by Tonya Plank
We all returned to the ballroom floor. Everyone cheered wildly, particularly when Arabelle entered. Myself included, of course. She’d changed costumes and was no longer all bloodied. Her nose was badly swollen and wrapped in a large bandage. Such a beautiful woman. She was still a beautiful woman. And her nose would heal. She took a gracious bow and smiled.
“I feel so horrible for her,” I said to Sasha.
“I know, but don’t,” he said.
I looked at him.
“I mean, not about this today. Think about it. This is nothing compared to what she’s been through. Her husband’s never coming back. This is a nose.”
Oh, so true.
We began the rumba again. I was now more rested and less tired but emotionally way more worked up. I put Cheryl out of my mind and told myself she was being taken care of. The authorities were dealing with her. No one would hurt me. Screw her. Screw her, big time.
We were going to win. Let that witch just try to stop us.
I turned to my man and danced as passionately as I ever had. The crowds went wild when we finished and, again, he kissed my lips. There were far more chants this time for Arabelle and Andrew than for anyone else. And rightly so.
We nailed the paso and jive. I didn’t even get tired between the last two dances. And I felt better about my jive than ever. My jive kicks had the most strength and sharpness and pizazz I’d attained yet. And I was nearly as fast as Sasha, for the first time! I was so ready for the finals. It was like Cheryl had jumpstarted me. I was on fire. Along with my man, of course!
Back at the tent, I ate another banana and washed it down with more Gatorade. Even if I didn’t feel enervated anymore, both had potassium and were good for sore muscles.
One of the tuxedoed young men who was helping to collect the judges’ scorecards came to the tent. “Finalists are being announced. Return to the floor, please,” he said.
“Already? That’s fast,” said Greta, who’d just arrived at Daiyu’s tent to give us a pep talk.
“It is. I guess scoring was easy. Or they want to make up lost time,” Sasha said.
“Probably the latter, now that you mention it,” Greta laughed. “Nope, they really don’t like to get behind here!”
I flashed my teeth in the mirror to make sure there was no banana stuck anywhere, and hopped out of the makeup chair, my heart now pounding with excitement. As we left the tent, I saw the tuxedoed young man talking to one of the judges, who was scowling. What was going on, I wondered? As we passed, I listened closely.
“Yeah, they found the guy who threw it; water missile it was,” the young man said.
“Who was he?” the judge asked.
“Dunno. Description was just some guy, young, like late teens or early twenties, dark hair. He was in the front of the balcony. People sitting next to him turned him in.”
Guy? Guy in his late teens or early twenties? So, Cheryl was still out there.
I tried hard not to think about her while the finalists were announced. What was the likelihood of two advanced competitors being hurt purposefully in the same competition? It was either Cheryl in disguise or someone acting on her behalf, I figured. If she was still out there, certainly she wouldn’t try anything. I took a deep breath.
Forget about it. Don’t think, Rory. Just dance.
I didn’t even mention it to Sasha. I didn’t want to worry him and I wanted to put it out of my mind as well. I needed my powers of concentration and my confidence now more than ever.
Unlike in the other rounds, finalists were announced by name and country, not number. First called were Arabelle and Andrew. The entire ballroom cheered, of course. Then, Xenia and Piotr. Less applause but still a great deal of it. Then, the Italian couple who was in the country team match, followed by a Chinese couple. The emcee then announced Micaela and Jonathan. The crowds went wild again, even more so than for Arabelle. These were the current champions, and they danced for England, after all. My heart started skipping beats—three of them, I was pretty sure—when the emcee went to announce the final couple. I was so scared. What if it wasn’t us?
But it was. And the crowd roared when we took the floor. I couldn’t hear any specific names this time. Just crazy, wild, enormous applause. For all of us.
As we waited for the cha-cha to begin, I looked out across the floor. It looked so vast now. It looked like a sea. We’d have a ways to go to make it around the entire perimeter on the traveling dances. It struck me just how visible we were now, with only six couples on the floor. Eyes, and lots of them, would be on us for every millisecond of time. Including Cheryl’s. No, what was I doing? I wouldn’t think about her.
As if he had complete access to the contents of my mind at any given time, Sasha pulled me to face him. He placed his palms on each side of my face. I looked up into his sapphire eyes. They sparkled. They were laughing. There was no hint of anxiety or frustration or fear. They were nothing but complete calm, and they were beautiful.
“I love you,” he mouthed.
Before I could mouth “I love you” back, the music started. He swung me out and I was ready. We were off and going. Okay, I would simply have to show him how much I loved him with my dancing.
I moved like I’d never moved before. I gave not just the flashy tricks, but every teensy tiny step everything I had. I was on fire. Just like him. I worked each dance as hard as I possibly could.
And talk about the dances going by in a blur. We went from one right into the next, with only the emcee’s words breaking the rhythm. I was fast and flirty in cha-cha, playful and sexy in samba, romantic and in love in rumba—which wasn’t hard! And fierce and loyal to my badass sky-high tour-jeté-ing matador in paso. Even though we hadn’t had time to rest between the dances, I didn’t feel any fatigue whatsoever. Or pain. The screams were so loud, so intense, now I literally could not hear the music. I relied completely on Sasha to hear, and to lead. It wasn’t until the paso ended and the emcee gave us all some time to catch our breath before the jive that I started to realize my body was so tired, my center was on the verge of caving in.
“Mouth open,” Sasha whispered in my ear, again reading my mind, and my body.
I smiled and parted my lips. Yes, I could do this. Just one more to go.
Jive was like a lightning-fast sprint at the end of a cross-country marathon. But I could do it, I could sprint. I was an elite athlete. I’d trained hard for this. I’d eaten well. I’d worked out hard. I’d practiced. My body would not give out on me. I would not give out on Sasha. The two of us were in mad, passionate love. We were invincible.
The swingy fun big band tempo began and Sasha looked down into my eyes again. Again, the picture of calm, right before all hell broke loose with our feet. He raised his eyebrows as an indication of when he intended to begin. And we were off. I literally felt sweat flying from my face again. I just hoped it didn’t hit anyone in the audience. I could see Greta’s dress in the distance. It looked like a watercolor with the speed at which we were moving. I couldn’t imagine how I looked. For all I knew, with my costume having been worn for nearly twelve hours by now, I could have a sweat stain trailing from my armpit to my hip. That tear on the back seam might have unraveled and advanced itself enough that I might have a major costume malfunction. I felt myself slowing, my kicks becoming sloppy.
No. No thoughts. Just move.
And I did. I saw nothing but Sasha’s wide blue eyes, full of excitement and passion, his sexy-as-hell cocked grin set aflame by all the cheers. And felt nothing but his strong, protective hands around my waist, turning me, around my shoulder rolling me out in a sweetheart position, and finally wrapping around my back for our final, dramatic dip.
The music ended, and I was almost sad it was over. The crowds went insane. I’d never heard so much noise in my life. I would definitely have rock-concert-level deafness for the next couple days. Sasha took my hand, then reached for Micaela’s, next to him. I felt Piotr on my other side reaching for my free hand. I wasn
’t sure what was going on, but he smiled at me and it was a genuine smile that seemed to say he was relieved the whole thing was over and we were all in one piece. We were survivors together, even if our partners were bitter enemies. I giggled and accepted his hand. When all of us were laced together, arm in arm, we all ran at once across the ballroom floor in a horizontal line. When we got to the opposite side of the room, we all took bows. We then did this for each of the four sides of the room, including the band side. Oh, okay. I’d never seen this kind of thing before. It was fun.
Then the wait to get the scores was on. It was two in the morning. We didn’t go back to the tent. We didn’t really need to. We didn’t need to groom or eat or rest. Instead we paced back and forth across the shortest perimeter of the ballroom floor. Rather, Sasha paced and I followed him.
“They’re taking longer than usual,” he said, after what seemed to be a hundred or more back-and-forths. I was getting tired just keeping up with him. His brow was furrowed, his mouth in a straight line. Sasha was nervous now, his adrenaline gone, no longer necessary. Anxiety was worming its way into his core.
“I wonder why?” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“Something’s going on,” he snapped.
Everyone was pacing around. Jonathan, Micaela’s partner, had the exact same look on his face as Sasha. So did Piotr.
Bob, the team captain, approached us, placed an arm around Sasha’s neck and walked him a few steps away from the crowd, whispering something in his ear. Sasha, realizing he’d left me behind, glanced back and held up a finger. I nodded.
All the competitors now looked exhausted and worried. All except Micaela. She remained at the edge of the ballroom and, looking serenely down at her toes, performed perfect rumba walks back and forth, her feet in flawless forty-five degree turned-out position, her hips elegantly shifting back and forth, her arms gracefully moving in tandem with her hips. She wore a slight smile and looked so calm and happy, so in her element. Just as I’d first seen her in the pavilion, she was the portrait of grace and elegance. It wasn’t like she was trying to impress anyone; she was just being herself. The dancer in her simply never left.
I, in contrast, was so tired my center was caved in and I was slumped over myself, waiting impatiently for Sasha to return to me, a worried, fatigued scowl likely covering my face. Would I ever be like Micaela, I wondered? Would my body ever naturally announce I was a dancer, or had I forever succumbed to bent-over-the-computer lawyer posture? Would I ever be completely at peace with myself? Again, as before, she caught me looking at her. I was embarrassed. But before I could look away, her lips blossomed into the most beautiful, beatific, gracious smile. I smiled back. No matter what happened, no matter their judgment, she would have that.
Then I saw Arabelle. It was hard to read any expression on her face. Her nose seemed to keep swelling. And now she had bruises under her eyes. Despite Sasha’s words about her husband, I still felt awful for what had happened tonight. She was standing alone, looking down. Her partner was nowhere in sight. I walked toward her. She must have seen my shadow approaching. She looked up.
“Rory, thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you helping me, especially since it meant getting blood all over your dress.”
“Oh no, don’t be ridiculous!” I’d been afraid she wouldn’t want to talk to me. But she was actually grateful. I couldn’t fathom not helping her up. “How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Awful,” she said. Then she smiled. “But thank you for asking.” She paused, as if she had something else to say.
I waited.
“You know, I had such a hard time with him.” She looked at Sasha, who was still chatting with Bob. “I don’t know how you did it, but you worked a minor miracle.”
“I was thinking just the same,” said a sexily scratchy, Demi Moore-esque voice with a Russian accent.
I looked up to see Micaela, who was now standing on the other side of me. I realized I’d never heard her speak before. Her voice wasn’t what I was expecting. I laughed, realizing we all had something in common.
“Yeah, well,” I said with a shrug, raising my eyebrows in his direction. He seemed to know we were all eyeing him because he looked back, his eyes stopping briefly on each of us, then remaining on me. He squinted at me, his playfully wicked smile belying his mock-confrontational look.
“You won, Aurora,” Micaela said, shocking me a bit. I looked at her. Did she have access to the scoring? She read my mind and shook her head. “No, no, I do not know the numbers the judges gave. But, but…you did something no one else could. You tamed the beast. He loves you, he respects you. And for that, I congratulate you.”
I gazed up at her radiant, flawless, sweat-less face. I giggled, looking back at him. He squinted some more, and cocked his head. The beast, I thought. I’d have to call him that from now on. Well, not always, but once in a while. Micaela smiled and patted me on the back. Her fingers were so light, like feathers.
The emcee announced that the judges had made their decision and directed all of the finalists to proceed to the center of the floor. Sasha breathed deeply and gave me a long kiss on the cheek, then squeezed my hand, and held it tightly. My legs felt like they were going to fall out from under me as the emcee introduced the presenters of the medals, Greta and Dean. The audience went crazier than they had all night when Greta floated out in her gorgeous cinnamon floor-length gown. She looked like she was walking on water. Dean waved to the crowd, a schoolboy grin covering his face, then did a very short series of bachachatas at the speed of light—his trademark. I’d seen him do them many times on the DVDs but seeing him in person was exciting beyond words. I was grateful for this little show; it made me laugh and calmed me down immensely. No matter who won, Dean and Greta were the true stars.
“Ladies and gentlemen, placing in sixth in the cha-cha, from Italy, Roberto Montecelli and Ariana Brushendi.” Everyone clapped and Ariana went down the line one by one, hugging each woman, while Roberto shook the hands of each man. Then they proceeded to the winners’ podium where Dean placed a medal around Roberto’s head and Greta the medal around Ariana’s.
The emcee then announced fifth place, which was the Chinese couple. When he got to fourth place, I really felt like I was going to fall over. Not from being lightheaded, but from the excitement. My adrenaline was back, pumping so forcefully I needed to dance or bounce or do something besides stand still.
The emcee paused. The room was silent. From here on, there were no real expectations. Anyone could place anywhere. Well, except Micaela and Jonathan.
“Placing in fourth, from the United States…” My heart began to fall. “…Piotr Smekalov and Xenia Lupinski.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as the crowd reacted. The throng seemed pretty evenly split into cheers and disappointed “ooooohs.” Well, Xenia and Piotr were higher-ranked than Arabelle and Andrew. So this was an upset. Xenia gave a curt smile out at the crowd and cursorily hugged each of us. That was uncomfortable, and I’d have to be going through this four other times, for the other dances as well as the announcement of the final, overall winner.
After Xenia and Piotr proceeded up the steps to get their medals, Jonathan grabbed my hand. I looked over at him. Oh, we were all holding hands in a row, as a show of solidarity. The emcee announced the third-place winners as Arabelle and Andrew. Arabelle nodded and smiled. Now, the entire ballroom cheered, no one uttered an “ooooh” at the placing, including Xenia and Piotr fans. In fact, the audience gave them a standing ovation. It was unanimous.
It was the happiest scene I’d experienced since I came here. I was already standing, of course, but I held my hands high above my head and clapped. She turned to the crowd and bowed graciously, her hands folded together as if in prayer, just like in the cabaret performance in the O.C., which she gave in honor of her late husband. The gesture made the crowd go even wilder and brought tears to my eyes.
As Greta placed her medal over Arabelle’s hea
d, Sasha put his arm around me and squeezed, and kissed my cheek. This was it.
“Placing second in the cha-cha…”
There was a long, drawn-out drumroll. You could feel the tension spread over the whole room. It was completely silent, absent the drums. People harrumphed. I wanted to kill that drummer. Or the emcee. Or both.
“…Ladies and gentlemen, from the United States, Sasha Zakharov and Aurora Laudner.”
I took a deep breath. Okay, this wasn’t what we were hoping for. I didn’t even look at Sasha. I didn’t want to see the disappointment in his beautiful eyes. I simply focused on hugging Micaela and Jonathan. When Sasha took my hand and turned me toward the audience to take our bows, I realized there was cacophony. A good half of the audience was booing the judges’ decision, rather loudly.
“First place, first, first!” I heard a group of people chanting. Sasha smiled a knowing smile and nodded his head at the crowd. It was more than a little weird, taking a bow to a chorus of loud boos that were actually meant to support us.
We went up to the podium and received our medals. “You did tremendously well,” Greta said to me, placing the medal around my neck.
I smiled at her but felt like crying. I was terrified to look at Sasha’s face.
Micaela and Jonathan were announced the cha-cha winners and this time, there were still boos but the chorus of cheers overtook them, thankfully. It was actually uncomfortable hearing so many people boo, even if it was for our placement.
We all returned to the floor to hear the samba results. The placements were all the same as for cha-cha. The crowd had all the same responses: standing ovation for Arabelle, a combination of boos and cheers for Xenia and Piotr’s placement under hers, and a combination of boos and cheers for our second place results and Micaela’s and Jonathan’s first place.
The boos for our results even seemed a little louder this time as we took our bows.
I was coming to terms with being second best. This was my first time here; it was kind of selfish or haughty of me to expect more. I was just upset for Sasha. I’d wanted so badly to be a better partner for him than Xenia, to help him get to first. Even though we’d placed above Xenia and Piotr, I hadn’t helped him get any higher than he had with her. I’d failed him.
