Chaos Choreography
Page 18
“That sort of thing gets you kissed, Mister,” I said, before standing and doing just that. Dominic looped his arms around my waist and pulled me close. He’d always been an excellent kisser, from the time that I first put my lips on his in an alley in New York, but time and comfort had elevated him to an Olympic level. If there had been a gold medal for kissing, I would have given it to him hands-down.
When I finally pulled away, my cheeks were hot and felt like they were as red as my wigs. “Okay, handsome,” I said. “Let’s go call Artie about getting you that credit card and fake ID. We’re going to Hollywood.”
Four
“Chin up, shoulders back, trigger finger ready. Now go out there, my darling girl, and prove that you’re the one.”
—Enid Healy
The lobby of the Crier Theater in Hollywood, California, six weeks later
THE AIR INSIDE THE LOBBY was at least five degrees cooler than the air outside. It felt more like my native Portland than like Hollywood, land of sunscreen, tanning beds, and movie stars with thousand-dollar skin. I shoved my sunglasses into my oversized dance bag, blinking rapidly to adjust to the switch from outdoor bright to indoor dim. Everyone around me was doing the same thing, which gave me an excuse to hang back from the crowd and get a feel for the situation.
The building was familiar, of course: this was where we’d done my original season of Dance or Die. Holding our final rehearsals on the actual performance stage used for live shows made it easier for us to get comfortable with routines that we barely had time to learn, which cut down on injuries. Cutting down on injuries lowered the show’s insurance rates, so everybody won. Besides, the theater was huge. There was plenty of practice space, and the plumbing almost never decided to back up and flood the bathrooms. Almost. Stepping into the Crier Theater was like coming home.
Dominic was a different but equally familiar presence behind me, although his blond-tipped hair and studiously “I am in a boy band, ask me about our new single” attire made him less familiar when I actually looked at him. Dominic De Luca wasn’t the kind of guy Valerie Pryor would have looked at twice, much less gotten involved with. David Laflin, on the other hand, had all Dominic’s natural hotness, combined with a much more modern sense of style. He was believable as part of her image. That was what mattered here. Image. Reality was boring if it didn’t have a layer of sequins on top.
“Remember,” I murmured. “If someone asks you a question you can’t answer, just laugh and either look in a mirror or look at me.”
“I am to be your boy toy,” he said. He sounded amused. That was good. I couldn’t have done this if he hadn’t been willing to play along.
Six weeks seemed like a long time when I’d agreed to do the show. Six weeks hadn’t been nearly long enough. Not when I needed to have my costumes altered, wigs made, and get a whole new identity set up for Dominic—a big task under any circumstances, and one that was made bigger by the fact that some of Valerie’s paperwork was out-of-date. We’d managed to finish everything just under the wire, and now here I was, a week out from our first show, about to become reacquainted with the people I’d once thought of as my natural peers.
I wasn’t ready. And that didn’t matter, because I’d been spotted. A black-haired blur rocketed through the crowd toward me. I braced for impact, hoping Dominic would recognize this as the opposite of an attack. We didn’t have an easy way for me to warn him without drawing attention to myself or looking unfriendly, and then it was too late, as a slim African-American woman in yoga pants and a beaded red halter top slammed into me, rocking me back several inches as she slung her arms around my neck.
“Val!” she squealed. “Oh my gosh Val you’re here I heard from Anders who heard from Lo that you’d dropped out of your last two competitions and then the producers were having trouble finding you and I was so afraid you weren’t going to come but here you are! You’re actually here!”
“I’m actually here,” I confirmed, giving Lyra a quick hug before attempting to extricate myself from her embrace. “I had a bad fall during training, and bruised my tailbone. Nothing permanent, it didn’t need surgery or anything, but it was pretty messed up for a while, and I had to miss some competitions. I wasn’t getting any traction, so I figured I’d come home to California and think about my options.”
Lyra let go, stepping back enough to beam brilliantly in my direction. It was like staring into a searchlight. “This is some option, huh?”
When I finally pulled away, my cheeks were hot and felt like they were as red as my wigs. “Okay, handsome,” I said. “Let’s go call Artie about getting you that credit card and fake ID. We’re going to Hollywood.”
Four
“Chin up, shoulders back, trigger finger ready. Now go out there, my darling girl, and prove that you’re the one.”
—Enid Healy
The lobby of the Crier Theater in Hollywood, California, six weeks later
THE AIR INSIDE THE LOBBY was at least five degrees cooler than the air outside. It felt more like my native Portland than like Hollywood, land of sunscreen, tanning beds, and movie stars with thousand-dollar skin. I shoved my sunglasses into my oversized dance bag, blinking rapidly to adjust to the switch from outdoor bright to indoor dim. Everyone around me was doing the same thing, which gave me an excuse to hang back from the crowd and get a feel for the situation.
The building was familiar, of course: this was where we’d done my original season of Dance or Die. Holding our final rehearsals on the actual performance stage used for live shows made it easier for us to get comfortable with routines that we barely had time to learn, which cut down on injuries. Cutting down on injuries lowered the show’s insurance rates, so everybody won. Besides, the theater was huge. There was plenty of practice space, and the plumbing almost never decided to back up and flood the bathrooms. Almost. Stepping into the Crier Theater was like coming home.
Dominic was a different but equally familiar presence behind me, although his blond-tipped hair and studiously “I am in a boy band, ask me about our new single” attire made him less familiar when I actually looked at him. Dominic De Luca wasn’t the kind of guy Valerie Pryor would have looked at twice, much less gotten involved with. David Laflin, on the other hand, had all Dominic’s natural hotness, combined with a much more modern sense of style. He was believable as part of her image. That was what mattered here. Image. Reality was boring if it didn’t have a layer of sequins on top.
“Remember,” I murmured. “If someone asks you a question you can’t answer, just laugh and either look in a mirror or look at me.”
“I am to be your boy toy,” he said. He sounded amused. That was good. I couldn’t have done this if he hadn’t been willing to play along.
Six weeks seemed like a long time when I’d agreed to do the show. Six weeks hadn’t been nearly long enough. Not when I needed to have my costumes altered, wigs made, and get a whole new identity set up for Dominic—a big task under any circumstances, and one that was made bigger by the fact that some of Valerie’s paperwork was out-of-date. We’d managed to finish everything just under the wire, and now here I was, a week out from our first show, about to become reacquainted with the people I’d once thought of as my natural peers.
I wasn’t ready. And that didn’t matter, because I’d been spotted. A black-haired blur rocketed through the crowd toward me. I braced for impact, hoping Dominic would recognize this as the opposite of an attack. We didn’t have an easy way for me to warn him without drawing attention to myself or looking unfriendly, and then it was too late, as a slim African-American woman in yoga pants and a beaded red halter top slammed into me, rocking me back several inches as she slung her arms around my neck.
“Val!” she squealed. “Oh my gosh Val you’re here I heard from Anders who heard from Lo that you’d dropped out of your last two competitions and then the producers were having trouble finding you and I was so afraid you weren’t going to come but here you are! You’re actually here!”
“I’m actually here,” I confirmed, giving Lyra a quick hug before attempting to extricate myself from her embrace. “I had a bad fall during training, and bruised my tailbone. Nothing permanent, it didn’t need surgery or anything, but it was pretty messed up for a while, and I had to miss some competitions. I wasn’t getting any traction, so I figured I’d come home to California and think about my options.”
Lyra let go, stepping back enough to beam brilliantly in my direction. It was like staring into a searchlight. “This is some option, huh?”
