Chaos Choreography
Page 21
Brenna took a step back, gesturing to the stage with her free hand. “This season, we’re doing something that’s never happened before in Dance or Die history. We’re bringing back your top four dancers, America—not just from last season, but from the last five. Our top twenty is made up of your very favorites, here to dance for you one more time, to prove that they deserve the title of America’s Dancer of Choice.”
She descended the stairs, never looking where she was putting her feet, hitting her marks impeccably. It was a form of dance in and of itself. She always insisted she had two left feet, but I couldn’t have done that walk in those shoes without a choreographer. “But, of course, we can’t do it without the people who started it all. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your judges.”
Adrian was the first to appear—naturally. It was his show, and he wasn’t going to let anyone steal that from him, even if the structure of the program forced him to give Brenna more camera time than he had. He strutted out of the wings, waving for the cameras, grinning. The dancers around me clapped. The families and friends seeded throughout the audience clapped. I clapped. There was no knowing whether we were being filmed right now, and a dancer who didn’t applaud for Adrian might well find themselves falling, quite abruptly, from grace.
“Executive producer Adrian Crier,” announced Brenna.
A woman with auburn hair teased into a glorious bouffant was the next to appear. She was smiling, but less broadly: she had Botoxed most of the movement out of her face years ago. It was sad. She was a beautiful woman, but as someone who worked in an industry where the most important thing a woman could be was young, she’d been forced to resort to increasingly desperate measures. Her hatred of Brenna—who was rumored to be the same age, and yet hadn’t needed any such procedures—was legendary.
(Brenna was actually older. Brenna didn’t need Botox because Brenna wasn’t a mammal. This . . . wasn’t something we could actually explain to anyone. Oh, well.)
“Our lady of the ballroom, the lovely Lindy O’Toole,” said Brenna.
Lindy waved, smile never shifting, as she crossed the stage to take her place next to Adrian.
The third judge varied from season to season. I crossed my fingers, hoping for one of the faces I liked, and was rewarded when a skinny man in a bow tie, with the sort of smile that promised unexpected explosions, stepped out of the wings. He was waving with both hands, and looked happier to be there than any of us.
“Choreographer, producer, and all-around fabulous human being, Clint Goldfein!” said Brenna.
Clint sat down at the end of the judges’ table. Lindy leaned over to touch his arm and say something inaudible, smiling like she hadn’t seen him in months, even though she’d been backstage with him for who knew how long. That was show business for you.
My nerves were starting to tingle, and my stomach was a hot pit of terror. It was almost time to take the stage. I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be up there right now. It felt like I was pulling myself in two different directions at the same time, and it couldn’t help but be an awkward sensation.
Brenna stepped up onto the stage, standing on the edge as she smiled at the judges, and said, “It’s so nice to have us all back together again. It’s like a big family reunion for me. Adrian? How do you feel right now?”
“Well, Brenna, I’ve got to be honest with you, I’m as excited as you are,” he said. “Every dancer we’ve ever had on the show has been magnificent in their own style—they wouldn’t have made it through the audition process if they weren’t—but there’s always a bit of sadness at the end of the season, because we’ve seen these wonderful dancers leave us one after the other, and then we have to start all over again. The idea of being able to begin with the sort of technique and strength that we normally see at the end of the season . . . it’s really exciting.”
“Lindy?” Brenna turned her body slightly, so no one could accuse her of slighting the judging panel’s only female member. She was a consummate professional in that regard.
“I’m so excited I could scream,” said Lindy, her surgical smile not budging a bit. “I love all our dancers, you know I do, but some of the best ballroom people we’ve ever had are going to get a second shot at our stage, and I’m hoping there won’t be any slippage in their footwork or their partnering. I’m expecting a whole new level out of this group of dancers. They know what we expect of them. We know what they’re capable of. Put it together and it’s going to be . . .” She sighed theatrically. She did everything theatrically. Since she’d frozen her face, her voice was all she had left to work with, and she made it do as much as she could. “Magical.”
She descended the stairs, never looking where she was putting her feet, hitting her marks impeccably. It was a form of dance in and of itself. She always insisted she had two left feet, but I couldn’t have done that walk in those shoes without a choreographer. “But, of course, we can’t do it without the people who started it all. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your judges.”
Adrian was the first to appear—naturally. It was his show, and he wasn’t going to let anyone steal that from him, even if the structure of the program forced him to give Brenna more camera time than he had. He strutted out of the wings, waving for the cameras, grinning. The dancers around me clapped. The families and friends seeded throughout the audience clapped. I clapped. There was no knowing whether we were being filmed right now, and a dancer who didn’t applaud for Adrian might well find themselves falling, quite abruptly, from grace.
“Executive producer Adrian Crier,” announced Brenna.
A woman with auburn hair teased into a glorious bouffant was the next to appear. She was smiling, but less broadly: she had Botoxed most of the movement out of her face years ago. It was sad. She was a beautiful woman, but as someone who worked in an industry where the most important thing a woman could be was young, she’d been forced to resort to increasingly desperate measures. Her hatred of Brenna—who was rumored to be the same age, and yet hadn’t needed any such procedures—was legendary.
(Brenna was actually older. Brenna didn’t need Botox because Brenna wasn’t a mammal. This . . . wasn’t something we could actually explain to anyone. Oh, well.)
“Our lady of the ballroom, the lovely Lindy O’Toole,” said Brenna.
Lindy waved, smile never shifting, as she crossed the stage to take her place next to Adrian.
The third judge varied from season to season. I crossed my fingers, hoping for one of the faces I liked, and was rewarded when a skinny man in a bow tie, with the sort of smile that promised unexpected explosions, stepped out of the wings. He was waving with both hands, and looked happier to be there than any of us.
“Choreographer, producer, and all-around fabulous human being, Clint Goldfein!” said Brenna.
Clint sat down at the end of the judges’ table. Lindy leaned over to touch his arm and say something inaudible, smiling like she hadn’t seen him in months, even though she’d been backstage with him for who knew how long. That was show business for you.
My nerves were starting to tingle, and my stomach was a hot pit of terror. It was almost time to take the stage. I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be up there right now. It felt like I was pulling myself in two different directions at the same time, and it couldn’t help but be an awkward sensation.
Brenna stepped up onto the stage, standing on the edge as she smiled at the judges, and said, “It’s so nice to have us all back together again. It’s like a big family reunion for me. Adrian? How do you feel right now?”
“Well, Brenna, I’ve got to be honest with you, I’m as excited as you are,” he said. “Every dancer we’ve ever had on the show has been magnificent in their own style—they wouldn’t have made it through the audition process if they weren’t—but there’s always a bit of sadness at the end of the season, because we’ve seen these wonderful dancers leave us one after the other, and then we have to start all over again. The idea of being able to begin with the sort of technique and strength that we normally see at the end of the season . . . it’s really exciting.”
“Lindy?” Brenna turned her body slightly, so no one could accuse her of slighting the judging panel’s only female member. She was a consummate professional in that regard.
“I’m so excited I could scream,” said Lindy, her surgical smile not budging a bit. “I love all our dancers, you know I do, but some of the best ballroom people we’ve ever had are going to get a second shot at our stage, and I’m hoping there won’t be any slippage in their footwork or their partnering. I’m expecting a whole new level out of this group of dancers. They know what we expect of them. We know what they’re capable of. Put it together and it’s going to be . . .” She sighed theatrically. She did everything theatrically. Since she’d frozen her face, her voice was all she had left to work with, and she made it do as much as she could. “Magical.”
