Wallflower In Bloom

by Claire Cook

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Timmy,” my mother said. “It’s just upset because it can’t find its owners.”

  The dog’s wiry black fur was perfectly groomed—shaved close to the body, with longer bursts of fur creating a hat on top of its head and a pom-pom at the tip of its tail. The fur on its legs was longer, too, like go-go boots. I’d been dancing my heart out to “Sugaree,” hiding behind my family so they couldn’t see me, spinning around and around until I thought I’d become airborne. Now I had a sudden urge to start singing “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” Fortunately I was old enough to know that something like that could get you kicked out of a Dead concert.

  The dog was the kind that would wear a jeweled collar, but it was collarless. It jerked its long pointy nose back and forth frantically as it searched the crowd.

  Colleen and Tag jumped up at the same time. Colleen held out a Necco Wafer. “Here, doggy doggy doggy,” she yelled, her voice barely making a dent in the blare of “Sugar Magnolia.”

  “Come to papa,” Tag yelled, waving a good-size chunk of Devil Dog in the dog’s direction.

  The dog stopped, tilted its head back and forth at our family a few times, then trotted over to me. When I bent down to pat it, it lapped my face.

  “What?” Colleen said. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s a dog,” Tag said. “Ya know, takes one to know one?”

  “I know you are, but what am I?” I said.

  My mother and Joanie Baloney made their way to the information tent to report it, but the dog, which turned out to be a boy my father had already named FooFoo, stayed with me.

  “A dog has lost its people,” the concert organizers announced when the band took a break. “Please count your dogs.”

  When we got home, we tried everything from posters to a pet psychic my parents knew to find FooFoo’s rightful owner. Eventually we got to keep him. My parents didn’t believe in shearing poodles politically, so they let his fur grow out until it looked almost like dreadlocks. He was so smart that my father used to say he was the brains of the family.

  I didn’t care how smart he was. I just knew that FooFoo was the one person in the entire world who always picked me first and who loved me just the way I was. He died of old age when I was away at college, and my mother didn’t tell me because it was the week of final exams. When I got home, I was devastated to find out that FooFoo was buried behind the garden.

  Tag shared custody of his two shelter dogs. Colleen went on to have an assortment of cats and Joanie a series of purebred golden retrievers that wore bandannas around their necks to match the rest of the family. But I’d never given my heart to another pet.

  Now, with my new life starting, maybe it was time. Briefly I considered buying a couple of canaries, but I decided they’d probably be even more depressed in my temporary apartment than they were here in the pet store. Plus, I wouldn’t be home enough to give them the kind of attention they deserved.

  Then I noticed the big fish tanks along the back wall of the store. I walked over and stood there, watching for the right fish to come along. By the time the guy came out from behind the register and asked if he could help me, we’d found each other.

  I waited until he scooped up my two goldfish and poured them into a clear plastic bag filled with water from the tank and handed them to me.

  “Fred,” I said, “meet Ginger.”

  The magic in these soles will bring out the magic that was in your soul all along.

  I was nervous, really, really nervous, and it didn’t help that my first stop of the day was the 7 a.m. physical with the Dancing With the Stars physician.

  I’d barely slept a wink. When I got back from my walk, the temperature in my temporary quarters had dipped so low because of the air-conditioning that the place could have passed for an igloo. It was so cold I probably didn’t even need to put the milk in the refrigerator, but I did. Then I turned off the AC and sat on the hallway floor with the apartment door open, holding the goldfish until I was sure frostbite wouldn’t be an issue for any of us.

  Getting Fred and Ginger out of the plastic bag and into their goldfish bowl turned out to be a lot more stressful than I’d anticipated. I washed and rinsed the bowl extra carefully, then filled it halfway with tap water and added a carefully measured capful of Nutrafin Goldfish Bowl Conditioner. I let the water come to what was now a more palatable room temperature. Then I lowered Ginger and Fred, still in their plastic bag, into the bowl. I waited a couple of hours until the water temperatures merged and I was sure everything was copasetic. Finally I took out the bag and untied the knot at the top.

  I gauged the width of the opening of the goldfish bowl against the opening of the plastic bag. There seemed to be a fair amount of room for error. I pictured Fred and Ginger flopping around on the hard tile floor of my sad little transitory kitchen. I hoped if I accidentally killed anybody, they’d at least both go together.

  “One, two, three,” I said. Ginger splashed into the bowl right away, but one of Fred’s fins kind of doubled back behind him. I held my breath and gave the plastic bag a shake. I flicked it with one finger. Finally Fred plopped into the water. He seemed stunned for a moment, then he wiggled off on a lap around the bowl.

  Crisis averted, I gave them an extra-big sprinkle of goldfish food and went to find my turkey sub. I finished the whole thing before I remembered I was going to save half for breakfast. I brushed my teeth and carried Ginger and Fred into my bedroom and put them on top of my tiny white dresser.

  I leaned over until my face was close to the tank. “I kept fishing in the deep blue sea until I found the only fish meant for me,” I sang.

  I was starting to scare myself with all the echoing, so I crawled into bed. I stared up at the ceiling for a long, long time. Then I remembered the M&M’s. I turned on the single bedside light and climbed out of bed to get them.

  I climbed back in again, pulled the covers up to my chin, and tore open the bag. “If the first one is turquoise, I will call Steve Moretti,” I said. Alone in L.A., I was starting to find his motives a little less suspicious. Or maybe my proximity to Hollywood had simply increased my level of denial.

  I wiggled one finger around in the bag and slid out a single M&M. It was orange so I just ate it.

  “If the next one is turquoise, I will call Steve Moretti.” It might have been my imagination, but it seemed like Fred and Ginger were intrigued by my game. Their noses were practically pressed up to my side of the bowl.

  The next M&M was yellow, so I ate that one, too. I mean, what would I say to him anyway? Hey, it’s Deirdre. Sorry I ran away like that. Anyway, long story but guess what? I’m going to be on Dancing With the Stars.

  Great, he’d probably say. I have a script that’s basically in development.

  I closed my eyes and ate the rest of the M&M’s without even checking their colors. Then I crumpled up the empty wrapper and reached over and turned off the light.

  I still wasn’t the least bit tired, and now my stomach hurt. I sat up in bed and reached for my laptop. Belatedly, it occurred to me that I’d never actually watched an episode of Dancing With the Stars. Who had time to watch TV when you worked for someone like my brother?

  I waited for my laptop to power up. It’s not like I didn’t know the basics: that you had to dance. And that there were celebrity dancers and professional dancers, and the costumes were really cool.

  I found hulu.com and searched for Dancing With the Stars. Hundreds of episodes popped up. “A journey,” an announcer’s voice said when I clicked on one randomly, “is the act of traveling from one place to another.”

  “Ha,” I said. “Not a problem. Been there, done that.”

  Under glittery ballroom lights, a couple was introduced. The male’s shirt was unbuttoned three-quarters of the way down, but he looked positively overdressed next to his partner, who was wearing only low-slung black tights and a black sports bra covered in sequins. And five-inch heels.

  I choked back
a scream. I clicked on episode after episode until I couldn’t take it anymore.

  Then I typed The Mary Tyler Moore Show into the search bar. Halfway through the “Put on a Happy Face” episode, my heart finally stopped thumping enough to go to sleep.

  I was still trying to get out of my physical, preferably as a start to getting out of DWTS altogether, while I peed into a clear plastic cup and twisted the cover on.

  I opened the bathroom door. “You know,” I said as I handed over my cup, “one of my hips gets kind of stiff when it rains. Oh, and I’m not really sure all my vaccinations are up-to-date.”

  Karen the producer rolled her eyes. “We’ll alert your dance partner.”

  “And I have this little cough I can’t seem to shake.” When I coughed, it sounded fake even to me.

  The doctor smiled. “You look as healthy as a horse.”

  “Thanks. But next time you might want to go for a slightly less bulky image. Are you sure I really need a physical? Couldn’t I just ask one of my parents to sign a permission slip?”

  “It’s for insurance purposes,” Karen said. “And because we want you to be safe, of course.”

  At that, Doctor Dance, or whoever he was, pointed to the scale.

  “No way,” I said.

  “Way,” he said. Or maybe it was weigh.

  I climbed up on the scale and closed my eyes. “Just do me a favor and don’t say the number out loud, okay?”

  He said it out loud anyway. I cringed.

  “Before you know it,” he said, “you’ll be in the best shape of your life.”

  “Can you put that in writing?”

  To my complete surprise, the exam deemed me danceworthy, so our next stop was the costume designer.

  “And I was just feeling so good about putting my clothes back on,” I said.

  “Don’t get used to it,” Karen said.

  “But doesn’t it make more sense to get some dancing in first?” I started to say that the first show wasn’t until next week, but the words got stuck in my throat as the reality of my situation hit me: I was going to dance publicly. On television. A week from today.

  Karen had already started walking. “Fittings for the other celebrities started last week.”

  “Ha,” I said. I took a little hop and a skip to try to catch up with her. “I’m sooooo not a celebrity.”

  Karen turned her head. Her lips were pursed. “You will be soon. One way or the other.”

  I finally caught up and matched my steps to hers. I was trying to bond, since I figured I needed at least one ally in Hollywood, but she wasn’t making it easy. “Just curious, but how many people watch this show anyway?”

  Karen looked up from her phone. She’d been texting nonstop since I’d met her this morning. “Twenty-three. . .”

  “Million?”

  “But we’re hoping for an uptick in numbers this season.” With that, Karen and her phone wandered away without saying good-bye, leaving me at my next stop.

  A female costume designer would have been embarrassing enough, but wouldn’t you know my appointment was with a guy named Anthony and his tape measure.

  “Sorry,” I said after we introduced ourselves, “but I’m probably not going to fit into Kelly Genelavive’s clothes.”

  Anthony laughed and looked over his shoulder. “Honey, a two-year-old couldn’t fit into her clothes,” he whispered. “She hasn’t had a full meal since 1993, bless her emaciated little heart.”

  He was making me feel so much better I felt guilty. I made my face look concerned. “How is she doing?” I whispered.

  Anthony swung his arms wide. “Drama,” he said. “It’s all about the drama.”

  He reached around me with the measuring tape. I cringed.

  “Relax, lamb chop. I will make you more beautiful than you have ever been in your life.”

  “The bar is low.”

  “Illusion mesh,” he whispered. “It’s a beautiful thing.”

  I knew the dance bar, on the other hand, was going to be high. To start, Anthony helped me pick out a pair of dance shoes. Piles and piles of shoe boxes from every dance shoe manufacturer on the planet took over one whole wall of the wardrobe room. The assortment was so overwhelming I just stood there.

  “Do any of them come with training wheels?” I finally asked.

  Anthony laughed. “What size are you, darlin’?”

  I held up the appropriate number of fingers.

  Anthony held out a pink box. “Jewel started with these. She loved them.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Didn’t she end up with stress fractures?” I distinctly remembered seeing her sitting in the audience in a walking cast. Or maybe it was two.

  Anthony shook his head. “Drama.” He reached for another box. “Here, try these. They were Kirstie’s favorite.”

  “Okay,” I said. “If they’re good enough for Kirstie, they’re good enough for me.”

  The shoes were flesh colored and the heels were nonintimidatingly low. They were amazingly light, lighter than a pair of flip-flops and almost as light as a pair of sneaker socks. I buckled the strap over my instep and walked a few steps. I slid one sole across the floor and then the other. No stick at all. My right foot shuffled perfectly, and my left wasn’t far behind. I could almost imagine shuffling all the way to Buffalo in these babies.

  “Wow,” I said. “I had no idea it was all about the shoes. So anytime I get into trouble I just click my heels together?”

  Anthony grinned. “You got it, Dorothy. The magic in these soles will bring out the magic that was in your soul all along.”

  It wasn’t quite a chiasmus, but it was close enough to feel like a good omen.

  Anthony winked. “And if that doesn’t work, baby cakes, there’s always rehab.”

  Live to dance and dance to live.

  Sorry,” I said. Apparently sorry was becoming my mantra. “But I’m probably not going to be as good as Kelly Genelavive.”

  “Kelly Genelavive,” my dance partner said, “was a thug with hair spray.”

  My partner’s name was Ilya. He was elegantly handsome in a kind of chiseled-featured, slicked-backed-hair, narrow-hipped, tight-butt way that they simply didn’t breed in Marshbury.

  Karen had delivered me to Ilya, then slipped away again as soon as she introduced us. I didn’t even really like her, but I still felt completely abandoned every time she left me. Whose idea was this DWTS thing anyway? Maybe I could still get out of it with a quick injury and a public-service announcement. Don’t drink and surf the Internet, I’d say. I’d be propped up on crutches, with a couple of walking casts and maybe even a big white bandage on my forehead. It’s simply not worth the risk. My sad eyes would find the camera. Look what happened to me.

  As if I’d summoned it, a real camera appeared. The guy who was holding it started tiptoeing around the room like that might keep me from noticing him. I’d watched enough DWTS episodes last night to know that my only hope was to ignore him. If I stamped my foot and asked him to leave or to come back later, if I cried or ran off to brush my hair or to put on some makeup, that would be the footage they’d show to twenty-three million people on international TV right before my first dance. I mean, basically DWTS was reality TV with some choreography thrown in.

  My dance partner held out his arms.

  Every inch of me wanted to turn and run away, as far and as fast as I could go.

  He wiggled the fingers on both hands in a come-hither gesture.

  When I was a little, little girl, I used to think that if I closed my eyes, it would make me disappear. I closed them now.

  No such luck.

  I tried to take a step, but my new dance shoes seemed to have sprouted roots. “Oh, please don’t make me do this,” I said.

  Ilya crossed the space between us. He was wearing a white T-shirt and black jeans and a black vest and black sneakers, and even walking across the room, he moved with a wiry feline grace.

  He grabbed my right hand and
rested the fingers of his other hand gently on my waist. I was so jumpy it tickled. I bit my lower lip to try to stop the giggle that slipped out of my mouth.

  Ilya started waltzing me around the practice studio as if he were taking me out for a test drive. The room was long and open, so we had lots of ground to cover. One whole wall was covered with a devastating expanse of mirror. I tried not to look.

  I flashed back on that old Felix the Cat cartoon from my childhood and realized that’s who Ilya reminded me of: He was a dead ringer for Felix. And then suddenly I couldn’t get the stupid theme song out of my head. It was driving me nuts, but I couldn’t get the words quite right either, which was driving me even nuttier. Something about Felix the Cat being the wonderful, wonderful cat and how you’ll laugh so hard your sides will ache and your something will go whackety whack. Or pitter pat. Or something like that. And that’s Felix the somethingful cat.

  My dance partner stopped abruptly. Clearly my Felix the Cat flashback was not helping my waltz. The good news was the camera guy wasn’t laughing. At least not out loud.

  When I opened the door to our practice studio to make a bathroom run, Karen the producer was standing there. She handed me her phone.

  “Hello,” I said into the phone for lack of a better idea.

  “Just checking in to see if you need anything,” Joanie Baloney said in her most adorable voice.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Oh, I must have made a copy when I wrote down your messages.”

  “You must have?”

  “I just thought one of us should have an emergency number for you.”

  Karen’s arms were crossed over her chest. If she’d been wearing a watch, she would have been looking at it.

  “So,” Joanie said, “how’s it going?”

  “Listen, I can’t talk. Mostly because it’s not my phone.”

  “Listen, I’m just trying to help. And if you’d actually answer your own phone, I could call you on that.”