by Claire Cook
“All dancers?” Tag asked.
Ilya grinned. “Two dancers and one fencer. Whatever floats their boats, you know?”
Tag nodded. “One of my four is talking culinary school. One wants to be a firefighter and one the president. The one in preschool is uncommitted.”
I was still looking at Ilya. Even though I’d been spending most of my waking hours with him, I had no idea he was married, let alone that he had three kids. I’d never even once thought about him having a life outside of Dancing With the Stars. It was like being in kindergarten and running into your teacher at the grocery store and being totally blown away that Mrs. Forest eats.
“Basically, then,” Tag said, “you’re a brand. So, what, you have a website and some dance videos?”
Ilya nodded. “Yeah. Nothing too fancy yet, but we’re working on it.”
Tag nodded. “Make sure you strike while the iron is hot. I have to tell you, my videos are our bread and butter. And once you make them, they’re the gift that keeps on giving. You just mail them out and put the money in the bank.”
I swiveled my aching neck so Tag couldn’t miss the astonished look on my face. I mean, like my brother had mailed a package in the last decade. Or set foot in a bank, for that matter. He probably couldn’t identify an ATM.
“And no need to hire a big production company.” Tag raised his palms to the heavens, a sure sign that he was getting into this. “Just buy your own camera and have at it. People want you, not all the bells and whistles.”
Ilya was nodding away.
“What about social media?” Tag asked. “Facebook, Twitter—”
I couldn’t believe it. Like my brother would know Facebook from a library book, Twitter from glitter.
“Oh, we’re tweetin’ fools around here,” Ilya said. “All the professional dancers have Twitter accounts, plus most of the celebs. Great way to get the vote out, plus it really helps raise our own visibility. Everybody’s starting to amp things up right about now—some of the teams have even brought in social media gurus.”
I swiveled my achy neck around to Ilya. “Seriously?” I asked.
He shrugged. “The stakes are high.”
Okay, so I’d just have to up my game, too. Tag was my piece of celebrity, so maybe I’d have to plant him in the audience after all. But the thought of needing Tag made me absolutely crazy. Like the old saying goes, I couldn’t live with him, but I couldn’t live without him either.
“Well, let me know if you need any tips on strategy,” Tag said.
Just when I thought the day couldn’t go downhill any faster, a guy poked his head in. “Props,” he said. “I’m checking in to see if you need anything for Monday night.”
Tag grinned at Ilya, then held his arms out in front of him and took a few doddering steps. “Just a walker for my sister.”
My face burned while everybody yukked it up. It was like we were kids again, and Tag was telling all his friends what a porker I was.
Still laughing, the prop guy finally turned and left.
“Leave,” I said to Tag.
“What? We were just starting to have some fun.”
“Now.”
“I mean, face it, you’re a bit outclassed in the dance department, but come on, you know I was only kidding.” Tag turned to Ilya. “The only problem with my sister is that she can’t take a joke.”
I turned to Ilya, too. “And the only problem with my brother is that he’s a self-absorbed . . . self-centered . . . egotistical . . . insensitive . . . vain . . . narcissistic. . .”—I took a deep breath—“. . . jerkface.”
Tag shook his head. “That’s more than one problem.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I said.
Then I stomped out the door.
“Half an hour,” Ilya called after me.
The tears I’d been fighting won out.
I knew better. But I found an empty practice studio and called Mitchell anyway.
He answered on the fourth ring. “Hey,” he whispered. “I can’t really talk right now. Can I call you back later?”
I closed my eyes. “You’re still with her.”
“Well, I mean, it all kind of just happened. She’s still pretty upset, so I’m not really sure what’s going on right now.”
My mouth filled with the taste of disgust. It was grainy and metallic. Mitchell was an idiot, but what was my excuse?
“Hey,” Mitchell whispered, “I was just thinking. Maybe you can get me the contact info for the bandleader on the show. You know, just in case they happen to need a backup drummer? That Dancing With the Stars band kicks some serious butt.”
I heard a woman’s voice say, “Who are you talking to?”
“No one,” Mitchell said. And then he hung up.
My first thought was to get out of Dodge. I’d push open the heavy wooden door to the practice studios, then make my way through the tall iron gate and past the security guard. I’d walk the two blocks to that barbeque place Tag had pointed out, and I’d sit in a dark corner at the back of the restaurant, preferably in a booth for even more camouflage. Then I’d order up every disgustingly fattening thing on the menu. A heaping pile of barbequed pork on a big fat white roll. Coleslaw dripping with mayo. Chips, chips, and more chips.
But unfortunately I was wearing a skintight black minidress, which probably wouldn’t stand out all that much in this neck of the woods, but I knew I’d feel funny eating barbeque in it, and I’d probably have to ask for a bib. And then there was the shoe issue. Nancy Sinatra’s boots might have been made for walkin’ back in the ’70s, but my thin-soled dance shoes weren’t meant to encounter the rough surface of a sidewalk.
I could change back into my baggy T-shirt and yoga pants and flip-flops, but then I’d have to face Anthony again, and maybe even Gina and Lila from hair and makeup. One Are you okay? and I was afraid I’d burst into tears again. Even a kind look might put me over the edge. I was hurt and angry and humiliated, and I couldn’t tell how much was about Tag and how much was about Mitchell and how much was simply about how it sucked being me.
So I headed for craft services. I pushed the door open carefully. If someone was in there, I’d just grab a bottle of water from the fridge and keep moving.
The room was empty. A refrigerator stood guard on the far wall and long counters edged the adjacent walls. I scanned past a coffeemaker, a microwave, napkins, and plastic utensils to a platter of fresh fruit covered with plastic wrap, a bowl of raw almonds, a box of reduced-fat, reduced-salt crackers. A package of dry-roasted wasabi peas.
I crossed the space and opened the refrigerator. A big Tupperware container of baby carrots. String cheese. A tray of portobello mushrooms stuffed with fresh spinach and tomatoes and topped with a minuscule sprinkle of mozzarella. Carrot juice, iced green tea, bottled water.
I opened the freezer. Ice cubes. Lemon-flavored Italian ice. A stack of Lean Cuisine single-serving entrees. A stack of Healthy Choice single-serving entrees.
I slid the two stacks apart and reached behind them, my fingers grazing the icy back wall of the freezer.
I’d almost given up hope when I found it: an entire unopened package of Lindor dark chocolate truffles. I wanted to sink right down to the floor with it, maybe even crawl under the table, the way I used to when I was a kid and needed to protect my stash of chocolate chip cookies from my siblings.
Instead I made myself fill a plate with carrot sticks and fruit slices. I put the plate on the table and sat down in a chair. I unfolded a paper napkin on my lap, with the Lindor package tucked under it. If anyone happened to come in, they’d never know I wasn’t eating rabbit food.
One by one, I unwrapped the little truffle balls and popped them into my mouth, then tucked the crinkly cellophane wrapper back into the package. I ate with speed, with precision, with focus. I knew I should slow down and at least try to taste the rich dark chocolate, the fluffy truffle filling, but taste felt somehow beside the point.
It was like I had a hollow l
eg, or an empty hole in the pit of my stomach. And all I wanted to do was fill it up so it didn’t hurt so much.
I finished every single truffle, then I stuck my hand into the empty package and rooted around carefully to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. I felt sick to my stomach and completely disgusted with myself, but if another package of truffles had magically appeared, I would have eaten those, too.
I crossed my arms over my bloated stomach and rocked back and forth in the chair. There had to be a way out of this mess. I wondered if Ilya would get paid if I managed to trip and fall and injure myself enough to get sent home before Monday.
It was probably too late to find him a second replacement, so maybe DWTS would have to go ahead with ten couples instead of eleven.
Then I pictured Ilya’s three kids, two in ballet slippers and one holding a sword, having to miss their own competitions because I’d taken money out of their dad’s pocket.
All I had to do was get through the first two weeks.
Then I could figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
If fat can be your biggest fear, can fear also make you fat?
I walked down the hall to the women’s restroom feeling like I was going to throw up at any moment.
When I got there, someone had beaten me to it and was actually vomiting in one of the stalls. My stomach turned over at the sound. I wondered if I’d lost my admittedly tenuous grip on reality and was just hallucinating.
My second thought was that a violent stomach bug might be going around. Maybe I’d be lucky enough to catch it. If I were legitimately sick, the ball would be in DWTS’s court. Maybe they could pull in a last-minute ringer after all. Everything would work out for the best. At least with a new partner, Ilya might have a chance to make it into the finals.
I waited. Nothing. No more vomiting, no groaning. Maybe I really was losing it, and I’d imagined the whole thing.
“Are you okay in there?” I finally asked.
I heard a flush. The stall door opened and the gymnast/ice-skater came out and headed for the sink. She leaned over it and splashed water on her face. Or maybe she was rinsing out her mouth. I didn’t really see because I was too busy noticing how narrow her hips were. Did they make sizes smaller than 0, or did she have to shop in the toddler section?
It was like we weren’t quite the same gender, or maybe the same species. I mean, I didn’t even fantasize about squeezing into single digits again. Size 10 was about as low as my imagination would go. Unless it was a really expensive store, in which case I could dream about fitting into an 8. The logic was twisted but the marketing brilliant: The more you paid, the smaller the size you got for your money.
I seemed to be frozen in place, one hand on a stall door.
The gymnast/ice-skater turned around and flashed me a big smile. “I’m so happy to finally meet you,” she said.
“Deirdre Griffin,” I said, to spare her the next line.
She said it anyway. “Who are you again?”
“Just a last-minute replacement,” I said. “Who are you again?”
She smiled. “Ashley Jane Dobbs.” She said it like it was one word, Ashleyjanedobbs.
In the nick of time, I remembered seeing her in a leotard on a Wheaties box a long time ago. “Gymnast, right?”
The look she gave me clearly said duh. “Six golds, nine silvers. I don’t even count the bronzes.”
“Of course you don’t. Anyway, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Stomach bug?”
She sighed dramatically. “Blueberry muffin.”
“Blueberry muffin,” I repeated.
She sighed again. “Not even half. The whole thing. Normally I’d jump on the treadmill, but who’s got time with all these rehearsal hours, you know what I mean? So I just cut to the chase.” She opened her mouth and made that old gag-me-with-a-spoon gesture from the ’80s.
“Wouldn’t you burn it off in rehearsals?” I was horrified. But I was also kind of intrigued. I’d always thought bulimia had a cutoff age, like maybe a few years after you finished college.
She opened her cornflower blue eyes wide. “OMG. Have you ever been five foot one?”
“I think when I was born,” I said, “but I’d have to check my baby book.”
“Two extra pounds and I look like a horse.”
“Probably just a pony,” I said. I was having a hard time gauging just how insulted I should be. I mean, here was this little person whose thigh was probably the size of my wrist on a good day talking to me about looking like a horse. What did that make me? A hippopotamus?
Her eyes teared up. “Fat is my biggest fear.”
I said what she was waiting for me to say. “You don’t look like you have an ounce of fat on you.”
“Are you sure?” She turned around so she could see her butt in the mirror and pointed. “Even right here?”
“I don’t see a thing,” I said.
She twisted around to get a look at the other side of her hindquarters.
I shook my head. “Not there either.”
Ashleyjanedobbs turned around and adjusted her long strawberry blond hair. Then she met my eyes in the mirror. “Okay, thanks. You look good, too.”
After she left, I peed. I flushed the toilet. I stared at myself in the mirror as I washed my hands. My overstuffed stomach hurt. I deserved it. I’d completely ignored my dance partner’s instructions to put only high-test fuel in my body, and I’d filled it to the brim with food that shouldn’t be in there.
I closed my eyes. For the rest of the day I’d move like an old jalopy. I’d be sluggish and sloppy, and if I stepped on Ilya’s toes I’d probably break them all. I flashed on Mitchell and his recently pregnant girlfriend. I wondered if she shopped in the toddler section, too.
I dried my hands and pushed the stall door open again. I leaned over the toilet and reached my index finger toward the back of my throat. I gagged. I reached in a little farther and touched the back of my tongue. I gagged again and my stomach heaved a little.
The white porcelain toilet was clean. The travertine floor tiles were pretty clean, too, and they were cold when I knelt down on them. I lifted up the toilet seat and rested one hand on the edge of the bowl.
When I bowed my head, I flashed back to the confessional of my Catholic childhood. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I whispered. “I ate a whole package of Lindor dark chocolate truffles and I really don’t want to be fat. If you let me throw up this one time, I promise I’ll never do it again. I’ll start eating healthy, and I’ll become someone we can both be proud of.”
I put my elbow on the toilet bowl and rested my forehead on my hand. I was suddenly just so, so tired. How could I have lived so long and learned so little? How did other people manage to cobble together lives that weren’t built on a foundation of self-destruction and self-sabotage?
I mean, I’d been doing so well. I’d peeled back Tag and the rest of my family’s grip. I’d been eating better and I was starting to learn my dance to the point that I wasn’t just doing the steps. I was actually dancing them. I’d settled into my apartment. I had pets. I’d done my laundry. I’d even managed to call Steve Moretti, and whether he called me back or not, just having the guts to do it seemed like a step in the right direction.
How many hundreds of times had I been here over the course of my life? A week or two, even a month or two or three, of moving in a positive direction. And then something would happen, like Tag picking at one of my insecurities, and the downward slide would begin. Because just underneath all the sunshine and blue skies lurked the same old disgusting mess of a person who couldn’t resist screwing up everything in her entire life.
Tears were streaming down my cheeks and my nose was running. At least the toilet paper was conveniently located. I pulled a long piece off the roll next to me and blew my nose.
“Fat is my biggest fear,” Ashleyjanedobbs had said. Not sickness or death or war or even being the first one kicked off DWTS.
Clear
ly it wasn’t mine. But if fat can be your biggest fear, can fear also make you fat?
I’d read enough self-help books and logged enough time watching Oprah to know that it wasn’t about the food at all. It was about being afraid, and the fastest way to calm the fear, the one I’d learned as a child, was to distract myself with food. To soothe myself the way a baby might suck her thumb. And once I was past the immediate crisis, I’d turn my focus to a diet plan instead of a live-it plan. And then a new fear would come along, and I’d go through the cycle all over again.
I pictured my walk-in closet at home, my clothes arranged in order of decreasing size, a daily reminder of how I didn’t measure up.
And yet, why did I think Ashleyjanedobbs wasn’t much happier than I was? And how many times had I seen a woman heavier than me looking happy and vibrant and sexy. Clearly, starving yourself didn’t necessarily get you more in life.
Maybe it was exhaustion, or being out of my element and in over my head, but it suddenly hit me like a ton of tap shoes. I had a choice here. I could spend the rest of my life worrying about how I didn’t measure up. Or I could get in the game and dance my ass off.
Right then and there, kneeling on the cold tiles of the women’s restroom, I decided I was over it. No more coveting a former gymnast’s size 0. The lens I used to look at myself was so twisted that I’d probably never even know what I really looked like anyway. What mattered was that I didn’t let it get in my way anymore.
I turned on my phone, ready to face my life in real time.
I was just coming out of the bathroom when Mitchell called back.
I answered on the first ring. “It’s over,” I said. “Permanently. Don’t ever call me again. For anything.”
Ask not what your professional dancer can do for you, ask what you can do for your professional dancer.
Our practice studio was empty, but I tracked Ilya down in the craft services room.
Karen the producer looked up when I opened the door. She actually smiled at me. “Wow, you work fast. Thanks for getting your brother here for us.”
