Sasha: Book Two

by Tonya Plank

  The crowd was going so wild now, cheering back and forth for the eight of us—Rory and me, Arabelle and Andrew, Micaela and Jonathan, and Xenia and Piotr. If they didn’t have a live band we would never have been able to hear the music.

  The samba ended and they gave us a few moments of rest to reboot for the rumba.

  “Thank the lord for a slow dance,” she said under her breath. Then, “Don’t worry, I’ll put everything I have, and more, into it.”

  Good girl.

  The rumba music began. We did our opening move: my deep lunge/her slow leg lift, followed by me pulling her passionately toward me, and her backing slightly away so she could bow down to me while extending her leg up gorgeously high behind her. The crowd cheered like crazy. As I knew they would. It was one of our most beautiful moves and we could do it full-out now, with so few people on the floor. Then, our series of lightning-fast underarm turns. I led her into the first, then second, then third whipping spin. She was spotting by peering intensely into my eyes. We got so swept up in our little wind tunnel, we created a gust that emanated out to the front few rows of the audience. People laughed and now the applause was so loud it nearly blocked out the music this time, even with the live band.

  Then, I saw it. Something large was coming down, right at us. Right at Rory. What the fuck? I pulled her back to me swiftly. My sharp movement took her off guard and she stumbled. She wasn’t able to développé her leg all the way up, and she ended up sliding into me, her unfolding knee landing not in my groin but smack in my rib cage. It hurt like hell but I didn’t allow myself to move a millimeter. Instead, I picked her up right off the ground and set her back on her feet, squarely. I had to, because things were about to go very bad. I saw Arabelle out of the corner of my eye, falling. The flying object had hit her. Or it had hit the floor near her, and was causing her to take a bad tumble. I heard a loud crack.

  “Oh my God, oh my God!” people cried.

  I stopped moving. As did everyone else. There were screams. But not the cheering kind. The horrified kind.

  Arabelle was behind Rory, sprawled on the floor. Rory looked at me, bewildered. She backed up, looking at my chest, a terrified look in her eyes. I pulled her to me, not wanting her to step on Arabelle, who she obviously didn’t see.

  She followed my gaze and turned around. Arabelle was now completely prostrate on the floor, facedown. There was blood spreading out from under her hair. My first thought was that she’d cracked her skull. There had been very minor accidents before at Blackpool, but nothing ever like this.

  “Call an ambulance,” I yelled.

  It all happened so quickly. The music was actually still going. I don’t know if anyone could even hear me.

  Rory struggled out of my grasp and ran toward her.

  “Rory!” I yelled. I now saw liquid—not blood, but something clear, all over the floor surrounding Arabelle. Whatever was in that object when it exploded had created a liquid pool. Someone had intended for there to be a bad fall. Rory’s heel skidded out from under her.

  Oh no. I watched as she slipped and fell flat on her butt, sliding straight toward Arabelle. At least she fell in the best way possible, unlike poor Arabelle.

  Rory slid toward Arabelle, moving her arms and pulling herself beside her. She lifted Arabelle’s face.

  “Rory, wait,” I called out, knowing you weren’t supposed to move a person who had a potentially serious injury. But, thank God, that didn’t seem to be the case with Arabelle. She was crying and her nose was bleeding badly. It didn’t look like she had any blood on her head. It seemed only to be her nose.

  “We need ice and towels,” Rory called out. She cupped her hand underneath Arabelle’s nostrils to collect the blood. I knew where they kept emergency medical supplies near the practice rooms. I ran off to retrieve bandages and ice, yelling out for people to call for help. Andrew ran behind me. It didn’t occur to me until I’d reached the room that I’d left Rory. I didn’t have my phone with me. I trusted Valentin to keep an eye on everything though. I had to at this point.

  When we returned with ice and bandages, Rory was holding Arabelle in her lap. Arabelle’s white gown had a jagged line of crimson going down the front. It looked like she’d been stabbed in the heart.

  I looked at Rory. Reading my mind, she shook her head. “It’s just her nose,” she said. “But it’s bad. It may be broken.”

  I wrapped ice in a cloth and Andrew and I both helped Arabelle up. I handed her the ice right before a paramedic brushed me aside and took over.

  “Clear out. Everyone please clear out,” he said.

  Rory began to get up. “Be careful when you walk,” I said to her. “There’s water everywhere and it looks like rubber pieces, maybe from some kind of a…balloon?”

  The emcee came over the mike, announcing that the floor would need to be cleaned and Arabelle would need medical assistance. We would resume as soon as possible, he said.

  I grabbed Rory’s hand and walked her steadily around the spilled water. It had created quite a pool.

  “What happened?” she said.

  I shook my head. “Someone apparently threw something containing water—maybe a water balloon bomb—at someone on the floor. Perhaps us.”

  “You know it was Cheryl,” she shouted, stopping to stomp her Latin stiletto into the parquet.

  “Please be careful, sweetheart. I don’t want you to get hurt. There’s still water.”

  She continued to look at me, not moving. Her lips were a straight line. She wasn’t letting me tell her not to worry about Cheryl now. I didn’t know what to say. I’d trusted Val’s guys. Maybe they were watching the wrong person. Maybe Cheryl had someone else do her dirty work for her, somehow knowing I had eyes on her. I needed to get back to the tent to get my phone and text Val. Rory put her hands on her hips.

  “I know,” I said. “She missed you. She’ll get hers. Don’t worry. Let’s get back to the tent.”

  Satisfied, her frown eased a slight bit and she walked with me.

  ***

  Once we arrived at Daiyu’s, I got into my bag and pulled out my cell phone. There was already a text from Valentin.

  We’re investigating, he wrote. If she was behind it, she didn’t do it herself. I was looking right at her as it happened. She looked just as surprised as everyone. Same with the other lady she was with. Sergei said the same.

  Thank you, I responded.

  Rory had been texting her friends too. No one knew anything, apparently. We sat and waited for an update on Arabelle. Instead of being angry, Rory couldn’t stop tearing up. I put my arm around her.

  “I know it was meant for me, and glad as I am it didn’t get me, I’m just so sorry for her, Sasha. She’s the last person who deserved to have her Blackpool ruined, after everything she’s been through. I just can’t believe Cheryl would do this, would actually stoop to this level. I seriously want to kill her. How could anyone be that mean? What happened to her in her life to make her so evil?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Let’s just…let’s not think about Cheryl right now, Rory.”

  She frowned sharply and moved out of my embrace.

  “I mean, I don’t want to be filled with anger right now. We need to be focused on ourselves. If we focus on Cheryl, she’s won.”

  Rory considered this, and slowly began to nod.

  I then noticed her dress had just about as much blood on it as Arabelle’s. And this was her new one, for the finals. She’d have to change back into the old. It wasn’t customary and judges didn’t like changes, whether they be to rules or customs, but what could we do?

  “Come on, just get changed. And don’t think about that witch. Promise me you’ll put it out of your mind. At least until the competition’s over.”

  Her lips parted into a slight attempt at a smile and she nodded again. She got up and went back behind the screen with Daiyu, her assistant having already left by now.

  “Oh shit,” Daiyu said, zipping Rory up. I�
�d never heard Daiyu curse before.

  “What?” Rory said.

  “There’s a tear.”

  “Oh no. I’m so sorry. It must have happened when I took it off earlier. I was rushing so fast, I hadn’t taken off my shoes and I probably got the heel stuck in the fabric. I’m sorry. This is my first time here, Daiyu, and I’m so nervous,” Rory spat out.

  Daiyu laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Everyone does that. I’m surprised there’s only one tear!”

  “Really?” Rory said, trying to laugh too, her face lined with worry. “But what are we going to do?”

  “It’s on the seam. It won’t be hard to fix. But I’ll need you to take it off first.”

  Rory stepped out of it, carefully this time, and sat in a towel, getting her makeup redone, as mascara now dotted her cheeks, while Daiyu sewed at the speed of light, like the consummate pro she was.

  As soon as the hairstylist was done, I walked to Rory. “You were amazing, by the way. I forgot to tell you that. The way you took care of Arabelle. You didn’t even think about damaging your dress, about slipping and getting hurt yourself. I’m so proud of you,” I said to her, squeezing her shoulders, giving her back a mini-massage.

  “I only did what I had to do. You ran off and called the paramedics and got her ice.”

  “You were the fastest thinker, though.” I kissed her on each shoulder, then each side of her neck.

  About half an hour later, Val texted me. It was apparently some guy who threw the water bomb. Twenties, dark hair, short, stocky, wearing dark glasses, thug-like. Your ladies seem to have no involvement. At least they’re not acting the least bit suspicious.

  My heart sank. That description fit my cousin, Pasha, to a tee.

  “What’s up?” Rory asked, eyeing the cell phone.

  “My friends are saying it was a guy who threw a water bomb. No word about any women involved,” I told her, trying to calm myself. It could still be someone they hired, I thought. The description could fit a good many so-called “thug-like” persons. Maybe it wasn’t my family.

  “Really?” She looked dubious.

  I shrugged. “That’s what Valentin says.”

  About twenty minutes later, the emcee was back, announcing that the competition would continue. The floor had been cleaned, the culprit had been found, and authorizes had assured the organizers justice would be meted out. Most importantly, Arabelle was okay. She had a broken nose but no other broken bones or injuries, and would be able to continue in the competition.

  I hugged Rory. “It’s going to be okay. Let’s just do it. They caught the guy. Security is going to be maximized now. Nothing more is going to happen now,” I said, trying hard not to doubt my words and hoping like hell my uncle wasn’t behind it. But why would he be, anyway? He knows Rory is not Tatiana now. There’s no one else on the dance floor whom he would confuse with her. It would make no sense. It wasn’t him. It was just some crazed nutter who hated either us or Arabelle. Or someone out there.

  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. She was still a beautiful woman. And her nose would heal. She took a gracious bow and smiled.

  We began the rumba again. We were now more rested and less tired but, emotionally, Rory was way, way more worked up. Her face said it all: Screw that bitch. We’re going to win. Just let her try to stop us. She still believed it was Cheryl. I could see it in her eyes.

  Rory’s fire returned, and so much more wickedly than ever. It was the most intense rumba I’d ever danced in my life. Again, there was so much cheering it was nearly impossible to hear the music when it stopped. I pulled her to me dramatically, and pressed my lips to hers, leaving them there for several seconds. People cheered, but there were far more chants this time for Arabelle and Andrew than for anyone else. And rightly so. I didn’t kiss my love this time for the crowd. I did it for her, my brilliant, most wonderful partner. My partner who would never, ever let me down. Who would be there forever. Whom I was never, ever letting go.

  We nailed the paso and jive as well. Rory’s jive kicks had the most strength and sharpness and pizazz she’d attained yet. And she was very nearly as fast as I, very nearly so. It was her best jive ever. She wasn’t the least bit overwhelmed by what had happened, or tired. Cheryl had clearly jumpstarted her. Or whoever had thrown a water bomb at us, for whatever reason.

  We returned to the tent again before the finals. Rory ate another banana and washed it down with more Gatorade. “Potassium,” she said. Which was good for sore muscles, we both knew. Gone entirely was her worry about how she looked, wholly replaced with concern over health, over repairing her stressed body.

  One of the 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 agreed. “I guess scoring was easy. Or they want to make up lost time.”

  “Probably the latter, now that you mention it,” Greta laughed. “Nope, they really don’t like to get behind here!”

  On the way to the floor, we overheard the young man tell one of the judges a boy in his teens or twenties had thrown a water missile from the first row of the balcony. His friends had turned him in. Valentin had said Cheryl and Luna were in the mezzanine, nowhere near the balcony.

  “He’d better turn her in. He’d better not take the blame for that witch,” Rory said.

  I simply squeezed her hand. Talking about it at this point was futile. We’d find out what had happened when we found out.

  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. Deafening applause again, for the current champs. I could feel Rory’s heart skipping beats. I squeezed her hand again, letting her know she had nothing to worry about.

  We were the final couple announced. Of course. Roars completely overtook the huge room as we took the floor. It was like an echo chamber. It was hard to make out any specific names this time. Just enormous loads of applause. For all of us.

  Rory looked out onto the floor. Now that there were only six couples on it, its immensity was all the more apparent.

  I pulled her to face me. I placed my palms on each cheek. She looked up into my eyes.

  “I love you,” I mouthed.

  Her eyes sparkled. And laughed. There was no fear, no panic whatsoever. The music began. I swung her out and she was ready. We were off and going.

  We moved like never before. We gave every little thing we had to every single step, no matter how basic, how small. We were on fire together, working each dance as hard as we possibly could.

  The finals were a complete blur, as they usually are. We went from one dance right into the next, with only the emcee’s words breaking the rhythm. I was never more in tandem with my partner. We were fast and flirty in cha-cha, playful and sexy in samba, romantic and in love in rumba, fierce and loyal to each other in paso. No fatigue, no pain, no fear, no worry. The cheers were so loud, so intense, it was completely impossible to hear the music this time. Rory followed my lead perfectly, even if I wasn’t completely on beat. Lead/follow was way more important than us being on beat anyway. The emcee had to shout out the dance’s end. No one could hear the music. 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 Rory was tired, her center appearing to be on the verge of caving in.

  “Mouth open,” I whispered in her ear.

  She sm
iled and parted her lips. Then nodded.

  Jive was like a lightning-fast sprint at the end of a cross-country marathon. But we were athletes. Both of us. We’d trained hard for this. We were ready. We were invincible. I squeezed her hands and she squeezed back, indicating she’d heard my thoughts and couldn’t agree more.

  The swingy big band tempo began and I looked down into her eyes again. The picture of calm, right before all hell broke loose with our feet. I then raised my eyebrows, indicating that I was ready to begin. She read me, like always, and we were off.

  I looked into her wide eyes, full of excitement and passion. For the dance. For me. I whipped her into her series of turns, rolled her out into a sweetheart position, led her in our side-by-side kicks, and finally wrapped my hands around her back for our final, ever-so-dramatic dip.

  The emcee again called out the end of the dance, the music having apparently ended. But I didn’t bring Rory up right away. I gazed down at her, held my hands around her back.

  “I love you,” I said to her.

  “I love you too,” she said back, still prostrate in my arms.

  The crowds were going insane. They couldn’t have heard us, but they likely knew what we were saying to each other. I saw Micaela out of the corner of my eyes. She was reaching for my hand. It was customary for all the dancers to hold hands, forming a line, and run to each side of the stage together, taking a group bow. I was late.

  I pulled Rory up, then held her hand and reached for Micaela’s, next to me, and directed Rory to hold Piotr’s hand, to the left of her. At first she looked confused—this was Xenia’s partner—but Piotr’s smile was genuine and seemed to indicate relief that the whole thing was over and we were all in one piece. She smiled and accepted his hand.

  When all of us were laced together, arm in arm, we ran as one across the ballroom floor in a horizontal line, taking our collective bows, then did the same for each side of the room. Rory laughed the whole time. I’d forgotten to give her all the details of little things like this, like how to take bows, how long the wait would be between heats, and the like. We were always working so hard on the actual dancing. The important part, obviously. But she ended up adapting to it all perfectly, a brilliant woman, a true pro, my partner. And, looking into her eyes, I was just so happy she’d enjoyed herself throughout it all. Competitions are serious, yes, but dance is about happiness.