Catalyst

Prologue

This isn't the beginning of the story, but that's sort of the point.  It's basically impossible to find the actual start of any story, since each cause is also an effect of some other cause, and back and back.  Each breath we take comes with a consequence, and even our most mundane choices are capable of smashing into someone else's life like a wrecking ball.  We are constantly reacting to situations caused by people we have never met, paying for decisions made by souls we will never know, so how can we possibly trace anything back to a root cause, a beginning?

Endings are easier to recognize, but they can be beginnings too.  So since we can't start at the beginning, and we can't start at the end, let's just pick a day that could be both depending on perspective.  Let's find a normal day, since that's where the best stories begin and end.  This first and final day was a gorgeous one in October, crisp and sunny and filled with promise.  It was the sort of day that ought to be shining with possibility, and that's where we find Evangeline Powell, sitting alone in a café, waiting to break up with her boyfriend.

It wasn't a task she relished, but if she was honest, it had been in the works for a while, and if there was one thing she hated, it was unfinished business.  In her mind, Eva had imagined this meeting to be a mature exchange of parting words, where they would agree that the whole 'opposites attract' thing was lovely in the bedroom, but impractical everywhere else.  They would part ways knowing that it had been a good run, that they had built many lasting memories.

That had been the plan twenty minutes ago.  But Rio was late.  Rio was always late.  It was the top item on the negative side of Eva's list of pros and cons--yes, there was an actual list.  Perpetual lateness was one of those characteristics that was meant to be endearing in a boy like Dylan Rio.  He was a bit of a rockstar, flashy and popular.  But Eva couldn't afford to be late.  Ever.  Definitely not today.  She'd scheduled this meeting in the narrow space between her morning tutoring session and her first private lesson with Madame Brègier from the Paris Opera Ballet.  She needed at least an hour to warm up beforehand, and it was a ten minute drive to the studio.  She could only wait here for twelve more minutes.  Fifteen if she was generous.

"More coffee?" a waitress asked, and though Eva typically limited her caffeine intake, she found herself nodding and watching the dark, hot liquid splash down into her mug. "Cream?"

Eva managed to say, "no, thank you," and smile after a moment's pause, but she knew by the change in the waitress's expression that her own face had registered disgust at the question before she'd been able to control it.  Most strangers and even her friends found her haughty superiority to be off putting.  But honestly, did she look like the type of person that would ruin a cup of coffee with sugar and fat?

She reached for the Splenda packet, still mostly full from her first cup, and sprinkled a few grains into her mug, just to knock out a bit of the burnt, bitter flavor.  Then, because the coffee was a bit too hot to drink, she just leaned down and inhaled the steam for a while.

And still, Rio didn't show.  She tried to call him again, gritting her teeth when the call went to voicemail.  An optimistic person might take that to mean that he was on his way, and not answering because he was driving and trying to be safe.  But Eva was almost ruthlessly pessimistic, a perfectionist who over-prepared to protect herself from what would inevitably go wrong.  She didn't see this as a character flaw, however.  It was part of what made her such a good dancer.

Eva Powell was one of the most promising ballerinas in the prestigious Dearborn Dance Company in St. Louis.  Unlike most dancers that would have given up everything to move to New York or Europe, Eva had chosen to remain the big fish in her small pond, keeping her principal roles rather than being reduced to a corps dancer in the back of a bigger company.  So at the tender age of nineteen, when most of her old friends were either slinging fast food or navigating English Lit at the local community college, Eva was already a star.

She had it all, even the sexy bad boy boyfriend.  Of course, she wouldn't have him after today.  If he ever showed up to let her dump him.  All of a sudden she began to worry that he might show up.  She had been stupid to think his beauty and charm wouldn't affect her.  What if he didn't just let the relationship end?  What if he wanted to fight for it?

For a moment, she could see him, tall and broad-shouldered, with just enough self-depreciation to balance out the swagger.  His smile would make her lose her train of thought.  His voice would play havoc with her resolve.  Just this little daydream about him had her clammy with sweat and had eaten up far too much time.

Eva slid abruptly out of the booth, ready to make a break for it.  In her haste, she plowed right into a waitress carrying two tall glasses of iced tea on a tray.  There was a squeal and a crash, and several ounces of icy liquid drenched the sleeve of Eva's best warmup sweater.  She gasped at the cold and her orderly mind saw the minutes this disaster would cost her.

The waitress's apologies--despite the fact that this wasn't her fault--fell on deaf ears as Eva jogged through the café and out to her car, stripping out of her sweater as she went.  The cold tea hadn't seeped through onto her leotard, thank God.  Swapping out a sweater was much simpler than a full wardrobe change.  She pressed a button on her keychain to pop the trunk, but apparently grabbed for the handle too soon because it didn't open.  She yelped as her thumbnail got caught somehow and broke.

Trying to remain calm, she nibbled the torn edge of her nail, then she opened the trunk and rummaged in her dance bag for a spare sweater.  It didn't match her skirt the way the stained one did, but that couldn't be helped now. As she yanked the garment out, the bag started to fall off the lip of the trunk. Eva rushed forward to keep all of her things from falling out onto the ground, whacking her knee hard against the bumper in the process.

A scream like a wounded cat tumbled out of her mouth before she painstakingly righted the bag, slipped into the sweater, and then closed the trunk.

She blinked back angry tears and stared at her wavering reflection in the glossy paint on her car's spoiler.  "Get it together, Powell," she said through gritted teeth, jumping back into motion because she didn't have time for this.

Her knee and her thumb throbbed in an urgent rhythm, a blaring reminder of her clumsiness, set in opposition to the tempo of her racing heart.  Eva buckled herself in, and when she saw the time on the dashboard clock, she swore again and threw the little red Mustang into gear.  As she flung her way out into traffic, she had no way to know whether this was a beginning or an ending, had no way to know if she was the wrecking ball or the old building slated for demolition, the cause or the effect.  To Eva Powell, it was just a day, one that was spinning out of her control.  She pressed down harder on the gas pedal and hurried forward into that bizarre mix of destiny and choice and chance that we call the future, that ordered chaos that we call life.