by Tonya Plank
“Sasha!” Rory squealed. Finally dressed, she emerged. She looked even more astounding than I’d imagined possible. The toga-esque cut definitely gave the dress a classic look. She was a bronzed goddess, the epitome of elegance.
The way her eyes traced her reflection in the mirror made it clear she thought the same. “Okay, your world officially rocks,” she said.
Daiyu’s assistant led us outside the tent toward the elevated runway, where several couples were posing for a photographer. Rory took her place at the end of the line. Sweet Rory. We didn’t have to wait. We were stars. We couldn’t wait, actually. We had to be on in not too long. I placed her hand in mine and gently pulled her forward.
“We go ahead, Rory.” I laughed. “We’re on the team. We need to get going for our practice,” I added when it was clear she didn’t know we were expected to cut the line.
“Oh look, it’s them!” someone shouted.
I turned to see the crowd of onlookers, completely filling the long hallway that led from the runway to the other tents and vendors and out to the main hall of the Winter Garden.
“There are people as far back as you can see. It’s like the red carpet at the Oscars!” she squealed.
“Oh look how gorgeous she looks!” a female voice said.
An embarrassed smile crept across Rory’s lips and she stared out at the crowd, fascinated but also somewhat bewildered.
“Rory, we don’t have a lot of time,” I said, trying to pull her out of her stupor, placing my hand around her waist and gently turning her body back toward the photographer. As we took the final step up the runway and walked toward the camera, the hall exploded with applause.
“Go Sasha!”
“Yes, Sasha!”
“Davay, Sasha!”
“Sashaaaaa!”
People screamed. Then, “Sasha and Rory!”
“Go Sasha, go Rory!”
I smiled out at the crowd and squeezed Rory’s hand.
After the photographers finished taking pictures, we exited the runway and walked to the back practice room. We went through each of our routines once more, costumed. I could tell it took everything Rory had to put her nerves aside. Mine were gone. My adrenaline had taken over. I was on fire, unable to wait much longer to take that stage. We were going to kill it.
“I’m ready. What about you?” I asked, bouncing on my heels.
“Totally! Just touching you, just looking at you in that tight black costume makes me feel sexy!” No squeakiness in her voice whatsoever.
“Good, that’s the way it should always be,” I said, kissing the back of her neck, right underneath her hairline, the last place a little smudged bronzer would show.
As we neared the end of our practice, our team members began to file into the room. Of course that’s when it happened. Our one flub. It was a jive kick, in a side-by-side step. So, very noticeable. I knew it happened because Rory was now on display. It couldn’t happen out there. It couldn’t. Of course I heard Xenia snicker.
You idiot, if Rory screws up it’ll hurt you too, since we’re on a team, I thought but of course didn’t say. Then I reminded myself this was just the team comp. If a flub was going to happen, it needed to happen here. Not when it counted.
“I’m sorry,” Rory mouthed.
I shook my head and whispered, “Don’t think about it. Don’t think.”
“Okay, looks like we’re on, folks!” Bob said with a clap. He told us to get in our proper dance order. I positioned Rory and myself in the back since we’d emerge from the caravan last.
We walked down a long, barely lit hallway. The cheers of the crowd grew the closer we got to the stage. A spasm of adrenaline shot through my veins and into Rory’s where we were connected by the arm. Bob led us out of the hallway and into a small room. A door opened out onto a covered caravan on wheels, with a short step. Bob apologized and told us he’d made a mistake; we needed to reverse our order. Rory and I were to enter first so we’d be getting out last. I felt Xenia’s rotten glare as I escorted Rory past her and up the steps. Rory didn’t look at her. Good. She was learning how to deal with jealous, pissy competitors.
The roar of the crowd became stronger as the caravan inched its way along.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee said. “Blackpool is a small holiday seaside town on the coast of Britain. And look what you’ve done to it. Every year from late May through early June it becomes the world’s most international city. We have registered in our hotels right now people from a total of one hundred and two different countries. The most common first language spoken in this small English town right now is Russian, followed by Mandarin, then English. Also spoken widely here right now are Japanese, Dutch, Polish, German, Italian, Hungarian…”
The list went on and the applause grew with each new language announced. Everyone was proud to be a part of this most international scene, including my love. Rory giggled. I kissed the same spot as before at the nape of her neck and squeezed her hand.
We were the second-to-last team introduced. First was Japan, followed by Italy, then the U.S. As we exited the caravan and descended the steps to the main ballroom floor, the applause went wild, as it always did. I was practically jumping out of my skin.
As always, Great Britain was the final team introduced, and received the greatest ovation. They were the home team after all, and always won the country competition. It wasn’t because this was their turf, but because they’d always boasted the most dancers who placed in the finals. England’s standard ballroom pairs placed first and second in last year’s competition, plus they had the top Latin couple—Micaela and Jonathan. Micaela was Russian but was now a resident of England with her longtime partner Jonathan. I’d told Rory not to be disappointed if the U.S. didn’t win; we weren’t expected to. We should be very disappointed, of course, if we didn’t win the individuals on Wednesday night, though. Very, very disappointed.
We took our seats around the dance floor. First was a waltz. From our side, Maurizio whisked his lovely pro partner, Alexandra, out onto the ballroom. They shared the floor with the first competing ballroom team from each country.
I could feel Rory’s heart pounding so hard it felt like it might leave her body. I hoped it was the good kind of adrenaline, that made you hyperaware, hyper on fire, not the kind that made you worry to the point of defeat. This was her first time in the heat of competition, of performance. I realized just now that neither of us had any idea how she’d react.
We had two dances before we went on, since we were the last couple to go and each couple danced half a dance.
“I just want to get this over with,” she whispered.
“Don’t think that way.” I felt my stomach sinking. This was the bad kind of energy.
“Once we start I’ll feel better, I know I will. I just need it to be soon. It’s the waiting that’s killing me.”
This sounded much better. Waiting sucked. She bounced, about to skyrocket out of her seat. I put my hand on her shoulder blade. She stopped but then her knees began to wobble. I laughed under my breath. “Glad you are so excited to move,” I whispered.
Bob approached and tapped Oleg, the leader of our second ballroom couple, on the shoulder. He stood elegantly and held out his hand for his partner, and they began waltzing. Maurizio caught Oleg’s eye and returned with his partner to their seats. It was almost time for Xenia and Piotr, then Bob would tap me.
“I feel like I have spiders crawling down my legs and I need to shake them off,” Rory whispered.
“Good. You will be able to shake very soon,” I said with another squeeze of her hand.
“Oh, my eyes are adjusting to the light. There’s Greta in the middle of the first row. She’s wearing this long, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous scarlet-colored dress. Oh my, she stands out so far and above anyone else!” Rory’s energy was making her babble. I hoped it didn’t mean she was losing focus.
I spotted Greta as well. She held up a finger pointed right at
Rory. Then she held her index finger vertically, as if to say number one—You’re number one. You can do it.
I returned my hand to Rory’s shoulder blade, my fingers now gently massaging the muscle beneath it. I could feel her confidence surging. Thank you, Greta.
The music changed to a cha-cha and Piotr and Xenia rose. After a few seconds, I felt Rory’s nervous energy surge straight through her fingertips.
“Oh my…I just totally forgot…I have no idea how we start…”
Bob tapped my shoulder. I didn’t have time to calm Rory down. It was showtime, for better or worse. I gave her knee a gentle pat and rose, holding her hand.
As we stood, the crowd exploded with cheers, as usual. Suddenly, Rory seemed to have no idea what was going on. She looked around questioning everything, where she was, what she was doing, why people were screaming.
“Come on, these are for us,” I whispered. I continued leading her toward Piotr and Xenia, to take their place. We were nearly there. There was no time for a pep talk now. She had to follow me. She had to.
After they stopped and let us pass, I did a quick spin to the side, then whisked Rory around in front of me, placing us in our starting position. The crowds were roaring, drowning out the music. I suddenly realized we’d always used music whenever we danced. That was how she knew to dance on the beat. She’d have no choice but to follow me now. I could see her try to concentrate on hearing the beats. No time for worry or self-doubt. I pulled her toward me, then whipped her out to my right, catching her with my right arm. The beginning move of our cha-cha. She was in her proper positioning. I shifted my weight and held my opposite arm out; she naturally cha-cha’d toward it. She was doing it right. She was no longer thinking. Her muscle memory took over. The cheering grew.
“Sasha!!!”
This was what set me on fire. Always. The crowd. The audience. My fans.
“Go Sasha, go Rory.”
Make that our fans. People were chanting for both of us. A lot of people. I met her eyes. It might have been Valentin leading the cheering section; I hadn’t asked that of him. Judging by the cheers, I think people had learned who she was and liked both of us. I had my sexy, cocky smile amped all the way up. The smile I always wore when I danced. I directed it to Rory, then out to the crowd, then back to her, telling her I belonged first to her.
I pulled her into a split, our snazzy ending position. She got there, ended perfectly, just as we’d planned. The music stopped abruptly and the crowd went absolutely wild. I pulled her up from the splits and wrapped my arm around her waist. Holding her beside me, I took a deep bow, bringing her torso down with mine, so she’d follow my movement and take her bow as well. I realized now we hadn’t practiced our bows. As always, the cheering was making my ears ring. It was like being at a rock concert. Then, I couldn’t help it; I turned toward her, my lips brushing hers ever so briefly, the crowd going even wilder. I turned her around, held her hand in mine, and led her back to our seats.
The music changed to a foxtrot, and we sat. The applause didn’t completely die but toned down a lot. Latin was always more popular.
I caressed her knee. “You did very well. Really, really well,” I said, a compliment that was a first for me.
“What? Are you sure? I couldn’t remember anything,” she said, trying to catch her breath.
“Your muscles did,” I said, kissing her on the cheek, now unable to give a shit whether I smudged any bronzer. I had to kiss her. I had to.
Our second dance was the samba. The adrenaline still had us both on a high, but something had changed in Rory’s demeanor. She sat up straight with all the confidence in the world, now like an old pro, used to the blinding lights and eardrum-shattering cheers, which happened the second I stood and reached for her hand. This time I didn’t bother to wait to get to the center of the floor to begin our routine, since samba was a dance that traveled around the ballroom, and since she didn’t need that preparation now. We faced each other and did hip/pelvic rolls toward each other. I went down all the way, and she held my hand while lifting her back leg beautifully in a high arabesque penchée. This was not a traditional samba move—it was one of the steps she and Greta had choreographed as something that would be unique and suit her balletic background. We were unsure how it would go down.
As her pointed toe rose to the ceiling, the crowds burst into applause. They were even louder now than with our cha-cha. They gave her—us—everything we needed with those cheers. They accepted us. They accepted her. And she knew it. She was on fire right along with me. She let the crowd in, let them fuel her. We barreled through the rest of the routine, giving it more than our all, putting our souls into the movement. Samba was a happy, fun, sexy dance. I’d never felt happier than now, dancing with Rory. Never.
Competition dance had always been a source of near-hysteria for me, so needy was I to win. And I still felt that drive. But I’m not sure how to explain it—Rory and I just had this human connection that went so far beyond anything professional. We were one, and now this partnership meant something on a different level. I was in love, truly in love with my partner for the first time ever.
We had another break, during which we watched the ballroom dancers tango. I could tell Rory was using up a lot of energy, which was a good thing but could turn into a bad thing fast. I handed her a bottle of water. “You keep getting better and better. I’m so proud of you, Rory.”
She nearly choked.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No! You’ve never pronounced anything perfect. But that was damn close. For you, Sasha!” The fact she could joke showed how far she’d come in just two dances. She was at ease; she was herself.
Our next dance was rumba. I could feel her adrenaline going strong, but I could also feel her nervous energy dissipate. Our rumba went better than it’d ever gone before. I was brilliantly gentle, if I say so myself, giving her more than adequate time to make her gorgeous lines and do all her beautiful stretches and delicious leg lifts full-out. I couldn’t deprive the audience of that by overusing my strength. The crowd went crazy again as she slowly lifted her leg up all the way until it was straight, toe pointed at the ceiling, when I grabbed it and wrapped it around my shoulder, before sliding her across the floor. It was one of our many signature moves: beautiful and sexy, what rumba was all about. And I could tell she felt both in that moment.
At the end of the dance, Greta stood and held her hands over her head, clapping wildly and hooting. I couldn’t hear her, the crowd was so loud. But she was front and center in the audience. Her very satisfied face couldn’t be missed. Rory saw her too, and waved.
The paso doble and jive were our two final dances. Rory was like a breathtakingly beautiful, free-roaming gypsy recounting a story of woe and passion for her people as she stomped out those flamenco taps. That got a lot of applause, as did her cape-flying multiple pirouettes during my mad high midair turning jump. Her adrenaline was really taking her to new territory, I could tell. And my love of her and immense admiration of her artistry were doing the same for me.
“You are doing stellar. But here, drink, drink, drink,” I said during our next break, handing her the Evian. “They put the most physically strenuous dance at the end on purpose. To test your physical stamina. That’s part of the competition. Take deep breaths. No matter how tired you feel out there, you just have to breathe deeply and keep going.”
She sobered and nodded.
“Even if you have to open your mouth to get the air in. Don’t feel stupid opening your lips as you smile. I’m serious. This is how people crash.”
The jive wasn’t our strongest dance. Rory’s kicks and flicks and kick ball changes had not acquired razor-sharp precision until late. And her speed in that dance was never anywhere near as great as mine. What she lacked in speed and precision, the judges would have to see her make up for in artistry and originality. She did know how to spot from so much ballet, so where many others were lacking—in the supercharged multiple
spins—she should do very well. That’s why Greta had included so many in our routine. They were her strength. And the crowd realized that quickly, as the screaming became thunderous whenever she did one. I could tell Rory was so tired she was on the verge of collapse, but I saw her breathing deeply through her open-lipped smile. And, I could tell, the crowd’s applause kept her going.
The music ended and it was over. I squeezed her hand. “You did it. We did it.”
“I know,” she said, out of breath. “I know!”
As the scores were being compiled, all the couples rose again and took several bows, first individually, then as teams, and finally as a whole group. By the time we took our seats again, the emcee was ready to announce the winners. This comp was much faster than the others. Italy came in fourth, then Japan, then the U.S., and Britain won. As I’d predicted.
“The results mean nothing. But the individual scores will be very meaningful,” I whispered in her ear as we made our way to the podium. We took our places on the second step from the top while professional photographers snapped away, along with everyone in the audience who had a cell phone. Which was everyone.
“This is fun,” Rory said with a giggle as she posed for the onslaught of flashes.
Her attitude made me nothing short of thrilled. The fact that she was happy to get her picture taken meant her self-esteem had grown light years. She wasn’t the least bit worried about any body part. I could tell from the way she moved.
When we finally all got back to the practice room, Bob’s ecstasy level had definitely gone down a notch. “Ugh, I don’t know if we’ll ever beat them,” he said, exasperated. “But here you go.” He passed out copies of scorecards to everyone on the team.
I grabbed ours. These scores would give us a solid indication of how well the judges liked Rory and me, how accepting they were of our partnership.
