by Tonya Plank
The wait to get the scores was now on. It was half past 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, I paced and Rory followed me.
“They’re taking longer than usual,” I said, after a great many back-and-forths. I always paced at this point in the game. It helped me to keep control; I had to move to maintain focus, especially about something over which I now had no control. But I paced more than usual. It was actually getting tiring.
“Why?” Rory asked.
“Something’s going on,” I unintentionally snapped.
“Well, it seems like everyone’s thinking the same thing. You all have the same intense, confused looks on your faces.”
She was right. I caught Piotr’s gaze. He raised his brows and I shrugged. What the hell was going on?
Bob walked up, placed an arm around my neck for support. He had no answers either.
When I looked back at the floor, I saw Rory had stopped following me. She was now talking with Arabelle. It looked like they were saying supportive things to each other, as Rory pressed her hand against Arabelle’s shoulder and smiled. Micaela soon joined them.
Arabelle glanced at me. Then she said something to Rory, and Rory and Micaela both turned to look at me as well. When my gaze met Rory’s she gave me a serene smile. I knew exactly what they were saying. I was an asshole. A supreme hard-ass, slave-driving, hyper-control freak. But Rory had tamed me. Rory had tamed the beast.
I squinted at Rory, but my playfully wicked smile belied my mock-confrontational look.
Micaela said something else to Rory and now she giggled, and looked back at me again, shaking her head in disbelief. I’d have to find out what they’d said. But later. Because the emcee was back, announcing that the judges had made their decision.
He directed all of the finalists to proceed to the center of the floor. I caught back up with Rory, breathed deeply and gave her a long kiss on the cheek, then squeezed her hand, and held it tightly. I could feel her legs about to give out from under her as the emcee introduced the presenters of the medals, Greta and Dean. Of course the audience went crazier than they had all night when Greta floated out in her cinnamon floor-length gown. She did have that air about her, as if she was walking on water. Dean waved to the crowd, his typical, dimpled schoolboy grin covering his face, then did a very short series of bachacatas at the speed of light—his trademark. Rory laughed, and I was so glad he’d retired. He would be a total bastard to beat.
“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, before proceeding to the winners’ podium where Dean placed a medal around Roberto’s head and Greta the medal around Ariana’s.
I’d forgotten to tell Rory how this went too—the hand-shaking, the procession to the podium for the presentation of medals. I knew she’d watched Blackpool DVDs but I didn’t know if she’d watched all the way through to the awards. But she was smart. She was a lawyer, after all. She caught on after the first go-around. The emcee announced fifth place, which was the Chinese couple. When he got to fourth place, Rory’s legs were shaking again, so she started to bounce a little. I suppose akin to my pacing. She was right to get her adrenaline flowing right now. We were down to the big four.
The emcee paused. The room was silent.
“Placing in fourth, from the United States…” I felt Rory’s pulse dip, and I squeezed her hand. “…Piotr Smekalov and Xenia Lupinski.”
I’d known it would be them. Actually, I thought maybe Arabelle and Andrew might place fourth, but I knew we wouldn’t place behind Xenia. I knew it.
Rory breathed a big sigh of relief as the crowd reacted. The throng seemed pretty evenly split into cheers and disappointed “ooooohs.” Xenia and Piotr were higher-ranked than Arabelle and Andrew. So this was officially an upset, even after what had happened. It was a minor miracle Arabelle was able to continue. The judges knew that and were rewarding her. Xenia gave a curt smile out toward the crowd and cursorily hugged each of us. That was uncomfortable, for Rory and me equally, I think.
After Xenia and Piotr proceeded up the steps to get their medals, Jonathan grabbed Rory’s hand. I’d forgotten to tell her to expect this too. She looked over at him, then realized this too was customary. 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. Good for her. Good for them. No one deserved it more.
Rory was delighted. She held her hands high above her head and clapped, hooting loudly. Arabelle 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’d given in honor of her late husband. The gesture made the crowd go even wilder and brought tears to Rory’s eyes. She sniffled.
“She’s so beautiful. It’s just so moving,” she said as Greta placed the bronze medal over Arabelle’s head.
I put my arms around Rory and squeezed, and kissed her cheek. This woman had such an amazing, warm spirit. I couldn’t believe she was mine. No matter what happened, I told myself, I won. I had her.
“Placing second in the cha-cha…”
There was a long, drawn-out drumroll. You could feel the tension encompass the whole room. I remained still. Rory’s bouncing intensified. It was completely silent, absent the drums.
“Ladies and gentlemen, from the United States, Sasha Zakharov and Aurora Laudner.”
I took a deep breath. This wasn’t what we were hoping for. I couldn’t look at Rory, to see the disappointment in her beautiful eyes. I simply focused on shaking Jonathan’s hand, releasing Rory to hug Micaela. When I took Rory’s hand and turned us toward the audience to take our bows, downright cacophony erupted. A good half of the audience was booing the judges’ decision, very, very loudly. Maybe more than half.
“First place, first, first!” went the chants.
I smiled gratefully out to our fans, our many, many fans, and nodded my head to them, mouthed “Thank you,” and waved, before turning and leading Rory to the podium.
“You did tremendously well,” Greta said to Rory, placing the silver medal around her neck.
Rory smiled at her but I could see the tears welling behind her eyes.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, kissing her on the cheek, which made the crowds erupt with louder cheers than ever before. I really loved this audience. I missed these people every year between Blackpools. We’d lost the judges’ vote, but the crowd loved us. Sometimes that was really what mattered.
Micaela and Jonathan were announced the cha-cha winners and, as they took their bows, that same chorus of cheers and boos emanated from the audience. I dare say there were more of the latter this time. That had never happened before. Not here, anyway.
We all descended from the podium and 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 and Andrew, 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 seemed even louder this time,” Rory whispered to me as we walked toward the podium.
“The audience likes us,” I said.
“It’s weird bowing to boos.”
I laughed. “Yeah, it’s one of the weird things about how awards are given out. Audiences are really responsive, and they really have their favorites.”
She laughed. “I don’t mean I felt it was a bad thing. It
’s rather awesome knowing how many people wanted us to win.”
“It’s not over yet,” I said to her as I led her up the step. She shot me a bemused frown. Yes, I’d told her ad nauseam that the same couple almost always wins all five dances, and is named overall champion. Only a few times in Blackpool history had that not been the case. Our chances of winning any gold medals were almost zilch now. If anyone else would have said what I’d just said to Rory, I’d have laughed my head off and felt sorry for the poor, deluded soul. But somehow I actually believed my own words. Something made me believe it could happen.
But my emotions were all out of whack, as I was pissed and feeling defeated a second later. I could feel Rory coming to terms with this, with being the silver medalists. I knew how much she wanted to help me get to number one, to propel me past Micaela. I knew she felt she’d failed. I could sense it in her weakening pulse, her weakening hold on my hand. And her sweaty palms indicated she was scared that I was mad. I was, but not at her. Never at her again. Anything that happened now was totally my fault. She’d worked so hard, so amazingly hard, especially given her insane boss, her awful sister, that debilitating eating disorder, the sabotage-happy Cheryl, her knee injury, all that she had to deal with. And we still made it this far.
She was beyond amazing. She was my rock. My angel. If I was pissed at anyone, it was the judges, for rewarding the same exact couple it had for years. There wasn’t a new champ until the old ones retired. That was always the case. I thought this year might be different with the new judges. But that was delusional thinking. I should have never gotten my hopes up, Rory’s hopes up. I was pissed that the judges had let her down, had disappointed her so. That’s what I was angry at.
As we descended the podium and returned to the floor once more for the presentation of the medals for rumba I noticed the crowd was beginning to get smaller. People were throwing their hands up and shaking their heads before exiting the ballroom. There were a lot of people who were that angry about the ultimate winners. It amazed me. Judging by that thinning crowd, there were more people who wanted to see us win than Micaela and Jonathan.
“Why are they leaving?” Rory asked.
“It’s a show of disdain for the judges and who they’re crowning the winners,” I said.
“So they’re leaving for us? That’s kind of sad,” she said.
I nodded. “It is.”
The first four medals in rumba went to the same couples as in the two prior dances: the Italians, then the Chinese. The crowd that remained went wild again for Arabelle and Andrew. There was no special standing ovation for them now because everyone just remained standing throughout the presentation of awards. No one bothered to sit. But the cheers for Arabelle grew. She and Andrew were going to place third across the board, it seemed. They both looked thrilled about that. People were no longer bothering to boo their placement above Xenia and Piotr, but were politely clapping now.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” continued the emcee, almost on rote at this point. “Placing second in the rumba, from the United…” The fact that he took a pause like that told me something was up. Something out of the ordinary was about to happen. “…Kingdom, Micaela Dermansky and Jonathan Banks.”
Rory began to walk to the podium, out of custom. But I firmly gripped her hand and held her back. She tossed her head about and laughed at herself, then turned toward Micaela. She’d obviously thought she’d only forgotten to give Micaela her customary hug. When she saw Micaela approaching her, she looked taken aback. I turned to Jonathan and shook his hand, as Micaela kissed Rory on the cheek and congratulated her. I had to give it to her—Micaela was the epitome of grace and serenity. She transferred that shining smile over to me and shook my hand as well. She was not letting one loss get to her.
“Congratulations, Sasha,” she said to me.
“Thank you, Micaela,” I said.
She walked back to Jonathan and they held hands. Micaela was not Xenia. There was no jealousy, no anger. She was in love with Jonathan. Love overcame all those nasty emotions. Only now that I had Rory did I realize that.
I turned us to face the crowd, which was back to roaring. People who’d left were piling back in. There was a bit of cacophony at the doorway. The applause was suddenly deafening. There were no boos now, only cheers.
Rory still looked dumfounded. I whisked her toward me with such force—happy force—she twirled into me, my chest stopping her. I caught her, planting a long, solid kiss on her lips. Of course the crowds went even wilder at this.
It wasn’t until the emcee introduced us as the first-place winners in rumba and she heard her name that she fully realized we’d actually won this dance. And what a perfect dance it was for us to win. Rumba was the most balletic dance, the one that most showed off Rory’s attributes. The fact they’d given us the gold on this dance showed that I was wrong. The judges were not doing the same old same old. They recognized true talent and originality and brilliance. Even if we didn’t win in any other dances, they’d gone against the grain. They’d championed someone who deserved to win.
I think Rory’s obvious bafflement made the audience go even more nuts. She took her hands from me and used both to cover her mouth in a show of complete shock. I bowed. She had to look at me, to follow my direction, still in disbelief.
I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and practically pulled her to the podium, my lips pressed to her cheek all the way. I felt the audience was cheering for love. Not just for the winners of a competition—they were cheering for that too, of course—but for a partnership that was working so beautifully on two different levels.
There were so many flashbulbs going off when Dean and Greta placed our medals over our heads, I was temporarily blinded.
We returned to the floor, and the winners of paso doble were announced for the first four places. Everything was the same. I could feel Rory’s heart pounding so hard, it pulsed straight through my skin, giving me a head rush. Again, we were the last two couples on the floor. Again, the emcee announced the silver medal winners, this time without a pause after United. The crowds erupted—all with cheers—when Jonathan and Micaela were named. Again, I had to hold Rory back from going to the podium. She still wasn’t used to winning. As soon as Micaela and Jonathan were on their way up and we were the last ones standing, I took Rory in my arms, giving her the most passionate embrace of the evening, followed by the most heavenly kiss atop her heavenly lips.
The ballroom was now completely full again, back to capacity, when the jive result announcements began. I felt Rory’s pulse return to normal, her faculties now fully operating again. Now my panic began to go into overdrive. But I wouldn’t dare show it. This was the dance that would decide everything. Rory and I had won two dances, Micaela and Jonathan two. The winners of three or more dances were named the overall Latin ballroom champions. Jive had been our worst dance. Rory, with her lyrical adagio background, had had the hardest time learning it, and keeping up with the fast rhythms. And these judges knew that, as evidenced by our team results. But I sincerely felt that in our final, we really killed it. Rory’s anger toward Cheryl did that for us. She’d been on like never before. Cheryl had inadvertently given her a strength she didn’t know she had.
And then I heard the emcee say Micaela and Jonathan’s names. My mind was so caught up in remembering our jive, how it had felt, how odd it was that Rory’s anger toward Cheryl had driven her so, I hadn’t kept up with which medal was being called. But I hadn’t yet heard our names. Had I missed it? No. Jonathan and Micaela walked over to hug us, the crowd so boisterous I couldn’t even hear Micaela congratulate us, though her lips were right to my ear as we embraced. They turned to walk to the podium, and I took Rory’s hand and turned toward the audience. There was more raucous cheering, more cameras flashing than I’d ever witnessed here. We hadn’t even gone to the podium yet. Perhaps people wanted to capture our completely stunned-silly expressions. We were the new champions. We’d displaced the reigning queen and kin
g, a formerly near impossible feat.
For a split second I followed Rory’s gaze, to a hazy figure out in the crowd. Cheryl. She was in the front standing area, in between the first two sets of seats. I didn’t know how long she’d been there, whether she’d watched the awards ceremony from so close. The second I caught her gaze, she immediately looked down. But she didn’t only lower her eyes; she bent her entire head down, haughty chin and all. Still, I could see the look in her eyes quite well. Her expression was one of utter devastation. Like something all-important had been taken from her. Was our failure really that critical to her? She’d made us the enemy. Unless she saw it the other way around. That I’d hurt her by choosing Rory. Maybe she actually had entertained that she had a chance at this, as a competitive dancer. She had nothing else in life. She had no career and was on the outs with her husband. For a split second, I actually felt sorry for her. She looked so defeated. I looked at Rory.
She was giving Cheryl the same gracious smile that Micaela had given us. She’d become Micaela, both in terms of temperament and, more literally, in terms of championship. I pressed my lips to her cheek, once again. Closed my eyes.
Then, chaos erupted.
“Oh, oh my God!” Rory screamed. “Sasha…I…Sasha, it’s, it’s me! Look!”
I opened my eyes. The lights were so bright. The cheers were so intense. It was hard to hear or see anything in the commotion. For a split second, I thought Rory had seen something that wasn’t actually there. A ghost. Then I saw it too.
My sister.
Tatiana took one glance at me, one pleading glance, her big black pupils penetrating me to the core. Then she took off running, as if she were running for her life. She ran through the aisles. It took me a second to realize she was being chased. By my uncle? He’d broken his promise. Fuck no.
