“No . . . but—”
“No buts!”
“Julia, it’s not that easy.”
“Love never is.”
Love? My heart thumps at the word. Do I love Rio Martin? “How do you know if you’re really, truly in love?”
Julia shrugs. “You just do.”
“Well, I’d best be goin’. Morning will come way too soon.” I stretch and start for the door but before I leave I turn and say, “Thanks for the snack and the wine. And, Julia, it was good to get to know you.”
“Still think I’m a bitch?”
“I never thought that.”
“Liar.”
I have to laugh. “Maybe a little.” I hold up my thumb and finger about an inch apart.
“Well, good luck with smokin’ hot Rio. But I won’t say good luck with the dance ’cause I want to beat your long-legged butt. You’re like Stacy Keibler in Dancing with the Stars and I’m like Tatum O’Neal, who was the underdog.”
“I’m the underdog,” I insist. Why can’t I be the underdog?
“Well, one thing is for sure. We gotta beat the pants off Danny and Angelina!” She sort of spits the name out with the emphasis on lina and then wrinkles her nose.
I give Julia a thumbs-up and open the door. As I head for my room I’m thinking that life sure takes some weird twists and turns. Oh, but then thinking of twists and turns has me remembering the jive, which I suck at, and that the doggone dress rehearsal for the second live show is tomorrow! If it weren’t for the two glasses of wine making me feel mellow I just might have a panic attack.
After scrubbing my face and brushing my teeth I slip beneath the covers hoping that I’ll fall right asleep because I know that tomorrow is going to be stressful. Not that I’m complaining or anything. While I’m not sure how this will all end up, my life is changing in ways I never thought possible. I’m starting to dream . . . to want things that I should have been going after all along, and I pretty much have Rio Martin to thank . . . or to blame.
16
Fancy Footwork
“What if I fall?” I ask while Rio and I wait in the wings at the dance hall.
“You’re not going to fall, Abby,” he says with more conviction than needed, which leads me to believe that he thinks I might fall.
“I’ve fallen every day this week. It’s all of those doggone kicks and spins.”
“But you won’t tonight. Muscle memory will take over.”
“Yeah, my muscles will remember to fall!” I tug on his fifties-style bowling shirt and ask, “Can we take that last part out where I slide through your legs?”
“You’ve always performed that part without a problem.”
“Yes, but I think about it all through the dance and it’s harder in this poodle skirt.” I feel the need to stomp my foot like I’m some sort of diva. My Sandra Dee ponytail swings back and forth. “Maybe that’s why I fall.”
Rio pivots to face me and then takes both of my icy cold hands in his hot ones . . . or maybe they just feel hot because mine are freezing.
“Listen, Abby,” he begins in a calm and soothing voice, “if you fall . . . well then, you fall, okay?”
“No, it’s definitely not okay!” Have I caused Rio to lose his mind?
“Yes, it is. This is about who the audience likes, remember? And you are very likeable. If you fall the judges will ding you but the audience will eat it up.”
“You’re not telling me to fall, are you?”
He sighs. “No . . . Abby, just try to relax. Turn around and watch Mac Murphy the truck driver perform the paso doble. That should take your mind off falling.”
“Okay,” I say and take a deep breath, something I’ve been doing a lot of lately. My eyes widen as I watch Mac, dressed in a colorful red embroidered jacket . . . the tiny kind that bullfighters wear, tight black pants, and a black cummerbund. His partner is dressed all in red.
“He’s supposed to be a bullfighter and she is the cape. Watch. This is an interesting dance.”
One I hope we don’t have to do, I think to myself. I don’t relish the idea of being a cape. Although Rio would look amazing as a matador. He could cock that one eyebrow and all that.
After Ben announces them, “Pump It,” by the Black Eyed Peas begins blasting over the sound system. I’m a bit surprised by the song selection but it works. At first I think Mac is going to be laughable in the little bullfighter jacket with the fringe on the back but he has this serious look on his face and is surprisingly believable. I’m starting to think that Rio was right. Mac Murphy is the dark horse in this contest. He’s funny enough to please the audience and talented enough to please the judges.
“They’re good,” I whisper loudly in Rio’s ear so as to be heard over the Black Eyed Peas.
“Yes, but you’re still the underdog,” he tells me with a wink and a smile and suddenly I begin to relax . . . a little anyway.
“If I fall, I fall,” I whisper to myself.
Mac and his partner end the unusual dance with a twirling flourish and the crowd shows their appreciation with extended applause. Some of them even jump to their feet. Mac is grinning from ear to ear and I can’t help but feel happy for him. This sure is different than being behind the wheel of a big rig . . . or cutting hair, plowing fields, or arranging flowers. All of those professions including mine are ones to be proud of but this . . . this is a chance of a lifetime. I look across the dance floor at Mac, who is beaming at the solid eights he and his partner have earned, and I have to smile even though he’s going to be hard to beat.
Rio squeezes my hand as if reading my mind and I think that he’s beginning to know me pretty darned well. Then I glance over at Mama and Jesse and think of my daddy watching over me and I refuse to let nerves ruin my performance. When Ben Sebastian announces our names I surprise Rio by giving him a big, steady smile. “Let’s do this,” I say and he knows by now to give me a double knuckle bump.
Although my heart is still pounding hard, I walk with Rio out onto the dance floor and we strike our beginning pose beneath the spotlight while waiting for Elvis’s “He Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” to begin.
When the music starts I let the steady beat and Rio’s firm hands and sure lead guide me. In my head I hear “She Ain’t Nothin’ but an Underdog” and I smile. Rhythmical and swinging, fast and fun, the jive is a little bit boogie and a little bit rock and roll with the influence of American swing and deeply rooted in New York Harlem. Yes, I did my homework, thank you very much.
Rio is smiling too and not just for the audience. He winks, letting me know that I’m dancing my ass off. We chassé to the left and right in a jaunty rock step and then Rio turns us to the audience and we flick, ball change. Yes, I remember to point my toes down! I do the really cool rolling-over-Rio’s-back move and my frothy slip beneath my poodle skirt rolls with me in a cloud of lace.
In the background I hear the crowd go nuts and I do believe I pick out Jesse’s whoop and Mama’s whistle. Next comes the part where we hold opposite hands and dance in a circle with one hand over our heads. This makes my heart thud because it’s been one of my falling-down parts mainly because we’re leaning back with our weight and my hands get sweaty. Rio’s eyes meet mine and his grip on my hand is like iron . . . but oh Lord, it slips a little so I’m only holding on to his fingertips and we still have half of the circle to finish. I start sweating bullets because my fingers are slipping and I just know I’m going to land on my ass and spin around just like I did in dress rehearsal.
My fingers slip from Rio’s grip just before the circle ends, causing a little stumble on my part, but I hold it together with the smile frozen on my face and say a silent prayer because this is where we dance together for a moment while Elvis croons “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” and then Rio leads me into a solo spin . . . another one of my falling-down parts.
“Cryin’ all the time . . .” I’m spinning trying to remember to keep my eyes focused on one spot. One spin . . . yea
h, I’m still standing. Two spins . . . wow, the world is beginning to look crazy, colors and music and . . . where the hell is Rio’s hand?
Shit, I’ve spun too far away. Panic grips me because I have one more spin and he’s supposed to reel me back in for the final slide between his legs. I do the spin anyway and by some miracle Rio manages to grab enough of my fingertips to swing me toward him, but I know that I need enough force to slide all the way under his legs and he really has to pull to do that. Thinking that I’m screwed, I propel myself through his legs and anticipate his next move. He’s supposed to tug me back to my feet for our final hands-in-the-air pose.
The operative word here is supposed.
I soon know that I have overcompensated as I shoot through his legs like a cannonball. The floor is polished and very slick, so of course I’m now sliding like I’m on ice, totally out of control and not knowing where I’ll land. I’m thinking maybe in the next county.
The world is rushing by me and I can hear the crowd roar and I’m hoping they think this was all planned. I manage to wonder if Rio is doing some sort of solo dance or standing there with his hands on his cheeks. I see the judges’ table rapidly coming closer and I know that I’m going to crash smack dab into them. Their eyes are very big and their mouths are gaping open. I only know this because all this seems to be going in slow motion even though I know I’m traveling at the speed of sound . . . or is it the speed of light?
Whatever. I’m movin’ like a bat outta hell.
I hope there is an ambulance sitting in the parking lot like at football games but I’m thinking not because ballroom dancing isn’t supposed to be a contact sport. Knowing that the impact is going to hurt and maybe shatter a few bones, I bend my arms, put my hands near my face, and scrunch my legs up in a protective position, which sends me into a really, really fast spin, kind of like those street dancers do.
While I’m spinning like a top the crowd is roaring but I’m not sure if it’s with laughter or approval. I somehow know even in my dizzy state, that I have to make this look planned, so when the spinning stops I lean one bent elbow on the floor and shoot my other hand up into the air in a finishing pose. My world is spinning, so there is no chance of me standing without Rio’s assistance.
Where the hell is he?
While blinking I’m desperately swallowing the sudden icky feeling that’s from either fear of my extreme state of dizziness or more likely both. Luckily the audience is on their feet, at least I think so since everything is spinning, but it’s giving me time to recover.
But where the hell is Rio?
When the swirling in my head stops going so fast I spot Rio all the way at the other end of the floor and his arms are pointed at me in a showcase sort of pose like we planned this whole doggone thing and he’s smiling. At least I think he’s smiling. That might be a look of sheer terror on his face.
Thankfully, Rio starts coming my way because this is a live show and I’m sure we’re using up more than our fair share of our time. He grasps my hand, the one still pointed in the air like I meant to do this, and tugs me to my feet. He’s smart enough to know that he has to wrap his arm around my waist and let me lean against him or crumple into a room-spinning heap at his feet.
Ben Sebastian—and there are two of him since I’m still dizzy as all get out and seeing double—comes walking our way and sticks two microphones in my face. “That was . . . wow, amazing,” he says like he’s in shock. I’m not sure if he means this in a good way or not. Amazing, you know, can mean both. “How long did it take you to learn that spin, Abby? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I’m not sure which one is the real microphone so I sort of speak in the middle of them both. “I owe it all to Rio,” I say even though I think it’s the same thing I said last time. It shifts the attention to Rio, though, which is what I was going for since I’m not really seeing or thinking straight. I fear I may never do either one again.
Ben sticks one of the microphones near Rio’s mouth. “Awesome choreography, Rio. Was this a move you’ve done before?”
“Um, no, actually. It’s new.”
Laughter gurgles up in my throat, either from the sheer hilarity of the question or from leftover terror from my near-death spin, but I squelch it.
“Well, let’s see what the judges think of your innovative rendition of the jive. Myra, let’s begin with you.”
Myra gives us a wide grin and I let out the breath that I’ve been holding, because a grin is good, right? “That was . . .” she begins and then pauses as if she can’t quite come up with a word to describe our performance. Can’t say as I blame her. She squeezes her lips together and after making a popping sound throws her hands up and says, “Unbelievable!”
Again this can be good or bad.
“I was astounded.”
Me too. God, good or bad, why doesn’t she just say it!
“I give you a nine!”
“Peter, were you astounded too?” Ben asks.
“Most certainly!” He flips one hand back and forth and continues. “There were a few flaws, a few problems with the pointing of the toes”—he gives me a look and purses his lips—“but overall it was fantastic! I give you a nine!” He whips the card up so fast that it flies out of his hand and a cameraman has to go running after it.
I want to jump up and down but Rio is holding me fast and I’m still a bit dizzy, so it’s just as well. Two nines!
“Carson?” Ben asks. “Give us your thoughts.”
Carson laughs. Oh, that can’t be good. He opens his mouth again but all that comes out is more laughter. “I . . .” he begins but has to pause to wipe a tear away from the corner of his eye. “Have never been so bloody entertained in my entire life. Abby, I realize that your fingers slipped but your ability to recover was perhaps the single most entertaining moment I’ve had in years. Hats off to you. Despite the obvious flaws you score bonus points. I give you a ten!”
The crowd goes crazy and, professionalism be damned, I turn and give Rio a big ole hug. Whether from surprise or relief, he breaks the rules and hugs me right back. Then after taking a bow where I almost topple over we hurry backstage so that Hank Dooley the construction worker and his partner can dance the rumba.
Julia, now that we’ve bonded and all, breaks the rules and gets out of the order we’re supposed to keep and rushes over. “Mercy, Abby, are you okay? That was . . . was, well, I don’t rightly know. How did you, you know, do that spin?”
I shake my head. “I can’t tell you because it’s all a blur.”
“Back in line, please,” says Jackie, the makeup girl who is also in charge of keeping us in the order that we dance. Julia wrinkles her nose at Jackie but dutifully gets back in line. Pursing her lips, Jackie rushes over and touches up Julia’s makeup with a big fluffy brush like talking to me somehow messed it up.
Since Julia’s my friend now I have to admit that she looks elegant in her long, sweeping dark green dress that glitters with embroidered sparkles. Her partner is dressed in a black suit with his hair slicked back and they look like ballroom dancers should look. Julia’s hair is done up in a forties-style do, sort of puffed up on top and then pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. With her bright red lipstick she looks like an old-school movie star. The fox-trot might be boring but I’m sure that they will make up for it in drama, and from what I’ve read it is much more difficult than it looks, giving me my doubts that I’ll be able to pull it off.
There are several dances left and I can tell you that it feels great to have ours over with. Since we no longer have to be in line Rio draws me to the side. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I shrug. “A bit shaken up but the dizziness has gone away. Mostly. I’m so sorry that I messed up, Rio.”
He frowns. “Are you kidding? I’ve never seen such a recovery. Not even in real competition. How did you do it? I thought for sure you were going to crash into the judges’ table.”
“Me too,” I admit and then start to tr
emble in an after-shock, I guess.
“Let’s sit down,” Rio says with an expression of concern. Taking my hand he leads me over to a couple of chairs near the back of the storage room that’s now the greenroom that’s still not green but Rio told me that it’s a showbiz term. It’s been cleared out and cleaned up so the stale beer smell is a bit better.
We can still see the television monitor from where we’re sitting. Maybe it’s because my accidental yet somehow amazing spin move is still fresh in the minds of the judges, but I think they are a bit harsh with the five and two sixes that they award Hank and his partner. Sure, he looked ridiculous doing the figure-eight hip rolls that the rumba is famous for and Hank looks a bit silly trying to be sensual but give the guy a break.
“Oh, come on, you know I’m right,” Carson protests when the crowd boos his harsh criticism.
“He was just plain mean,” I complain to Rio. “After all, Hank is a construction worker, not a professional dancer. And hey, the weave is danged difficult.”
Rio looks impressed that I know all about the six quick steps in a row called the weave.
“I’ve been studying,” I say a bit proudly.
“I see your point, Abby, but Jerry Rice is a football player. Jerry Springer is a talk show host. It’s part of the entertainment factor of a reality show.”
“I know. But still. Look at Hank hangin’ his head!”
Rio pats my leg. “He’ll be okay, Abby. Speaking of okay, how are you feeling?”
“Better.”
Rio rubs a hand down his face and shakes his head.
“What?”
“I’m recalling thinking that you were going to . . . how do you say? . . . wipe out.”
He looks so worried that it makes me want to kiss him. Of course everything makes me want to kiss him. Clearing my throat I say, “Yeah, who knew ballroom dancing was so dangerous? No wonder Mitchell Banks had me sign that paper that said if I hurt myself it’s not his problem. Of course I’ve had my share of close calls waiting tables too.”
Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues Page 16
