the brush of fabrics against the skin of my hands. I spot the electric blue T-shirt and pluck it from the pile.

  I attempt to shake it out to assess any damage, but Tori yanks it from my grip. “Give it here.” Her jaw is clenched, and she doesn’t even meet my gaze as she drapes the shirt over her front and smoothes it out.

  It doesn’t look like it shrunk at all, but I’m leaving nothing to chance. “I’ll buy you a new one if—”

  “That’s not the point,” she snaps, shooting me a scowl.

  The look she gives me is so bitter and violent, I want to look away, back away, and leave her alone, but I don’t. I have one guess as to why this electric blue Jazz Fest T-shirt is the only one she wants.

  Jason Watney.

  They went to Jazz Fest together to see The Revivalists and Cage the Elephant last May. Jason was over here almost all summer. But I haven’t seen him since August. I’ve waited for Tori to say something — anything — about what happened, but so far, zilch.

  Mom keeps pumping me for information every time we Skype, so maybe it’s a good thing I don’t really know what happened. Mom’s too good at getting information out of me.

  Tori is still checking the shirt for shrinkage, smoothing it over her front a third time. Lo and behold, it still hasn’t shrunk.

  “I think it’s fine,” I dare to suggest.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “No thanks to you.”

  Ujjayi breathing is miraculous. It’s faster than a glass of wine and more mellow than a pot brownie. But I think I’m going to enjoy the hell out of my Ashtanga short form class this morning.

  I like to leave more than an hour early for each class. This gives me time to get to the studio, settle energetically into the space, and center myself for a few minutes of meditation before my students show up. The more present I am, the better I see and feel what my students need from me.

  And what they don’t need is for me to be focused on a run-in with my sister.

  I finish getting myself ready and tiptoe downstairs. Tori’s bedroom door is closed, and I’m relieved I don’t have to talk to her before I head out.

  I’m also relieved when I step out into the garage and see that she didn’t park her Fiat behind Mom’s Volvo. I don’t have my own car because I don’t need one. Mom and Dad are only home twice a year for three weeks at a time so the XC40’s almost always available.

  My dad is a petroleum engineer for Chevron. Four years ago, he got transferred to the Abuja office in Nigeria. I was still in high school then, and Mom stayed home with Tori and me. But I’m pretty sure it was the worst year of her life. She missed Dad like crazy.

  They’ve been married for twenty-seven years, but they still act like newlyweds. They hold hands wherever they go. They smile and laugh at each other at the dinner table. And they slow dance in the kitchen.

  When they sat us down three years ago and told us Mom would be moving to Nigeria with Dad now that I’d graduated, I can’t say I was all that surprised. But it’s one reason why Tori and I still live at home.

  My house — my parent’s house — is the most adorable two-story Tudor style home. It’s where Tori and I have lived since I was five and Tori was nine, and it’s where my parents plan to retire. Mom wouldn’t dream of selling it, and I think the thought of renting it out while they’re halfway across the world would actually give her hives.

  So Tori and I get to enjoy a home right out of Southern Living in the heart of the Saint Streets while keeping the house lived in and looked after. And, really, I couldn’t pay rent on my yoga instructor earnings. I only finished my 200-hour certification a year ago. I work part-time at the Yoga Garden, and I do about six private lessons a week, but that’s not nearly enough to make up a living wage.

  People — Tori, my parents, friends — have asked me when I’m going to get “a real job.” I was studying kinesiology at UL, but I only finished three semesters because what I really want to do is teach yoga.

  I know it’s hard to make a living this way, but it’s not impossible. The more students who show up to my classes at the studio means the more classes I’ll get. And private lessons are hard to come by, but if I could even double what I’m doing now, I could swing a small efficiency, and I wouldn’t really need more than that.

  And, yeah, I’m twenty-one, but that’s not too old to still be living at home. I don’t make much, but I save what I can, and it’s not impossible to think that one day I could own my own — perhaps very tiny — home.

  My only expensive habit is that I like to travel. I want to go to India one day, of course, but I’d love to see other places too. Mom and Dad have taken us to England, France, and Spain, but I’d love to see Scotland… Greece… Italy… Ooh! And Iceland. And those are just the top spots on my list.

  When my parents took us abroad to England and France, we stayed in luxury hotels, saw shows, and ate at fancy restaurants. It was great, but I don’t need that either. A backpack, a solid pair of shoes, and a Eurail pass would be enough of a start.

  Well, and a plane ticket.

  But for right now, I’m happy just where I am. I have a great place to live, a car to drive, and the freedom to do what I love. But that doesn't make me I’m complacent. I mean, on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, I offer free yoga classes at Parc Sans Souci. It’s good practice for me, and it’s a way to grow a client base. And sometimes my freebie students even tip.

  I’m smiling about this when I pull into the gravel lot of the Yoga Garden. But as I step through the entrance and into the tea room, my smile slips.

  Drake Jordan.

  He’s sitting at one of the tea room tables, stirring a cup of what smells like apple blossom tea. And he’s leering at me. As usual.

  “Hi, Evie.” Drake Jordan could not look more wolfish if he had pointy ears and whiskers.

  “Hi Drake,” I say, and because I don’t want to seem rude, I stupidly keep talking. “How are you?”

  His grin slithers higher on his cheeks. “Better now.”

  I press my lips together and force a tight smile. Drake
has asked me out twice, and both times, I’ve politely declined. You’d think he’d take the hint that I’m not interested, but he hasn’t yet.

  “I saw you were on the schedule today, and, lucky me, I have the day off.” Drake is a server at Social. I know this because he’s tells me almost every time he sees me. He has an employee discount. We can go to Social whenever I want.

  I don’t want, but I hate turning him down. I get this twisted up feeling inside like my guts are made of pipe cleaners and they’re being wrapped around a toilet plunger.

  “That’s…nice.” I step closer to Studio B where I’ll be teaching. Jill, one of the teachers who has been here forever, has a beginner class going on right now in A, but B is just waiting for me.

  Drake gestures at his tea. “Would you like to join me for a cup?” He lifts his wide brow. “My treat.”

  I swallow. “No thanks, Drake. I need to set up for short form.”

  He nods, grinning like he’s in on a secret. “Looking forward to it.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “What about having dinner with me tonight?”

  Shit.

  There goes that pipe cleaner feeling. The other two times he’s asked me out, I’ve been able to tell him honestly that I was teaching that night. But tonight I’m free. Unfortunately.

  “I…” I stretch out the word and then catch my lip between my teeth and gnaw it nervously. Stall. Stall and think of an excuse, I tell myself. “I need to check on something. I’ll let you know after class.”

  Drake’s face brightens. I’ve never seen a face look so happy and so wicked at the same time. “Great,” he croons.

  I suppress a groan. “I have to get set up,” I say in a rush, crossing the tea room. “See you in class.” I open the squeaky door and shut it firmly behind me. The rattle echoes across the wood floors. In another life, Studio B was someone’s back porch. The house that is now The Yoga Garden is at least eighty years old. The doors rattle in their frames, the floor creaks, it’s drafty year round, and I absolutely love it.

  Studio B, now a sunroom, has picture windows on two sides. Flooded with natural light and facing the back yard, it’s easy to forget that this place sits on one of the busiest streets in Lafayette.

  I move across the room, drop my bag and mat on the floor, and breathe a sigh of relief. What the hell am I going to tell Drake?

  Karma is absolutely real, and honesty is one of my values. Lying to him isn’t an option for me. But I really don’t want to hurt his feelings with the truth. I’m not attracted to Drake. Like at all. I feel like I need a shower after just talking to him. The way he looks at me… it’s like his eyes have hands and they touch me without permission.

  But he’s a person. A being that carries the same divine spark we all possess. And he’s a yogi, which means, in some way, he’s trying to evolve. I have to respect that. And I have to honor it.

  So I need to find another truth to tell him.

  I unroll my mat and reach into my bag for my singing bowl, mallet, and bowl cushion. Making myself slow down and focus, I place these near my mat, arrange myself into a comfortable lotus sit, and on a deep inhale, strike the mallet against the bowl.

  The soft chime washes through the room, and I close my eyes. I center my attention on my breath. I feel cool air on the edges of my nostrils and in the back of my throat. For a couple of breaths, I manage to stay with that sensation, but then my mind drifts back to Drake again, and I feel my stomach tense.

  Okay, so don’t fight it, I tell myself. Focus on the feeling.

  I inhale again, but instead of sensing the rush of air into my lungs, my awareness moves to the tightness in my middle. There’s a churning tension just below my diaphram, a nagging burn of unease. It’s rare, but sometimes when I sit in meditation and allow myself to just listen to the sensations in my body, an insight will open itself up to me, and something I didn’t understand before will become clear.

  Watching the feeling, I note its size and shape, the way the muscles in the wall of my abdomen twitch and tense as if they have a mind of their own, as if they are trying to tell me Pay attention to us. Don’t ignore what we’re trying to tell you.

  I begin to think about how the gut really is a second brain, full of neurons that are in constant communication with the brain that sits in my skull. And then I catch myself thinking instead of feeling. I take another mindful breath and try to settle in again.

  Thirty minutes pass, minutes in which I am thoughts and feelings, breath and heartbeat, muscle, nerves and bone. And life. I open my eyes, at ease, centered, and with one goal in mind: to offer my students what they need from me. Moving slowly and with awareness, I rise to begin preparing the studio. I connect my phone to the bluetooth speakers and start my playlist. The soft notes of harp and flute fill the space, and I open the door to welcome my students.

  Class won’t begin for another ten minutes, but a handful of yogis have already arrived. We greet each other with smiles and quiet words, as is our routine, and they move through the room, unrolling their mats and setting out their towels. Ashtanga yoga is intense, and in short order, we’ll all be sweating.

  Drake is among them, and I am aware of his eyes on me, but I remind myself of my purpose, my intention for the day.

  Of course, it doesn’t help that he positions his mat at the front of the class as close to me as possible.

  At noon, I stand at the front of my mat, and close my eyes, feel all four corners of my feet pressing into the mat. I bring my hands to prayer pose, open with chanting mantras, and begin the short form series.

  I take the class through the sun salutations, leading from the front of the studio for the first round before moving through the room, subtly adjusting students as I pass. A palm on the back, a whispered suggestion, or an encouraging word. I do the same with the fundamental asanas, joining in only when I feel each yogi is safe on the mat.

  It’s during the finishing sequence when everything falls apart.

  “Aah!” A sharp, masculine cry pierces the room. Everyone is in wheel pose, including me.

  This is not good.

  I quickly tuck out of the posture and rush to Drake. “My back!” he wheezes, his eyes screwed shut.

  I stand with my feet by his hands, bend over him, and brace him behind his shoulder blades. “Tuck your tail.”

  He tilts his pelvis and hisses.

  “Put your weight into your heels and lower your hips.”

  “Christ!”

  I anchor my own weight so I don’t collapse on top of him. I know if I did, my face would land in his crotch, and my crotch would probably end up on his mouth. Great. For the half-second it takes to lower him to the ground, I offer my soul to the devil to avoid this nightmare.

  By some miracle or dark magic, I keep my balance and then shift to his side. “Your lower back’s in spasm. Draw your knees to your chest.”

  Drake groans, and I sweep my eyes over the rest of my students. Some have come out of the posture and are watching us with concern. Some are still in wheel, plainly ignoring the sounds of a man in pain.

  Honestly, I don’t know which is worse. By the look on Drake’s beet red face, he’s mortified.

  “If you’re still in wheel, lower down carefully, rest your back onto the earth, and draw your knees up to your chest,” I instruct.

  Drake’s breath is still jagged, letting me know that the muscles in his back are still protesting. I lower to my knees and lean down closer to him.

  “Breathe,” I remind him, my voice a whisper. “Then open your legs and clasp the arches of your feet in happy baby.”

  He opens his eyes and shoots me a glare. “I’m not doing that.” He looks angry, but I know he’s probably more embarrassed than anything else.

  I raise my voice and address the class. “Let your knees fall open to your underarms and reach for your feet,” I tell them. “Grab inside or outside. It doesn’t matter, but try to let your knees sink down so you open up your lower ba
ck.”

  As the rest of the class follows my instructions, Drake narrows his eyes at me. I can see he’s chafing under his humiliation, but there’s a spark of something else in his look.

  “You owe me a date now.”

  My heart sinks. As much as I don’t want to go out with him, I can’t turn him down now. Not after he’s whimpered in pain in front of a class full of women.

  I grasp at the only straw I have. “Not tonight. You need an epsom salt bath and heating pad.”

  He raises a wolfish brow. “Tomorrow night.”

  I chew the corner of my lip. “I teach the next three nights,” I tell him, and I’m so glad it’s the truth.

  A smile breaks over his face. “Perfect. Friday night then.”

  Defeat washes over me. I swallow and nod. “Friday night.”

  Get Someone Like Me!