by Lia London
“They want me to come next Tuesday night to watch a rehearsal—maybe join in some of the stuff they’re doing.”
“That’s fantastic. Tell me again what we’re talking about?”
“The Northwest Dance Project. It’s a dance company and school.”
“Right.” Where was she going with this? He could tell she was very excited.
“Would you come? I sure could use your moral support again. You were my lucky charm on that last big dance, and that’s what got me this gig.”
Milo’s stomach wriggled and tried to hide behind his liver. “What about Chieko?”
“Yeah, bring her, too. That’d be nice. They said I could bring a friend if they stayed quiet and didn’t take pictures.”
Milo sighed. Maybe there would be time after to clarify their relationship status. “I’ll be there. What time and where?”
Antonio leaned against the wall of the elevator. “I miss the boys. I want to go home.”
Jill couldn’t imagine how he felt. “Have you called them?”
“Yeah. They’re doing okay, but …”
Jill grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. “We got this.”
Antonio nodded as the door opened. Dwayne and Tallahassee stood in the hall right in front of them. They eyed the clasped hands before smirking.
Jill let go of Antonio’s hand and strode past their disapproving glares. “Oh Master Leonel? I am here at your service, waiting to be transformed by the magic of your brushes.”
One of the other make-up technicians peeked around the bank of mirrors. “Leonel’s not here today. No make-up for this group. It’s rehearsal today.”
“Rehearsal?”
“Yeah, didn’t you pick up your script?”
Jill spun around to where the girl pointed at a table. Dwayne stood there, his arms folded smugly across his hay barrel of a chest. “No chance for you to screw up the scene this time, Miss Ripley.”
Jill’s belly-button thought about detaching itself. “What do you mean?”
“You know you didn’t do what they were expecting.” He dropped his meaty fists to his sides. “Do you even want this? You screwed it up!”
“I spiced it up,” she snapped, snatching up a copy of the script. “And why do what’s expected? Don’t you want to blaze a new trail in the industry? Make your mark?”
The Turd swept into the green room, appraising everyone with obvious disdain. “We will rehearse these scripts and perform a full-length episode live next week.” He paused to sneer at Jill, “Do not deviate from the script, or you will look very bad.”
“What if we flub a line?” asked Tallahassee.
“Then all of America will know it,” he said. “Meet on sound stage number three in the east end of this building. Scene one actors, be ready at one, scene two at two, and so forth. We’ll get an hour in for each of the pairs. I will send you notes via email, and you will fix whatever I say is wrong by the following morning before we start again.”
Tallahassee gurgled, and he snapped his head in the direction of the sound. “Professional soap stars do not have the luxury of a week to learn an episode. Feel fortunate that you will get all the extra attention from a director making sure you are perfect before you go live.”
Antonio and Jill glanced at each other with wide eyes.
“I suggest you go drill lines with your partner between now and your time.” The Turd exited with a flourish. Jill could almost hear the evil villain theme music wafting after him.
Jill determined quickly that she was in scene four. Not wanting to drill lines with Dwayne until four o’clock, she meekly approached him, determined to be nice until she figured out how to sabotage their scene. She cleared her throat and waited for him to acknowledge her. Even his hair exuded an attitude. “We’ve got almost eight hours before we—”
“Meet back here at three. I’ll have my lines down. You’d better, too.”
Forget nice. “Yes, sir,” she snipped. “But if you’re wanting us to pass as a married couple, maybe you could stop acting like a total jerk or the chemistry will be all wrong.”
“You already blew that, Jill. You’re pregnant and a cheater. You think they’ll have any sex scenes for us now?”
Jill pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s what this is about? You want to grope me?” She marched up to him, sticking her chest out. “Here, why don’t you just cop a feel now and get it out of your system.”
Antonio reached for her. “Jill, no. C’mon.”
Dwayne shook his head. “If we want to win—if we want to be more than background extras in Angels & Tycoons, we need to give them what sells. That’s what wins. That’s what we have to do.”
“I know,” she barked. “But I am not some squeaky toy for a dog like you to chew on and paw at. I’m a woman with a brain.”
“It’s about love scenes, stupid!” Dwayne rolled his eyes.
“I’m also a woman who knows what love looks like.” Tears filled her eyes and her voice cracked. “I know what it feels like, and it isn’t a cheap show of bodies writhing. It’s not a spectator sport.”
Dwayne frowned. “Be ready. Three o’clock so we can work on our timing.”
Jill blinked. “I’ll be sure to bring my blazing bikini.”
He made a sound like a strangled sneeze and tromped out.
Tallahassee strutted closer and sized up Jill. “You are such an idiot. There’s only room for one blonde super star on this show, and since you’re putting all your weight down into your gut, I’ll be able to soar right over you now.”
Jill fluffed her light brown pony tail. “I’m not even a blonde. I don’t want that job.”
Tallahassee tossed her platinum, wavy ringlets over her shoulder and sauntered out, leaving Jill to expel the weary laughter that clawed at her throat. “Did she just rattle her rack at me?” She parodied Tallahassee’s walk for a few paces. “This is ludicrous. Is she for real?”
“Nope. Not in the places that matter,” said Antonio.
Jill waved her script in the direction of the door. “The whole show, the fakeness of the body types … It’s … Auugh!” She broke down with giggling tears, pounding her head against Antonio’s chest. “Are you sure this isn’t some hidden camera comedy show? It’s too crazy.”
Antonio patted her back sympathetically. “I’d love to help you with your emotional break-down, Jill, but I’ve got lines to learn. Talk to you later, okay? Maybe we could do dinner at the hotel?”
“It’s a deal.” Jill smiled sadly and held up her hand for a high-five. “Go Team Northwest!”
“They’ve got me scripted so I can’t go off.” Jill alternately growled and chewed while she explained the latest developments.
Milo lay back, eyes closed, holding the phone to his ear. “Are you breaking all kinds of rules by telling me this, Jill?”
“I don’t care, Milo. What’s the worst they can do? Fire me?” she snapped.
“Why are you taking it out on me?”
Jill let out a frustrated groan and chewed some more.
Milo took a deep breath and tried again. “Are you still playing a pregnant lady? That was an amazing body suit they did.”
“That was me.” She rattled ice in a cup. “Antonio taught me how to do that.”
I don’t want to know. “Okay, so …?”
She sighed and there was a long pause. “Milo, they’ve written a scene where I have a miscarriage.”
The ramifications of that settled around Milo like sticks of kindling ready to catch fire. “Another hospital gown? Are they allergic to letting you wear clothes?”
“Milo, it’s more than that. Don’t you get it? They’re trying to get rid of the bi-racial baby—”
“And get your body back.”
Jill made a shrill noise. “This whole thing is so superficial. It’s sexist. It’s racist. It’s … ugh!”
“This isn’t the adventure you thought it would be, is it?”
“I didn’t know. I neve
r stopped to pay attention to what I was seeing on TV. It was just beautiful people in exciting circumstances, and … I didn’t know what went on behind the scenes. I never noticed. How did I never notice?”
Milo thought about Amaya, Chieko, and Antonio … even Crawford. “We didn’t know anyone involved. Now we’ve seen who gets used, who gets stepped on, who’s ignored.”
“It’s the ugly side of the glamor.”
“Do you still want to write for Angels & Tycoons?”
Jill didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice carried her signature determination. “I do. I really do. If anything, so that I can try to change the culture in that little corner of the entertainment industry. I mean, imagine if I could write stuff that showed diversity of races without stupid stereotypes, or women being gorgeous and powerful without resorting to sex appeal to get everything done, and exciting plots that aren’t about exploiting, and…” She sniffed, suddenly quiet again. “Is that crazy?”
Milo felt a surge of pride. “Not at all. It’s a purpose. It’s worth a shot.”
“Thanks, Milo. You’re my number one fan.”
“You’d better believe it. Now hurry up and get voted off the show.”
“Yeah.”
“Try to rig it so the redhead wins. She’s not great, but that other blonde is—”
“Psycho. One good safety pin would do her in, though.”
Milo laughed. “You got this, Jill.”
“You’ll watch me Tuesday night?”
“Of course!” It might be on my phone in the back of the auditorium while I’m also watching Amaya try out, but yes. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Was that a two-timer thing to do? He shook his head. He wasn’t dating either of them. He was just supporting his team. “Go Team Northwest.”
“Thanks, Milo. Good night.”
She had grown up a lot in the last weeks. Maybe she was ready to examine relationships with more maturity.
He pulled up YouTube on his phone to see if old Who Wants to Be a Soap Star clips were available yet. In the third panel, a blurry thumbnail picture caught his eye. He tapped it and watched Jill laughing herself to tears in Antonio’s arms while he said something about meeting her back at the hotel, then it cut to a shot of them slipping into a hotel room together.
The image kicked the air out of Milo’s lungs, and he threw the phone across the room.
All week, Jill gave her best efforts to the rehearsal. She got her lines down before the first rehearsal and tried to be as agreeable as possible with Dwayne. By Monday night, she could cry on demand without contorting her face, gasp, clench, breathe, moan, and sigh in Turd-approved ways. She brought the high drama, and Dwayne responded with enthusiasm. Kamilah and Slick even showed up for the last practice to see the work in progress, and Kamilah shed some more tears. Everyone glowed and gushed. She looked poised to blow away the rest of the female competition.
Every night, Jill returned to her hotel room and wrote another script. Each progressing story line contrasted altruism with greed in all its forms, and each brought in a new character here and another there that broadened the ethnic diversity of the show. They were small but vital roles that broke the clichés and could easily be expanded into major supporting or even leading roles. Something stirred within her, and she longed to see them produced.
On Tuesday, Leonel told her to arrive early for make-up, and Jill dutifully planted herself in his chair.
“But Leonel, if I’m supposed to look like I’m sweating in agony, how much make-up do I need?”
“Oh, Little Angel,” he cooed. “Leonel will make sure that every pain-streaked strand of hair lies in just the right way. The face may wrinkle a little with strain, but Leonel can prevent the blotchiness. And don’t forget, Little Angel needs body make-up with glittery perspiration.” His eyebrows danced and his lips puckered in an exaggerated kiss. “Clingy-clingy in all the right places.”
“Clingy?”
“Suzette, she knows how to make the hospital gown glorifimous! Little Angel will be deliciousness in her devastation!”
Jill beamed appreciatively at him through clenched jaws, all the while breathing in and out slowly to calm her nerves. The stunt she had planned relied on her keeping her cool. No quick pulse. Not easy with a live performance broadcast across the country in Prime Time. The producers needed to think that she believed in all of this…
Milo pulled onto NE 10th Avenue and stared at the clean, white building that featured arches and windows. It didn’t look tall enough to house an auditorium, but the wrap-around marquee on the front door announced the Northwest Dance Project.
Amaya was waiting just inside wearing a purple leotard and practice skirt. She gave him a warm hug in greeting. “Is Chieko coming?”
“Yeah, she’s running late. Something about a job interview.” He looked around the lobby. “So … where’s the stage?”
“This is where they do rehearsals and classes, not where they perform. That’s at the Lincoln.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks for coming.” She led him down the hall to a large, clean dance studio with mirrors on the walls. Windows above let in the waning light of the autumn sun.
“Where is everyone?” Only a few dancers hugged the bars on the walls in bizarre stretches.
“They’re working on a smaller ensemble number tonight. The other two dancers and the choreographer should be here any minute.” Amaya smiled at him, alive with obvious nervous energy. He hoped that was about the audition and not about him.
“Okay.” He looked around again. “So, where am I supposed to be?”
Amaya spun in place. “Oh, no chairs. Yeah, that’s unexpected.” She pointed over to a row of cube-shaped shelves housing backpacks and water bottles. “Is your butt going to be okay sitting on the floor that long?”
“I’ve got buns of concrete. I can do it.” He started to walk over to the cubbies when a woman came in.
“Ah-ah! No street shoes on the dance floor, please.” She looked about his mom’s age but with a lean, powerful dancer body packed into trim leggings and a t-shirt. “Are you Miss Jefferson’s guest?”
Milo held out his hand to her while toeing off his sneakers. “Yes, ma’am. Milo Halsey. Pleased to meet you.”
She introduced herself as the artistic director for the studio and, with a gracious but firm sweep of her hand, brushed him off to sit on the sidelines.
Leaning back against the shelves, Milo gave an encouraging smile to Amaya and pulled out his mom’s phone. His own had broken when he threw it, and his mom knew he wanted to watch Jill and Antonio, so she let him borrow hers for the night. He planned to leave it in his lap, silently live-streaming the show.
Six dancers ran through warm-ups that would have taken normal people months to master. To his amazement, Amaya looked completely at ease, like leaping and fancy footwork were as simple as walking. Only when they stopped to receive instruction did she look nervous at all, chewing her lip or fluttering her fingers in a fidget of excess energy.
Milo glanced at his phone to check the time only to see Antonio’s face. Slouching a little, he attempted to lipread, but gave up a few seconds later. It didn’t matter what Antonio was saying. Did he look good? The camera man was treating him well. Milo wondered what Carlos and Emilio thought of their brother making out with a red-head on live TV and felt a twinge of pity for how embarrassed his mother must be. When Jay schmoozed Antonio after the clip, Milo wanted to feel jealousy and resentment, but he couldn’t. Antonio was a nice guy, not a lecherous jerk, despite his onscreen persona.
If Jill had genuinely fallen in love with him …
For the next half hour, Milo’s nerves grew tighter, and his foot jiggled uncontrollably. Jill’s scene was last, Chieko wasn’t there yet, and he wanted it all to be over so he could talk to Amaya.
“Okay, everyone. Take ten. I need to meet with Miss Jefferson.”
Grabbing up water bottles and sweat towels, the dancers made their way out to the hall, chatting amo
ngst themselves.
Milo strained to hear the conversation taking place in the middle of the room.
“…think you could teach us 32 counts of the piece you did for the show?”
“Sure,” said Amaya. “Which part?”
“Well, they chopped it up so much, it was hard to tell, but what’s the most challenging section? The beginning?”
Amaya nodded. “Takes the most control.”
“Perfect. Count out 32 beats and teach it to us.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Amaya beamed. “Thank you so much.”
“Go get a drink and be back in five. I’ll turn the class over to you for the next twenty minutes.”
“Only twenty minutes?” Amaya’s eyes widened.
The woman smiled. “Be efficient. You’ve got great dancers here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Amaya came over with a jerky walk that said she’d rather be spazzing out like a monkey all over the room. “This is so exciting! She’s letting me teach tonight!”
Milo didn’t know what to say to that, so he gave her a knuckle bump.
“I’ll be right back!” She jogged out the door.
He got up stiffly and padded out into the hall in his stockinged feet. Locating a quiet patch of wall, he leaned hunched over the phone and watched.
At last Jill and the cowboy appeared in a hospital room, and for a second, his gut tightened because sheer agony twisted her face. Apparently, she was doing the miscarriage thing up for full drama. Jill cried; Cowboy caressed. She convulsed; he kissed her sweaty brow. She clung to him, pleading about something, and he lifted her into an embrace. Milo gawped at how the damp hospital gown left nothing to the imagination, and an animalistic urge to pound the cowboy away from her forced him into an angry path of pacing. More painful expressions, some brief dialog, and then Jill swooned to the floor. Cowboy rocked the shocked look, but then he seemed to stumble and look around for help.
The camera cut to Jay, whose grin had wilted slightly, as if something had gone wrong.
What just happened? Though he hadn’t been able to hear well, Jill looked like she’d executed everything perfectly. Even the faint.
